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Date Posted: 12:15:12 01/17/02 Thu
Author: GW
Subject: Wembley

I debated in my mind whether I would go or not, for months before hand, internationals against the English had usually left me a gibbering wreck and usually a depressed one. Welsh flag coyly wrapped around me and Western Mail clenched in hand I made the train trek from N Wales down to London where my friends were waiting for me. In the two hours or so to Birmingham, the only other rugby supporters were English, as I had taken a few cans with me I responded to their unintelligable gibes with broken Welsh phrases like 'un dau tri banana' and 'bore da mrs lloyd' the only Welsh I could remember from school, but it confused them and made me feel superior anyway. Surprisingly, in Birmingham it was like Cardiff Central and it wasn't long before I was wedged between Welsh rugby supporters from all over Wales - the singing had already started and we laughed with derision at the nasal strains of 'swing low sweet chariot'. It all gets quite hazy from there. The singing in the stadium was superb, I don't know where my mate had got the tickets from though because we were surrounded by Saes. Despite feeling awkward, we were the noisiest annoying Welsh bastards for about 10 pews. I remember saying 'we're never going to get this' near the end and a blonde geezer in front turns around and says 'you better believe it' to howls of laughter from the people with him. We had the last laugh though. From what I remember there was a penalty which the English fluffed and the hope came back a little. I was not expecting what came next however, I just remember making bizarre howls that seem to emanate from my soul itself. Gibbs had gone over! We were literally climbing all over each other, for about 5 minutes we were literally lying sprawled over the seats bouncing up and down on top of each other. I didn't realise Jinks needed to kick at first, it felt like the match was over. 'They' haven't won yet' someone intentionally over-uttered. I swear my heart didn't beat during the next few moments. I was seriously convinced I was going to die right there because I just couldn't breath, even when the kick went over I just sat there. My chest was tight and honestly, despite being only 21, I thought I was going to meet my maker (who I assume looks remarkably like Graham Henry). I must have said 'I can't believe this' about a hundred times. How much of the match was left after that? I can never remember - I remember people leaving; looking at us in disgust - we were acting like animals, which I was a bit embarrassed about at first. Later that night I didn't give a damn, I must have hugged half of London – I told numerous large/small/bearded/bald/dodgy looking people who looked remotely Welsh that I loved them and I to be honest I think I did. Wales have performed appallingly since, but all those men who played that day will forever be remembered for that performance: I can forgive them all else.

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