7
The two-tier stand is filled with chanting people. To the right of us, about thirty metres away, there’s a row of stewards and security, wearing bright orange, high-visibility jackets. They’re standing on every other step of the aisle as a makeshift cordon to keep us separated from the Cardiff supporters. About a third of the stand belongs to our dirty rivals, leaving the rest to us, drowning out their shitty chants with little to no effort. I keep my singing and shouting down to a minimum; I lost my voice on the way to the game once. Over-excitement.
Despite padded seats, hardly anyone sits down at this type of game; there’s just too much adrenaline flowing, too many songs being sung about how rubbish Cardiff are. But they’re not though—far from it. This is the semi-final, and Cardiff
