Tag Archives: Swansea City

‘Swansea ‘til I die’: Nostalgia, identity and family in modern football

My career as a Swans supporter has structured my life. I cannot put it any more strongly. Relationships have come and gone (and the Swans have played a part at times), my career has changed and my life circumstances have altered, but the Swans have been a constant throughout it all. Even though the fortunes of the team have fluctuated wildly over the years I have supported them, the club have always played a huge role in the background of my existence, and have been the thing I have planned my everyday life around. Without the Swans, how would I idle away time on rumours or arguments on forums? How would I plot the months between August and May? What would I do? No idea. Supporting the Swans is a kind of totalising world … My friends, my social life, my moods – all intricately dependent upon the Swans. I celebrate this, rather than bemoan it! STID

Leighton (32)

These words were written as a response to a survey to record fans’ memories of supporting Swansea City FC, a club that after decades of languishing in the lower division joined the game’s elite in the Premier League in 2011. The project was part of the commemoration of the club’s centenary in 2012 and, as this quote illustrates, the themes it raised both extended beyond football itself and also illustrated the powerful role the game has in some people’s lives and perceptions of the world.

Through a series of prompts and open questions people were asked for their memories of supporting the Swans and to reflect on what the club meant to them. What I want to do today is to examine some of the themes that arose, in particular those of nostalgia, identity and family. These are not specific to football in Swansea or Wales but understanding recent and contemporary Welsh culture should not just mean concentrating on those few aspects of cultural life that are unique to Wales. Indeed, one of the most powerful lessons of studying Welsh sport is how Welsh popular culture exists within a wider British and indeed western context. The basic needs, rhythms and concerns of the Welsh are not specific to Wales.


Football has a powerful sense of its own history. Supporters boast a strong sense of the traditions and identities of their clubs; many fans hoard old programmes, ticket stubs, scarves and other pieces of memorabilia that signify their club’s history and their personal history of attachment to it. They may not go through these very often but they keep them in shoe boxes, in attics and in the garage, unwilling to throw away relics of a lifetime of commitment. Similarly, videos and books of past triumphs are popular products and often compensate for a lack of present success. Moreover, there is often a strong sense of nostalgia for the past, a past where, in the imagination at least, football culture was somehow better.

What exactly there is nostalgia for is difficult to pinpoint and varies across the generations. For fans whose memories stretch into the early 1960s and beyond, football’s past is perceived as an era when players were working men and the terraces smelt of woodbines and heaved with locals in flat caps who cheered on the boys but knew how to behave. For the next generation, the nostalgia is for a more flamboyant, pre-Premiership era when players were macho stars, and the terraces were packed with noisy young tearaways who liked a ruck with their football, but were essentially good lads at heart who only picked on their own kind.

Nostalgia has clearly become evident at Swansea City in the past few seasons, not so because of the club’s elevation to the Premiership in 2011 but because of the 2005 move to the Liberty Stadium from the Vetch Field, the club’s home since its creation in 1912.

Amongst older fans there is a general welcoming of the new stadium. It is quite simply cleaner, more comfortable and more modern than the Vetch. With better sightlines too, the new stadium offers a superior all-round experience to the middle-aged and older generations. That doesn’t mean there hasn’t had to be adaption for those fans. New routines, new travel routes, new parking places and new drinking places have all had to be developed. The rhythms of people’s Saturdays have changed but the process of change seems to have been relatively painless. Such habits and behaviours may on the surface just seem to be trivial and inconsequential but we should not underestimate the importance of what some historians call the ‘everyday’. If history is about people as much as processes then the ordinary is as important as the extraordinary.

The celebration of the Liberty Stadium is something shared by a younger generation in their teens. For them the Vetch Field is the subject of hazy childhood memories or even just something talked about by older family members. They have grown up in an era of all-seater stadiums, not just for the game’s elite but for any club that aspires to join them.

For another generation, those who grew up going to the Vetch but whose legs are still young enough to happily stand for two hours in the cold there is a more divided view of the change. There is a memory that while the terraces could be noisy, full, fun and electric, they could also be cold, sparse and aggressive. Some of this generation show the pragmatism of football fans, where there is a willingness to sacrifice tradition and history in the name of progress. As one 31-year-old fan put it, the move to the Liberty was ‘a step back in experience, but a massive step forward for the club as a whole’. Such fans accept that new a stadium was inevitable in the modern game, a necessary change to bring higher revenues, attract better players and assist the club’s move up the leagues. The fact that in less than a decade the club has moved from nearly falling out of the professional league structure altogether to residing in the top division with the game’s elite provides a vindication of that view, a confirmation that more has been gained on the pitch than has been lost off it. And ultimately football is a game about success. Results matter.

Even though there is awareness of the danger of a rose-tinted view of the past, this generation still tend to think that much has been lost. Sitting down in stadia means not being able to choose who you are with; groups of friends used to standing together are now dispersed across the Liberty. Some feel this has brought a loss of atmosphere as the singers are dispersed and sitting itself makes people more reserved, less likely to shout and let forth. People are also aware that the change is illustrative of a wider shift in football culture, where the game has somehow lost something of its soul. A 39 year old reflected, ‘The matchday experience is not what it was – queuing for ten minutes for a plastic pint doesn’t appeal to me. The Liberty experience is much more corporate. Overpriced beer/food etc. You shouldn’t serve French fries at a football match.’

The sense of loss can be quite profound, illustrating the depth of feeling some have for the club and for football. A 47-year-old reflected:

I loved the Vetch it was OURS. I loved the smell of the turf and the liniment, tobacco & booze, 3 inches of piss on the floor of the bogs, the swearing, shouting, singing & fighting. The Liberty’s only ok in a bland 21st century, Sky TV obsessed way. I hate the fans in front of me constantly on their smartphones, texting, chatting & playing bloody games when they should be getting behind the team. I can’t stand vacant eyed kids slopping down overpriced shitty junk food and pawing at Dad (or worse Mum) to go and get them fizzy drinks. The view’s good though.

Even those less emotional about this can have the feeling that something is not quite right. A 33-year-old said of the new matchday experience: ‘doesn’t feel like the club I loved as much. Feels like I’m cheating on my slightly backward underachieving Mrs with her better looking, high flying sister.’ Even a 21 year old could say: ‘I feel it doesn’t have the same special feel as going to the Vetch and smelling the burger vans and hearing Daydream Believer playing with the North Bank singing. Being at the Vetch was just simply more entertaining than the Liberty (the quality of football is much better these days though)’.

Yet these feelings cannot be interpreted in a straight forward fashion. Some of the longing for the Vetch is mixed up with the experience of men looking back fondly on their own youth, a time of fewer responsibilities, of more drinking and hanging out with mates. They will also fade with time. One 23-year-old remembered of the Vetch ‘you could feel the history within its walls’. Now, as the Liberty stadium ages, it is becoming associated with more and more new memories, especially as the club as moved up the leagues. The Liberty is getting its own history, moments, that on the pitch at least, even exceed what happened at the Vetch.

Nostalgia is a common condition in post-industrial societies such as Britain and a reaction to dislocating and unwelcome changes. For many Swansea fans, nostalgia is also furthered by a sense that the club is no longer theirs so much. For non-season ticket holders getting into matches is now very difficult. The resentment of this amongst lifelong fans is compounded by a sense that the tickets are being taken up by what is termed ‘plastics’, fans who are only there because of the club’s recent success and who will disappear again should the club get relegated. There are fans who have been attending regularly all their lives, for decades, yet were unable to see a single game last season in what was perhaps the club’s most successful year. It is little wonder then that there is a nostalgia for a past, when you could just turn up, when you were one of a select few, when your support mattered and couldn’t just be replaced by someone else in the queue for tickets. The club has defined much of such people’s lives. They now feel cast aside and their pride in the club’s achievements is tinged by a sense that they have had little thanks for helping make sure that the club exists at all.

It maybe that online surveys of the type employed by this project over represent the extent of nostalgia. Those willing to reflect on their experiences through writing are perhaps those who tend to dwell on these things, whereas other fans are just more content than their club is now doing well. But, whatever the case, there is an important point here about how the present shapes our view of the past that always need to be remembered in oral history. Studying the club’s history at a time of unprecedented success is unavoidably going to colour how people remember that club’s past.


The project has also revealed some trends in the history of the club that run counter to assumptions about the nature of football fandom. For all the talk of the tribal and unconditional loyalty of fans, of being Swansea ‘til I die as the song goes, attendances have ebbed and flowed according to fortunes on the pitch. Some fans like to talk in these terms: ‘SCFC is like a family member to me. I was at the Vetch with crowds of 3000, I’m there now in the premiership, and if we went back to League 2 with crowds of 3000 I’d still be there.’ They talk of how, to quote one 44-year-old, ‘The Swans always have been and always will be part of who I am’.

But others, when reflecting on their lives, articulate how their interest and attendance has fluctuated according to family and financial circumstances and the performances of the team. Having young children in particular has taken men and women away from watching. Going away to college or working weekend shifts are other factors that hit attendance. Fewer admitted to not going when the team was not well, no doubt because loyalty is generally regarded as an important quality in football fandom, but average attendance patterns clearly show how significant these shifts have been.

One of the defining features of Swansea fandom is the relationship with rival club Cardiff City. Yet the intense and sometimes violent rivalry between the Swans and Cardiff seems rather different when placed alongside the memories of people from the 1940s, 50 and 60s of watching both clubs. This was partly about seeking entertainment, with some fans being willing to travel across south Wales to see whichever of the two clubs had the most attractive fixtures or was playing the best football. Indeed, in 1952 the manager of the club even asked the league if home games could be scheduled when 1st division Cardiff City were away because he feared fans would prefer watching the better standard of football forty miles away.

Those fans most likely to watch both clubs were not from Swansea but the south Wales valleys. Transport links did mean there were natural catchment areas for both football clubs but the spread of working-class car ownership in the 1950s and 60s and the associated improvements in roads brought more flexibility in people’s choices over which teams to support.

Such behaviour declined significantly from the late 1960s when in the face of the rise of the televised game loyalty to a single club became a significant feature of fan culture amongst smaller clubs across the UK. Moreover, alongside this, regional rivalries replaced regional identities. Many Cardiff and Swansea fans thus began wanting the other to lose and even singing about hating one another. This does not mean a common Welsh identity lost all relevance. It still helps explain the hatred that can be found, with football being intermingled with a sense of resentment over the Welsh Cardiff-centric media and government. Other fans, meanwhile, continue to want to see Cardiff doing well, but just not as well as Swansea. Indeed, throughout the post-war period fans have seen the club as representing Wales against English opponents.

There does not appear to be any clear correlation between ‘hating’ Cardiff and coming from Swansea. Nor do those fans who replied to the survey who are not from Swansea itself appear to talk about their loyalty to the club in less powerful terms that those from the city. Yet the civic importance of the game is still very clear and many fans articulate that they support the club because they are from Swansea. A 45-year-old put it simply: ‘Swansea is my city therefore the Swans are my club’. Indeed, even people with little interest in the game have been expressing pride that their city’s club is now playing in the world’s most watched league.

Those who have left the city to live elsewhere also use the club as a way of both physically and psychologically keeping in touch with their roots, whether that’s through using visits to games as reasons to visit family or symbolically through using their support to express their roots in an alien environment. As a 59-year-old man living abroad said: ‘Once a Jack always a Jack!’

Football’s place as part of the civic identity of towns and cities is, of course, unsurprising. After all, most teams are actually named after the place where they are situated. When Swansea was granted city status in 1971 the football club immediately changed its name from Swansea Town to Swansea City. Clubs are also part of the urban landscape. Until the modern redevelopments of the last two decades, most stadia were situated, quite deliberately, in the heart of residential areas in order to make it easy for fans to attend games without the cost and time of travel that might put them off. This meant that crowds pouring to games along narrow streets were unavoidable and the game became part of everyone in the area’s lives, whether they liked it or not. For children, a football ground could be part of their urban playground and the survey revealed many memories of children sneaking in to have kick-arounds on non-match days.

The new modern Liberty stadium is still part of the urban landscape and its crowds (and their cars) have made football part of the lives of a new part of the city. But the stadium is not interwoven into a residential area in the same way the Liberty was. It stands on the edge of town, on a redeveloped industrial site, closer to large modern retail units than people’s homes. But, in that, the council-built stadium is also a marker of the changes and developments of what was once an industrial city with a clear identity based on copper but is now a service-based city, dependent on the public sector and multinational companies based elsewhere. Football remains a symbol of civic identity.


Change is often unsettling for people. That is most obviously true of personal upheaval but it also applies to the world around them. Historians sometimes forget that people witness long-term rather than just short-term changes. Sociologists in Swansea the 1960s were discussing how old people were bewildered by how much life had changed in their lifetimes. Even today there can be considerable unease at the general direction of society, with discomfort about everything from climate change, technological revolution to immigration and crime.

Football too has changed but it also offers a powerful source of continuity for people, a link to their past, to their roots and their youth. A 49 year old reflected, ‘Once it’s in your blood it don’t leave. If you are a true Jack you are married for life. It’s like having children. You love your children irrespective of what they do, you love the Swans through good and bad.’ A 50 year-old concluded, ‘I’ve still got the same feeling on match days as when I was a boy’. It is also a source of continuity which they are sure will still be there in the future. As one fan put it, ‘You can change jobs, move house, change wives, even change sex nowadays – but you can’t change the football club you support’.

This sense of continuity and security is exacerbated because of the relationship between football and family. Some men remember how being taken by their fathers as a child in the 1950s was some sort of coming of age ritual, an acknowledgment they were now big enough to be with the men rather than left at home with the female family members. Although most fans graduated from going with their parents to going with friends in their teens, there is a reoccurring pattern of people returning to viewing with their parents as they get older and take great pride in passing on support to their children.

Another 46 year old remarked: ‘All the family are involved. Wife, 2 kids, brother, nephew, mother and father all have season tickets. Main topic of conversation!!’ In other words, football helps bind some families together. This is particularly important because it is family that offers an important source of support and happiness in a modern world that many found unsettling and unhappy. Family remains at the core of what makes society and how people perceive the world and live their lives. The words of one 43-year-old fan show this better than I can.

My dad was a big supporter like myself. He died in 2011, before he could have a smile about us being in the premiership. I remember crying at Wembley after we had beaten Reading 4-2 because the only person I wanted to share my elation with was my dad, and he wasn’t here anymore. He left me a mint copy of Swansea vs Preston at Villa Park, semi final of the FA cup 1964. It seems quite apt that Swansea’s first Prem away win was at Villa Park, and I was there. I looked up to the sky and just smiled. I think my dad knew why.


Whether your team is winning or losing, football is a game of emotions and of stories, and not all of these are related to what happens on the pitch, especially during your team’s lean times. The survey for this project produced a collection of memories of goals, fights, drinking, jokes, funny sights and characters. Most of the stories were remembered because they evoked emotions, whether that was happiness, pride, anger, frustration or laughter. Some no doubt had grown and been polished in the re-tellings. They were often fragmented, undated and chronological-less. But this does not mean they matter any the less. Stories help structure our understanding of both our individual and collective past. It is football’s ability to create stories and memories that lies at the heart of its cultural importance. It is these stories that define the game’s contribution to individual and collective identities.

But not all people have the same memories. The experience of listening to a match on poor radio reception is obviously rather different to actually being at the game. But even where people are at the same match, their experience will vary according to who they are with, where in the ground they are, how much they have had to drink and why they are there. In this, we run into one of the fundamental points about the past: collective experiences are also individualized. Yet the collective experience of being at the football is more powerful than the shared experience of millions watching the same television programme in millions of different homes. Football is a game watched in crowds and that creates a powerful sense of literally being part of something bigger in a way that is not often replicated. The scale of football can be very powerful and that is part of its drama and attraction. But even for those not there, those who find out the results from friends or from the paper, or whose interest does not extend far beyond extending wondering what mood a husband will be when he returns home, football is still part of the shared cultural milieu of interests, loyalties and memories that binds families, communities and even nations together.

By Martin Johnes (Swansea University). Written in 2013.

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Football is Culture

Dylan Thomas described Swansea as an ‘ugly, lovely town’. He was not a sports fan but he might have said the same words of his hometown’s football club.  For over a century, the Swans have entertained, delighted, frustrated, and angered fans.

The club is part of life in Swansea. It has decided what shifts were worked, when holidays were taken and even when weddings were held.  Results on an afternoon have decided whether nights are for dancing or for moping.  Families have been brought together by parents and grandparents passing on their love and loyalty to their next generation. Some choose to be Jacks, others have it forced upon them but appreciate it all the same.

Even for those not much interested in football, the Swans have always mattered. Football meant crowds to avoid and parking problems to complain about.  It meant the annoyance or relief of family members disappearing for an afternoon. Yet no one had to go to the game to feel pride when the club did well or to hear the noise of cheering crowds drift across the city.

Vetch skyline.jpgThe Vetch was part of the landscape of Swansea, and its irregular floodlights gazed down upon Sandfields and across to the city centre. What it lacked in elegance, the Vetch made up for in character. It squeezed into a gap between houses that was too small but which ensured some gardens a free view over a wall. The East Stand didn’t fit behind the goal so it sneaked around a corner instead. The old wooden double decker was grand but had to come down because of the fire risk. The centre stand was rickety and uncomfortable; in its last days its roof showered its inhabitants with crumbling paint.

But it was the North Bank that was the heartbeat of the Vetch. That was the place where youngsters yearned to be old enough to stand, where the singing and cheering was loudest, where everyone had their spot surrounded by the same familiar faces each week.  You might not know the name of the bloke in the old rain mac but you knew he had it in for the left back, what his favourite swear words were, and that he cared as much you did.  The North Bank was rough and ready, sometimes vulgar, but always passionate.


The Vetch is no more and the Liberty’s now home: a new, smart, slightly-stiff sweater to replace the comfortable, worn-out but well-loved one we wore for years.  Some say it lacks the Vetch’s passion but everyone says the toilets are better. And slowly it’s making its own memories to be passed down to those too young to know what it was to stand on a crumbling football terrace.

North Bank v Newcastle 1950 .jpg

At Vetch or Liberty, to watch the Swans was to be part of something bigger, an army, a tribe, a family.  On Saturdays, or whenever the tv schedulers decided fit, we’ve cheered, we’ve chanted and clapped.  We’ve taunted the visitors, declared our pride in Wales and our team, and sung for Super Johnny or whoever was our favourite at the time.  And sometimes they more than repaid our love.  When Curt did a turn, or Robbie hit a screamer, or Gylfi flicked a deadball, it was as beautiful as any of Dylan’s poetry, even if an old man might tell you later, ‘Ivor could do it better’.

1950s centre stand

It hasn’t always been like that. There have been plenty of defeats that caused us to curse and despair. Sometimes the men in white just weren’t good enough but the fans forgave that as long as those on the pitch cared as much as we did in the stands or terraces. Sometimes anger was aimed at the board, when fans thought they weren’t doing their best to create a team worthy of wearing the shirt.  Sometimes the fans turned on each other, when someone was felt to be too critical or too quiet. At the Swans, everyone has their part to play.

The size of crowds have ebbed and flowed over the years. There’s only so much money to go round and not everyone wants to watch a team that’s struggling. But even when crowds were down to a few faithful thousand, the rest of Swansea didn’t stop caring.  At ten past five on a Saturday, old ladies would still stop anyone in a scarf wandering through town and ask ‘How did the Swans get on?’ Because, in Swansea, football is part of our culture.

To find out more about Swansea’s bid to be the 2021 City of Culture please visit here.



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A Supporters’ History of the South Wales Derby

In 1912, Swansea Town played its first ever professional match, a Southern League game against Cardiff City. Although 12,000 people attended the 1-1 draw, it was a match that drew very little attention in the wider world. Professional football was still in its infancy and new clubs were being set up across the UK.  There was no guarantee that any of them would last. 


But last they did and, after the Great War, football’s popularity in south Wales soared.  Cardiff and Swansea both joined the Football League and Cardiff quickly rose to its first division, becoming one of the most famous clubs in Britain.  Its elevation meant derbies were not common but 1929 saw Cardiff slip out of the first division, bringing the first Football League match between the two clubs. Special trains and buses were put on to the game from across south Wales. Such was the interest that Merthyr Town even rearranged a match to avoid a clash.

The game mattered to Swansea more. In 1925, the Swansea chairman had suggested that a league match between the two clubs might help decide the ‘vexed question’ of the capital of Wales.  Although it was not until 1955 that Cardiff was officially declared the capital, Swansea still felt in the shadow of its larger neighbour, especially since Cardiff was a city and Swansea was not.  Moreover, there was some feeling that Cardiff’s claim to capital status was unfair because the city was more anglicized than Swansea. Football matches between the two clubs thus offered the Swans the opportunity to prove their equality with their larger neighbour.

Cardiff’s lesser interest in the derby was illustrated by a 1925 fifth-round Welsh Cup match between the two.  Feeling the league and its imminent FA Cup final more important, Cardiff City appeared to deliberately play badly, indulging in, according to one Swansea newspaper, ‘childish methods’ and ‘pompous swank’.  Despite winning 4-0, Swansea Town had missed out on an opportunity to secure a meaningful victory over its rival and its supporters felt insulted.

The proximity of the two clubs did, however, mean attendances at the derby were very high. In 1949, there were 60,855 at NinianPark for a Division 2 match between the two teams, a record for the derby that will probably never be broken. Fans remember the derbies of the 1940s and 50s as having a friendly atmosphere. There was certainly banter between the unsegregated supporters but nothing worse.  Indeed, both sets of fans were happy to see the other do well, bound by a common south Walian identity.

Some supporters, particularly those who lived somewhere between Cardiff and Swansea, were also willing to pay to see whichever of the two clubs had the most attractive fixtures or was playing the best football. In 1952, the Swansea Town manager asked the league if home games could be scheduled when first-division Cardiff City were playing away. He feared Swans fans would prefer watching the better standard of football forty miles away.

A hint of a more bitter rivalry emerged in 1960, when Cardiff, angry at the scheduling of the match, fielded a reserve side for a Welsh Cup fixture between the two teams. This brought a 350 guinea fine and a rebuke from the Football Association of Wales, who told the capital’s club to show the competition more respect. Swansea’s directors were also insulted by their Cardiff counterparts refusing to join them in the boardroom. It was a bad tempered match that saw three players sent off.

Football crowds were in decline by this time. Standing on a cold terrace was less appealing than watching television, doing DIY or taking the family out for a spin, all pursuits enabled by the new post-war working-class affluence. Many family men thus stopped going to matches.  Crowds grew younger and began to take on the characteristics of the modern youth culture that emerged in the 1950s. With their confidence and opportunities boosted by rising wages and near full employment, boys and men in their teens and early twenties travelled to away matches in large numbers, adopted fashions that made them stand out, drank more than earlier generations and acted more aggressively. The result was that fighting, swearing and obscene chanting all became relatively common at football matches in the 1960s and the sport gave young men a fun outlet for proving their masculinity.

Alongside these changes, patterns of regional support declined. This was a reaction to the rise of the televised game and more affordable travel, which both contributed to the biggest clubs drawing more and more supporters from outside their traditional catchment areas. For younger supporters who stayed with their local teams, there appears to have been resentment about people following other teams and regional rivalries began to replace regional identities.

The relationship between the two sets of fans thus changed and many began wanting their local rivals to lose. By 1969, this had spilled over into the first crowd trouble at the south Wales derby. In a two-leg Welsh Cup final, Cardiff fans vandalised a train on their return home and then, at the second leg at Ninian Park, they attacked two coaches carrying Swansea fans, smashing windows and denting the sides.

There was no league derby between the two sides between 1965 and 1980 and that held back the derby from becoming too embroiled in the growing football hooligan culture.  But the 1980 derby inevitably saw trouble and two weeks later fans clashed again after a bizarre decision to hold an FA Cup replay between Swansea and Crystal Palace at Ninian Park. There was considerable fighting on the terraces between Swansea supporters and Cardiff fans who had either turned up to see the match or perhaps just to enjoy a scuffle. The low point came outside the ground when a Swansea fan was stabbed to death in a fight with Palace supporters.

It was the 1980s that really saw the tensions intensify. Football hooliganism was peaking everywhere in Britain and south Wales was no different. Cardiff fans, however, had a new reason to dislike their neighbours down the M4.  In 1981, Swansea were promoted to the first division and their manager was John Toshack, a former Cardiff City cult hero. This created not just jealousy but a feeling that the natural order of things had been turned upside down. In a derby in Swansea’s promotion season, their fans threw bricks at cars and houses. At the 1982 Welsh Cup final, it was golf balls that were exchanged between the two fans and a policeman was hospitalized by a dart.

As both clubs fell on hard times, the extent of the rivalry became something of a badge of honour. Some fans looked at it as something that put their teams on the map. They might not be able to compete with the big boys on the pitch but south Wales had a derby to rival anywhere. It was gaining its own legends and language too. Swansea fans became ‘Gypos’, in reference to the perceived poverty of Wales’s second city. Cardiff fans were greeted by breast-stroking players and supporters who sang ‘swimaway, swimaway’, a reference to a group of teenage Cardiff fans being chased into the sea at a 1988 derby.







The climax of trouble came at the 1993 ‘Battle of Ninian Park’. Swansea fans ripped up seats and hurled them at rival fans, which prompted a pitch invasion. Mounted police and dogs had to clear the pitch and control the situation. The game was delayed by forty minutes, eight fans were hospitalized and nine were arrested.

It was a turning point. Cardiff City chairman Rick Wright announced ‘If we allow these savages to enter our stadia and take their money, we cannot hold anyone else responsible for the scenes of carnage they create. It is all too easy for Cardiff to blame Swansea, for Swansea to blame Cardiff, for Cardiff and Swansea to blame the police. But the responsibility lies with the clubs.’

The result of the new determination to do something was the banning of away fans from the fixture. But the damage had been done and the next time the two clubs met in 1994, just 3,711 turned up to the Vetch. For many supporters, the derby had become something to avoid rather than get excited about.

Although hooliganism was a problem at most clubs, and Welsh fans were certainly playing up to the expectations of the time, there were some unique factors to the south Wales derby. In Swansea, there was some feeling that the BBC was too Cardiff-centric and that the club’s rise up through the divisions had not been given adequate coverage. Accusations of a Welsh media bias towards the capital grew and extended from the BBC to HTV Wales and the Western Mail. The size, extent and placing of coverage were all carefully scrutinized and Swansea fans could be quick to take offence at both real and imagined inequalities.

The regeneration of Cardiff Bay in the 1990s, funded by millions of pounds of central government money, threw another source of resentment into the mix. There was little surprise when the National Assembly was located in the capital but there was bitterness over how Swansea had been given the impression that it could win a farce of a competition over where to locate the new home of Welsh democracy.

Things did get better. Hooliganism went out of fashion. Policing and stewarding became better organised and managed. Both clubs got new all-seater stadiums that were closely monitored by CCTV. It was easier to identify troublemakers but people were also simply less likely to cause problems if they were sitting down.  When away fans returned to the fixture in 1997, they were herded in and out of the ground in police-escorted convoys. There was little opportunity to get anywhere near a rival fan, although that did not stop some vandalism of their rivals’ stadium or a few minor skirmishes with police.


Of course, not all fans have shared in the hatred. There were many on both sides who saw it as a bit childish or who were quite happy to see a fellow Welsh team doing well. Many Swansea fans have certainly welcomed Cardiff’s promotion to Premier League because it was an opportunity to have a derby again. There is even at least one person who has season tickets for both clubs.

By 2013-14 the two clubs were meeting in the Premier League and the derby was a long way removed from the first match between the two clubs in 1912. The audience was global and the atmosphere far more hostile.  No doubt there were some songs sung and gestures made that would have shocked the supporter of a hundred years ago and confused the modern foreign audiences watching.  But, however much local pride is at stake, one thing hasn’t changed. You do not get more points for beating your neighbour than you do for beating any other team in the division. In that sense at least, even if in no other, it’s just another game.


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Pen pictures of some of Swansea’s greatest players

Ivor at Coronation event

Ivor Allchurch kicks off a coronation women’s football match 1953

Pen pictures of some of Swansea’s greatest players from the project’s museum exhibition.

Ivor Allchurch

Billy Ball

Benny Beynon

Mel Charles

Alan Curtis

Jack Fowler

Roger Freestone

Billy Hole

Robbie James

Barrie Jones

Cliff Jones

Mel Nurse

Roy Paul 

Cyril Pearce

Joe Sykes


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Swansea Town invite applications from 1st class players (1923)

In the days before extensive coaching networks, you could always advertise for new players. That’s what the Swans did in 1923 and here’s an ad the club placed in the Athletic News, a paper with close ties to the Football League, on 14 May 1923.

In this era, clubs retained a player’s registration even if their contract had expired and they were no longer being paid. The ad thus asks about the transfer fee a player’s previous club might expect. In practice, not many clubs did retain players’ registrations and demand fees for players they were not paying. If word got around, that a club made it difficult for any player to move on after his contract expired, then finding new players might be difficult.

athletic news 14 May 1923

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Christmas and birthday Cards



Letter recalling receiving the 1969 card. Click to enlarge

1971 xmas card1

1971 club Christmas card

1971 xmas card 2

1971 club Christmas card


Birthday cards, sent to Chris Chapman in 1990s. Signed picture of player (Roger Freestone).


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The Vetch Field to 1945

Huw Bowen (written in 2005)

A dictionary defines the word ‘vetch’ as ‘a genus of plant, mostly climbing, some cultivated for fodder, especially the tare’.  For some, therefore, the phrase ‘Vetch Field’ might conjure up a soft and pleasant image of a rural idyll, with colourful plants and flowers dotted across a rolling green meadow.  To the modern football follower and to the inhabitants of Swansea, however, the words ‘Vetch Field’ create a vision of something very different: a dilapidated, crumbling, eccentrically constructed football ground wedged uncomfortably between tight, narrow streets of terraced housing.  Overlooked by Townhill, and standing next to a Victorian prison ‘way down by the sea’, the Vetch might charitably be considered as ‘quaint’, but journalist Frank Keating was perhaps rather closer to the mark when he penned a fond description of the ground as a ‘variegated Heath Robinson cartoon’.  ‘Nowhere’, he wrote, can ‘Wales’s inherent soccer culture be better evoked than in those paint-peeled stanchions at Swansea’s Vetch.’

This strange decaying home of Swansea Town and City for almost a century has seen great days and grim days; excitement and tedium; drama, tragedy, and more than a little farce.   Some truly great football artists have graced the Vetch; but over the years a rather greater number of plodding artisans have plied their trade on the characteristically uneven, sloping playing surface. Occasionally the sun has shone; more often it seems to have rained.  But throughout it all, the awkwardly positioned stands, banks, and terraces of the Vetch have served to create a very special sporting arena, where successive generations of supporters have given expression to the joys and despairs of following the fluctuating fortunes of ‘the Swans’.   From time to time, the club has threatened to reconstruct the ground as a modern, well-appointed venue, but until recently the march of progress has somehow always been stubbornly resisted, as if the Vetch itself has delighted in its own downright oddness.

Before the modern age of the purpose-built all-seater sporting stadia boasting corporate facilities, bars, restaurants, and conference suites, the establishment of football grounds in Britain was mostly unplanned and haphazard.  Sites were acquired and cleared; then proper grass playing surfaces were created, together with small pavilions or wooden grandstands for the well-to-do; before, finally, rudimentary viewing facilities were provided for large numbers of working-class spectators in the form of raised ‘banks’.  Early grounds thus evolved in piecemeal fashion, often coming into being in a matter of weeks and then evolving only very slowly over a number of decades.  No more so was this the case than in Swansea where, in bold defiance of the basic laws of geometry and common sense, a football ground was somehow wedged awkwardly into the triangular communal space that represented the only large and open area of flat land anywhere near the centre of the town.  By making a home for Swansea Town Association Football Club at the ‘Vetch Field’, the pre-First World War pioneers of professional football in Swansea created a sporting home whose physical location dictated that its architectural characteristics were thereafter to be defined by sharp angles, broken lines, and complete lack of any sense of symmetry.  Indeed, there could be no greater contrast than between the chaotic jumble of the Vetch Field ground, and the clean shape, metallic shine, and perfect dimensions of the new home of the Swans built a couple of miles away at White Rock.

It is, however, somehow appropriate that Swansea’s major football ground was created on a site squeezed between the County Jail, the Royal Arsenal, Hancock’s Brewery, and the Salvation Army Barracks, all of which were to provide various forms of comfort and services for several generations of Swans’ fans.  At the same time, the fact that the Vetch Field was bordered by the terraced houses and back yards of Glamorgan Street, William Street, Gam Street, and Little Madoc Street meant that Swansea Town was almost literally carving out a place for itself at the very heart of the local community in the Sandfields area of the town.  Again, there is a marked contrast with the new stadium which stands in splendid isolation on a reclaimed industrial wasteland on the banks of the River Tawe.

The occupation by the Swans of the Vetch Field site meant that, whether for good or ill, soccer and the soccer ground were to form an integral part of the social fabric and landscape of Swansea.  Consequently, as Swansea itself became the ‘ugly, lovely town’ of Dylan Thomas’s famous description, so too the Vetch Field in its own way became an ugly, lovely football ground.  Cramped, misshapen, uncomfortable, and idiosyncratic, ‘the Vetch’ swiftly took on a unique character, which was reinforced by the early generations of supporters of the Swans who collectively gave powerful and passionate expression to an identity that was both local and very distinctively Welsh.  In its early years, the community of fans who took up their Saturday residence at the Vetch Field gave vociferous backing to a team that certainly carried the hopes of the whole of Swansea, but which also was seen to be representing wider Wales.  This ensured that from the very beginning the ‘Vetch experience’ brought together a rich mixture of very special ingredients to create a unique setting and atmosphere for ‘the dribbling code’ of football.

For all the importance of 1912 in the history of the Swans, it is important to remember that association football was far from being new to the Vetch Field in September of that year when Swansea Town took to the field for the first time in a competitive fixture against Cardiff City.  The game of ‘soccer’ as it was then universally known in South Wales had been played on the ground since the 1890s, but  it was by no means a foregone conclusion that the Vetch Field would ever become a permanent home of the town’s first properly established major club.  During the intervening years a number of clubs representing ‘Swansea’ had briefly flourished and died, and several of them had played their football elsewhere in the town.  Indeed, if events had followed only a slightly different course then the modern-day football follower in Swansea might well be a supporter of a team called Swansea United who played their games at Danygraig or Morriston.  This is not as far-fetched as it might seem, because at times between 1900 and 1910 the prospects of a professional football club ever making a permanent home for itself at the Vetch Field were virtually non-existent.

Before the 1890s the Vetch Field might well have been a meadow sown with plants and vegetables, but it had recently become a wasteland where the town corporation dumped refuse and ash.  Thereafter, however, a concerted effort was made to transform it into a sports or athletics ground.  The local auctioneers Messrs Teague and Jenkins endeavoured to create an all-purpose sports ground, to be known as ‘The Swansea Central Athletic Ground’, which in keeping with the physical efficiency movement of the day, would be devoted throughout the year to the recreation of local young people.  Teague and Jenkins enclosed the ground, levelled the field, built changing rooms, and laid out an inner cinder cycle track as well as an outer grass trotting track for horses.  This enabled the Vetch Field to be used for a wide variety of sporting events such as cycle and foot races, and it hosted general ‘sports days’ on public holidays.  But a wide variety of other general forms of entertainment was also provided for the people of Swansea.  Fêtes and galas were regularly held at the ground, together with special events such as balloon ascents and boxing matches.  Visiting circuses made the Vetch their temporary home, and during the early years of the twentieth century Buffalo Bill and his Indians camped out on the ground, thus, cynics might say, blazing a trail for the later generations of footballing clowns and cowboys who were sometimes to be found performing at the Vetch.

The Vetch Field sports ground provided an arena for all forms of public entertainment, and when a newly formed Association Football Club was established in Swansea during early 1893 the soccer players who trained and played matches at the Vetch had to take their place alongside all manner of other sporting enthusiasts.  This meant that games had to be played on a very poor playing surface, caused by the existence of the cinder cycle track which cut across the pitch in several places. Moreover, the popularity of the Rugby football on offer at St Helen’s ground meant that the fledgling Swansea club only attracted only very thin gatherings of spectators to the Vetch for games against teams such as Pembroke Dock, Brecon, Knighton, Carmarthen Training College, and the Second Battalion of the Devon Regiment.  Poor public support and lack of substantial financial backing ensured that the club failed properly to establish itself at the Vetch.  Although exhibition matches against Preston North End (played at St Helen’s) in 1894 and against Cup finalists Derby County in 1898 demonstrated that in the right circumstances soccer in the town could attract crowds of over 2,000, the 1890s were, overall, a time of failed hopes and ambitions for the team that took to the field wearing its very distinctive black-and-white hooped jerseys.

In keeping with the early trials and tribulations of Swansea Association Football Club, the 1890s ended with the local corporation evicting the club from the Vetch Field.  Rumours suggested that the ground was soon be built upon, and local people lamented the loss of the one and only open space in the heart of the town, but in the event the Vetch Field was sold to the Swansea Gaslight Company, and it began to use the site as a coal storage depot in support of its nearby gas works.  The early link between the Vetch Field and soccer was not entirely broken, however, because the Gas Works team played Swansea and District League fixtures on the site, but the sale of the Vetch almost immediately sounded the death knell for the pioneering Swansea club.  In August 1899 Swansea withdrew from the South Wales League ‘from the mere want of a ground’, as the South Wales Daily Post put it, and the club soon ceased to exist.

For the next few years soccer continued to flourish at junior level in the town, but no club stepped forward to represent the whole town until 1906 when Swansea Town was formed.  As with its predecessor, this club suffered because it could not find a permanent home, and it had to make do with playing its home games at Victoria Park, and it also had to withstand the challenge of the recently formed Swansea Villa who played at the same venue in the west end of town.  Two years later, in 1908, yet another team stepped forward aspiring to represent the whole of the town, when East Side who played at Dan-y-graig adopted the name Swansea United and entered the South Wales Cup.  With first Villa and then Town falling by the wayside, Swansea United were left to carry the flag, although it was Swansea & District XI teams that took the field at Dan-y-graig against Bristol Rovers in 1909 and Crystal Palace in 1910, and then at Morriston against Cardiff City in 1911. All of these games were lost by the local team, but the performances and crowds were encouraging, and a further effort was made to establish a first class soccer club in the town, with a view to it joining the English Southern League, which was then vigorously seeking to recruit new member clubs in South Wales.

The size of both the town and its ‘healthy, virile’ local soccer league, which had 2,000 registered players in 1912, were such that it was widely agreed that Swansea was ideal territory in which to establish a professional football club, but the stumbling block remained the lack of a suitable ground.   Indeed, the key to success for any professional soccer club in the town was said to depend ‘almost entirely upon the acquisition of a centrally and conveniently situated ground’, but in reality the options were very limited.  The St Helen’s ground of Swansea RFC was considered to be an ‘impregnable citadel’, and only the Vetch Field had demonstrated in the past that it could accommodate crowds of any real size.

With these factors uppermost in people’s minds, a new club and company was formed under the stewardship of Chairman J.W. Thorpe and Secretary S.B. Williams in the early summer of 1912.  These two founding fathers of Swansea Town Association Football Club, together with an elected committee, organised the raising of the £2,000 share capital that was necessary to make the club financially viable, and they paved the way for the club’s election to the second division of the Southern League in time for the 1912-13 season.  The aim was to bring together a squad of ‘imported professionals’ who would each be paid £3-£4 a week, and over the summer twelve experienced players were signed from league clubs in England, including the goalkeeper-manager Walter Whittaker who had previously played for Exeter City.  Two Welsh amateurs were also signed, and it was one of them, Willie Messer, who gave the fledgling team its only personal connection with the town it was to represent.  The early Swansea Town hardly drew at all on the local talent that supposedly existed in great abundance, but although the team was considered to be an ‘unknown quantity’ newspaper columnists were certain that it had the potential to capture high levels of support.

In the early summer of 1912 hopes were also high that the ground problem could be solved, and negotiations took place with the Swansea Gaslight Company, which, quite fortuitously, had been refused permission to build on their Vetch Field storage yard.  This enabled the Football Club to take out a seven-year lease on the Vetch Field in July 1912, with a view to clearing the site and preparing it in time for competitive Southern League action against Cardiff City just over a month later.  Indeed, in the opinion of ‘Ajax’ writing in the Cambrian in August 1912 the football club had stolen an important lead on their rugby neighbours because the Vetch offered a much better location than the rugby ground: ‘It is situated right at the heart of the town – far more conveniently placed, in fact, as regards the railway stations than St Helen’s’.  This offered the prospect of the club attracting large crowds, including those ‘rugbyites’ who were believed to have ‘gone over’ to soccer, having become disillusioned with the stodgy fare that had been served up in recent years by the All Whites.

Finally, after almost a quarter of a century of false starts and setbacks, a professional football club was about to establish a permanent home for itself at the Vetch Field, a ground that seemed well positioned to attract sporting enthusiasts from near and far.  Local newspaper headlines pointed to a ‘soccer boom’ occurring in Swansea during the summer of 1912, and J.W. Thorpe confidently predicted that the Swans would soon be serving up much better entertainment than that on offer down the road at St Helen’s.  It was said that ‘bumper gates’ could be anticipated for the visit of clubs such as Leyton, Luton, Croydon Common, and Southend United, and some newspaper correspondents even began to offer over-optimistic speculation about whether there was much of a future for rugby in the town.

The town that the professional players of Swansea Town Football Club stepped out onto the Vetch to represent in 1912 was described by the poet Edward Thomas as a ‘dirty witch’ of a town.  Once Swansea had aspired to be the ‘Weymouth of Wales’, a genteel seaside resort town, and even as late as the 1920s, some older residents could recall the days when the town had been little more than an extended village opening out to the west on to green fields and meadows. But during the nineteenth century Swansea had in fact developed rapidly into something quite different and, although the surrounding area remained well known for its natural beauty, the town itself soon grew into an ugly sprawling metropolis, blighted by pollution and an industrial landscape that was deeply scarred by the after-effects of unregulated smelting, plating and mining activity.  On the back of export-led copper, tinplate, and coal production, Swansea became a major industrial town linked to the British Empire and wider world through its large thriving port.  In its wake, industrial and maritime growth brought rapid population expansion based upon sustained immigration from West and Mid Wales, the Welsh Marches, Devon and Cornwall, Ireland, and Mediterranean Europe, notably Italy.  Swansea became a remarkably cosmopolitan town, with small transient communities of Chinese, Russian, and Polish labourers who sought work in the docks.

Victorian expansion had brought wealth and prosperity to some sections ofSwansea society, but by the early twentieth century many people in the town still experienced a harsh working environment, centred upon unremitting hard and dangerous physical labour, and the rewards were often meagre.  As a result, daily life was tough and living conditions were often very poor.  This meant that out of sight of those who lived in the relative comfort of Brynmill and the Uplands in the west end of the town were countless slum dwellings crowded around the docks and wharves of the lower Tawe valley.  Visitors to Swansea were often shocked by what they found in this part of the town, and as late as 1938 the noted Australian test cricketer Jack Fingleton wrote in his diary that ‘There could be nothing more gloomy than the walk I took through Swansea slum areas’, and he contrasted this scene with the ‘most glorious countryside imaginable’ that he found only a few miles away.

Poverty and desperately poor social conditions co-existed with widespread drunkenness and lawlessness in parts of the town, and beneath a thin veneer of respectability Swansea was a boisterous and at times very violent place.  As one American social observer noted during the early 1920s, ‘Before dark I took courage to go down what is called the Strand, where murders are said to be frequent.  I saw more male and female wrecks of humanity, drunk and sober, with dirty children about them, than ever in my life.’  Policemen, he reported, ‘have orders never to come down here except in twos.’  He found that things were little different in the main part of town, and he wrote that ‘Up on the main streets every so often – and with increasing frequency as the evening grew – the crowd would gather to see a drunken brawl or to let the police trundle away on a two-wheeled stretcher some dead-drunk worker.’  It would seem that little has changed over the past eighty years or so.

For many inhabitants of Swansea, life had a hard, abrasive edge to it, but the years around the First World War were also extremely fertile and creative in terms of the development of the town and local society.  A strong sense of civic pride found architectural expression in buildings such as the Central Police Station (1912), the Exchange Building (1915) and the complex comprising the Guildhall, Brangwyn Hall, and law courts that was constructed during the early 1930s.  At the same time, the need to entertain people in new and different ways saw the emergence of buildings and institutions dedicated to leisure activity.  A host of theatres and music halls still competed for public attention during the 1920s, but they faced ferocious competition from the cinemas that were springing up in and around the centre of the town, and as if to herald a new era of sophisticated international entertainment the giant Plaza cinema on the Kingsway opened its doors for the first time in 1931.  This was also a golden age for clubs and societies, as new hobbies such as cycling, rambling, and angling took hold of the imagination of those fortunate to have a little more time and money on their hands.  Swansea was thus poised to change fast in the years after 1912, and by creating a professional club the directors of the Swans were swimming with a strong underlying current of enthusiasm for all things new and exciting.

This enthusiasm was much in evidence on 7 September 1912 when Swansea Town, clad in all-white, played out a 1-1 draw against Cardiff City at the Vetch in a Southern League Second Division fixture.  Around 8,000 spectators gathered to watch a game that was described in the Cambrian as ‘extremely exciting and full of incidents from start to finish, there being nothing in the Soccer code like the series of monotonous scrums which we see frequently in Rugby.’  The crowd was far larger than had ever been present at a soccer match in Swansea, and special ‘cars’ or trams ran to the ground from the railway stations in the town.  But, despite the great sense of occasion, the club did not accommodate their new patrons in a degree of comfort.  Indeed, a conscious decision had been made to invest in the playing staff and not the ground during the first season, with a view to establishing the team’s credentials in the eyes of the paying public.  Mounds of ash and brick were used to create an ‘embankment’ for spectators around the entire pitch, but the site as a whole remained largely undeveloped.  Indeed, the ground resembled the surface of the moon, an impression that was added to by the pitch itself, which had an ash and cinder surface.  The players changed and put on their knee pads in a hastily constructed wooden ‘dressing room’, described as a ‘splendid pavilion’, but there were few other facilities of any note.

It was only at the end of the first season, during which the Swans had played ‘clean and scientific soccer’, that the Vetch began to take proper shape as a football ground.  As far as the players were concerned, the most important development in the summer of 1913 was undoubtedly the laying of a turf pitch, while general improvements were made to the spectator accommodation.  Slightly higher raised banks were created, again from the conveniently available ash and stone, and a small thousand-seat covered and gabled wooden grandstand was built to run along the middle third of the south side of the pitch.  Such a stand was deemed to be absolutely essential to the future of the club because it enabled gate income to be generated even when the weather was poor.  Indeed, the need for such a facility was no better demonstrated than when the new stand was occupied by spectators for the first time in September 1913, and a 5-0 victory was recorded against Barry Town in a game played in a torrential downpour.

This stand, which today forms the core section of the centre stand, was to house the directors, local dignitaries, many of the six hundred or so early members of the club, and the well-to-do occasional supporters who almost all sported the then-fashionable homburg hats and boaters.  These seated spectators, who from the early days included a sprinkling of women, gained access to the ground from Glamorgan Street, and then found their way to their bench seats, via steps at either end of the stand.  The rest of the spectators, who almost universally wore flat caps, paid 6d. for admission through small gates in the corners of the ground, and they then took up position on the banks wherever they chose.  They were kept off the pitch by low walls and iron railing fences, and in a few places they were afforded the luxury of resting up against a metal ‘crush barrier’.

The early development of the Vetch enabled more spectators to attend games, and the success of the Swans in the 1913/14 season led to crowds for Southern League matches climbing to over 12,000.  As was to become the norm, however, the greatest public excitement was reserved for the FA Cup, which the club entered for the first time, and games against Merthyr and Queen’s Park Rangers (a 2-1 defeat in the last thirty-two), attracted attendances of 18,000, including those who came into the town on special trains from outlying districts.  This early outbreak of cup fever was only slightly reduced by the outbreak of the First World War in August 1914, and when six months later the Swans were drawn against Blackburn Rovers, the Football League Champions, the match was played out in front of some16,000 spectators.  In terms of the opposition, if not the size of the crowd, this was by far the biggest game in the fledgling club’s brief history, and it became all the more notable for a heroic backs-to-the-wall 1-0 victory, secured through a spectacular winning goal scored by Ben Beynon, who had only a year earlier had been turning out for the ‘All-whites’ at St. Helen’s.  The result was described as a ‘staggerer’ by one reporter, and it was said that whole sporting world was taken by surprise.  Certainly the Swansea fans could not contain their excitement.  As the Daily Post reported, ‘When the referee blew his whistle for the cessation of the game there were scenes of great jubilation.  The crowd jumped over the railings and rushed towards the Swansea players, who they shook by the hands and congratulated upon the success.  [Jack] Duffy was carried back to the pavilion where a dense crowd congregated and patted the players on the back as they went back to the dressing room.  Cheer after cheer was raised for the Swans.’   The fans even celebrated by singing their own triumphal song, but sadly the joy was short-lived and the cup run came to abrupt end a couple of weeks later with a 2-0 defeat against Newcastle United, after a draw on Tyneside.

The fact that the club was now rubbing shoulders with the likes of Blackburn and Newcastle demonstrated that it had come a very long way in a short space of time, but the bright spark lit by the cup run of 1915 was almost extinguished during the remaining years of the war.  Organised league football came to an end in 1915, and, deprived of regular gate income, the club survived on a hand-to-mouth basis by hosting charity and exhibition matches.  The side of 1915 broke up, and the prospects for the club were far from rosy at the return of peace in 1918, when there was considerable uncertainty about the future leasing of the Vetch Field from the Gaslight Company.  In the event, the lease was renewed, together with hope for the future, and local interest in the Swans was quickly restored in 1919-20, not least perhaps because reasonable success on the field in the first division of the Southern League was based upon the inclusion of a far greater number of Welshman in the side.  By the end of the season, the general post-war enthusiasm for sport and public entertainment ensured that attendances reached a healthy 15 to 20,000.

The interwar fortunes of the Swans were very similar to those of the local economy: initial enthusiasm was followed by a great boom, before the onset of a lingering depression that was only occasionally punctuated by good news.  In May 1920 moves to expand the size of the English Football League saw the Swans become associate members of the League, and they entered the newly created Division Three.  Under the astute stewardship of Joe Bradshaw (who without doubt was one of the best two or three managers that the Swans have ever had), and with a crop of good signings such as Wilfie Milne and Jack Fowler who became Swansea legends, the early 1920s saw the club make good progress on the field.  This culminated in 1924/5 when the Swans pipped arch-rivals Plymouth Argyle to the Third Division (South) Championship, clinching the title on the last day of season in front of 25,000 spectators at the Vetch.  Such was the crush inside the ground on that tumultuous occasion that the crowd was reported to have ‘got used to seeing ambulance men scuttle across the ground in response to a shriek of pain from some of the spectators or the fainting gasps of some half-suffocated man.’  At the end of the game ‘the pent up enthusiasm of the lusty lunged multitude broke loose in one great convulsive roar.  The crowd leaped over the barriers like a sheet of water breaking its banks.  The parched ground sent up clouds of dust as the cheering, gesticulating, and joy-maddened mob raced after their fleeing heroes.’  When the players eventually escaped from the dressing room, they were carried away in triumph in a charabanc, which proceeded through teeming crowds at walking pace behind the multi-talented members of the St John’s Ambulance Band who by now abandoned their stretchers in favour of musical instruments.  As was fast becoming traditional, the FA Cup also consistently led to attendances of over 20,000 packing into the ground to watch the Swans take on high-profile teams such as West Ham and an Arsenal side led by the legendary Charlie Buchan.  Fortunes peaked in 1925/6 with an ‘annus Swanus mirabilis’ when the team almost pulled off a remarkable cup and promotion double.  Having defeated Arsenal 2-1, Swansea reached the semi-final of the FA Cup for the first time, disappointingly bowing out 3-0 to Bolton Wanderers at White Hart Lane, and a highly promising league campaign only fizzled out towards the very end, leaving the club in a highly creditable fifth position.  At the end of 1926, Swansea Town was on the verge of becoming a major club with a substantial following.

v Arsenal 1926

Alas, and as was to happen several times in the future, the club was unable to build on these firm foundations, and things were not helped by the untimely departure of Bradshaw.  Occasionally during the late-1920s the Swans put together a decent run in the league, and the FA Cup still provided good crowds and great entertainment, but gradually an ageing side reached the end of its days. Inadequate replacements were brought in for the team that had won promotion to Division Two in 1925, and the club became embroiled in a perpetual battle against relegation, not least because away form was consistently awful during the 1930s.  There were occasional shafts of bright light, such as the 35 goals scored by Cyril Pearce in season 1931/2, but, against a background of acute economic depression, the crowds fell away, and when Pearce scored his last two goals in a 2-0 victory against Bury in May 1932 the attendance at the Vetch was a mere 4,281.  Until 1926/7 crowds had been higher than the divisional average, but thereafter they were always below the line.  Whereas during the 1920s league attendances averaged 13,334, they slumped to 9,785 in the decade that followed.

Clearly the onset of mass unemployment was a major factor in this worrying decline, but the fare served up was often uninspiring compared with the entertainment that had been on offer during the early 1920s, and for much of the time all that local soccer enthusiasts had to look forward to was the arrival at the Vetch of a parade of traditionally strong teams such as Everton, Bolton, Aston Villa, Tottenham, and Burnley who had temporarily fallen from the heights of Division One.  These sides all had their stars, and thus during the 1930s Swansea crowds were transfixed by the presence at the Vetch of many present and future stars of the game: Dixie Dean of Everton, Ted Drake of Southampton, Tommy Lawton of Burnley, Frank Swift of Manchester City, and Stanley Matthews of Stoke City.  An interest in these ‘national’ football icons helped to keep the soccer flame burning in Swansea at a time when the fortunes of the All Whites and the Welsh rugby team were beginning to recover after some very lean years.

It was against this general playing background that the Vetch Field was developed and then stagnated as a football ground during the inter-war years.  At times, money was extremely tight for the Swans, and the Board did well to avoid the fate of the former FA Cup winners and First division members Cardiff City who slumped to the bottom of Division Three, and of Aberdare Athletic, Merthyr, and Newport County who fell out of the Football League, although the County regained their place after a year’s absence.  But conditions on and off the field were hardly conducive to a sustained programme of stadium development and the ground as a whole only took half a step forward.  During the mid-1920s some noises were made about eventually increasing ground capacity to almost 60,000 but, despite confident pronouncements about the future, there does not appear to have been any realistic or affordable scheme properly to upgrade the ground.  As result, the Vetch Field was only improved in stages, one side at a time, as resources became available.  And, as time went on, the shape and size of the physical environment became more and more of a constraining factor.   The pitch itself simply could not be positioned parallel to the surrounding streets, and this meant that two of the banks could not be extended properly along the full side of the playing surface.  As a result, in two of the corners neighbouring back gardens came to within a few feet of the pitch, and both the East Bank and the main Bank had to be tapered sharply at one end.  This gave the Vetch Field its unusual lop-sided appearance, and no matter what improvements were made the ground was always to look as though a square peg had been forced into a triangular hole.

Of necessity, the playing surface was quite small and narrow, with the touchlines always close to the spectators, and from the beginning this gave the ground its characteristically ‘tight’ feeling.  As a result, the taking of a corner kick was never easy at the Vetch.  By the standards of the time, the pitch was considered to be a reasonably good one and because of sandy subsoil it was quick-draining, which meant that very few games ever had to be postponed.   Having said that, the pitch suffered from extensive use, and well over eighty games a season must have been played on it.  In addition to first-team league and cup fixtures, the reserves played games in the Welsh League and the London Combination League, and the ground also hosted schoolboy soccer, local cup finals, and occasional internationals.  Long-serving groundsman George Hart did his best, but his methods seem to have been fairly basic and typical of their time. In the summer of 1927 it was said that the pitch had been ‘given over to sheep grazing’ which ‘has had a fine tonic effect.’  Nevertheless, by the mid-point of any season the pitch was often almost threadbare and entirely grassless, especially down the middle.  As a result, it became a dustbowl during fine weather, while heavy rain created a mud bath which often reduced games to a lottery.  This was very much the case in February 1936 when Bradford City visited the Vetch, although Swansea supporters were not complaining too much when their team took advantage of atrocious conditions to register a record 8-1 victory.

In terms of architecture, the first stage of the interwar ground development saw the main stand extended in the summer of 1920 so that it ran the whole length of the pitch.  The initial aim had been to extend the stand towards Richardson Street, beneath the towering Drill Hall that had replaced the Royal Arsenal, and it was anticipated that this would create 3,000 extra seats.  In the event, however, the original wooden stand was extended outwards in both directions, creating what became the ‘Wing Stand’ (which still has its original bench-style seating) at the Town End, and the Richardson Street terraced enclosure (now the ‘Family Stand’), which curved round slightly to meet the West End of the ground.  Entrance to the main seating area of the stand was through a very narrow alley way between two houses (now the players’ entrance), and teams emerged on to the ground down steps through an opening at the half-way line, where the current director’s box is situated.  The structure remained at this stage a very rudimentary one, and little had been built up by way of office or social facilities either beneath or behind the stand.

To the right of the main stand was the East Bank, an ash and shale bank which remained largely unaltered.  Railway sleepers were added to the lower section to create a terracing effect and, as Tom Kiley later recalled of his time on the junior playing staff, one of the painful close season tasks of younger players was to dig out the old worn sleepers and replace them with new ones.  The main Bank was raised and deepened at this time, essentially by adding more rocks, ash, and shale to the middle section of the existing mound that ran along the north side of the pitch.  Space was tight at the west end of the Bank because of the proximity of houses in Little Madoc Street, but growth and an expansion of standing capacity was made possible in the Summer of 1925 by the demolition of the Vetch Field School, which had temporarily occupied a corner of the site.   Again, railway sleepers were added to the lower part of the bank, but critics still complained that work had been left unfinished, and the upper section remained little more than an ash heap, so much so that the ground as a whole was still being described as a ‘rubble heap’.

Certainly, standing on the main popular bank (which was not yet known as the North Bank) offered little by way of comfort or protection from the elements.  The steepness of the upper part of the Bank was painful on the ankles, and older supporters have vivid recollections of heavy rain causing torrents of dirty water to cascade down from the top, which meant that they often left games with their shoes or boots covered in grime and their pockets full of water.  Indeed, conditions were such that foul weather deterred people from attending games, and in 1921 a torrential pre-match downpour meant that when the fixture against Millwall kicked off there were only around 200 spectators standing on the main bank.  But despite much evidence that poor weather knocked several thousand off the gate, it seems that at this stage no thought was ever given to providing cover for those who stood on the ‘popular side’.  Indeed, those on the main Bank were provided with little other than an opportunity to find a good spot from which to watch the match.  Access to the Bank was still from the sides, although brave souls wanting a quick escape at the end of the game, could go ‘over the top’ at the back and scramble down the shale in the manner of a fell runner or mountaineer.

Without doubt, the greatest architectural advance in the ground came at the Western End which backed out on to Richardson Street, albeit once more at an awkward angle.   This too had been a shale bank, but in the summer of 1927 it was completely redeveloped as a two-tier structure, with a lower concrete terrace and an upper wooden seated area.  The West stand, or ‘Double-Decker’ as it soon became known, was to accommodate 4,000 standing spectators, the majority under cover, and just over 2,000 seated spectators.  One supporter recalls the new stand being regarded at the time as ‘the eighth wonder of the world’, not least because it gave the seated spectators in the upper tier a high, panoramic, and uninterrupted view of the pitch.  Cushions could be hired to soften the effects of hard wooden benches, and from the beginning spectators marked their applause by rhythmically banging their feet up and down on the wooden floor.  Quite what effect this initially had on those underneath remains unrecorded, but the gradual opening of the new stand coincided with remarkable sequence of goal scoring.   The upper section of the stand was not ready for occupancy by the time of the first game of the 1927/8 season but those who stood on the lower terrace saw a 2-1 victory over Fulham.  A few days later a handful of spectators were allowed to climb the stairs to the upper level for the first time, and they were ‘sent soaring up to the highest flights of ecstasy’ by a 5-3 win against Manchester City.  The full opening of all parts of the stand on 17 September was marked by a 6-0 demolition of Wolves, and the next home game saw a further six goals put past South Shields.  This frenzy of scoring, including four hat-tricks, can be attributed to the introduction of a new offside law which seems to have completely bamboozled defenders for a short time, but it was still quite a way to mark the opening of the Vetch’s new landmark grandstand.

The opening of the ‘Double-Decker’ in 1927 can be seen to have marked the high-water point for the development of the ground and, apart from an upgrade to the North Bank, things at the Vetch were to remain much the same for the next thirty years or so.  Only few cosmetic improvements were made to the internal fabric of the ground, and most notably the addition of the ‘Glamtax’ half-time scoreboard in the north-east corner of the ground helped to provide spectators with the state of play in other games.  This telegraph-style scoreboard was in place by the late-1920s, and changes to the teams announced in the printed programme were conveyed to spectators via messages scrawled on chalk boards carried around the edge of the pitch.  A rudimentary public address system came into being in order to broadcast music from records, but the tunes could only be heard and identified by those situated right next to the loudspeakers situated in the main stand.  Consequently, throughout the interwar period it was customary for pre-match and half-time entertainment for the masses to be provided by bands who offered a staple diet of popular marching tunes.  Otherwise, the facilities remained basic.  There were a couple of small tea bars dotted around the ground, but those wishing for refreshment had to wait the arrival of boys who carried tea urns or trays of sweets, nuts, and the inevitable packets of Woodbines and Players cigarettes.  Such was the prevalence of smoking at the time that the smell of cigarettes always wafted across the ground, and from time to time spectators swigged from flagons of beer that were carried into the ground.  Most of all, of course, the crowd wished to be sustained by the quality of the football on offer, and it was this rather than the nature of their surroundings that primarily determined their collective mood and behaviour.

When the Swans had taken to the field for the first game against Cardiff City in 1912, the Cambrian newspaper had taken it upon itself to tell the players, directors, and supporters exactly how they should conduct themselves in the new era of professional football.  While the players were told not to lose their tempers because this meant ‘loss of form, and sometimes the match’; the directors were warned not to be too hasty in putting up admission prices because ‘it often cuts down the average attendance.’  For their part, spectators were presented with a code of behaviour which placed a heavy accent on fair play and good sportsmanship:

  • Don’t think your team is the only one that can play a clever game.  There are others.
  • Don’t desert your team when they strike a bad patch.  That’s when they want your encouragement most.
  • Don’t blame the referee for your defeats.  Take them as men.
  • Don’t go to see one team only play.  It takes two sides to provide your sport.  Give them both a share of your cheering.

These instructions can be regarded as a somewhat patronising attempt by the respectable classes to impose their own standards of decency upon unruly proletarian elements, but in fact the crowds at the Vetch for the most part seem to have been well behaved.  The crowd certainly gave vociferous backing to their heroes, and in 1926 it was said that ‘ordinarily the cheering can be heard as far as Fforestfach’, which was no mean feat even before the age of heavy noise pollution.  Those on the main Bank seem to have required little encouragement to strike up a song, and they often ran through a medley of popular hits and hymns, many of which were sung in Welsh. Thus the crowd often burst into spontaneous renditions of ‘Cwm Rhondda’, ‘Mae Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau’, ‘Sospan fach’, and ‘Yn y Dyfroedd Mawr a’r Tonnau’.  When a visiting Stoke City supporter was told that the last hymn was usually heard at funerals, he looked shocked and then replied ‘If that is so, then we had better hum “Show me the way to go home.”’  The enthusiastic singing of such hymns and arias certainly gave a distinctive Welsh feel to big games at the Vetch, but while the crowd were giving vocal expression to a form of Welshness they cannot be said to have used the game of football to make any wider or deeper political points about nationalism or national identity.  Most were only ninety-minute nationalists, and they simply enjoyed participating in mass community singing.

The crowd took up English-language popular tunes with equal enthusiasm, especially in the case of ‘I’m forever blowing bubbles’ and ‘Danny Boy’.  Indeed, with just a little creative imagination a hit song was soon adapted to celebrate the scoring prowess of Jack Fowler, and ‘Chick, chick, chick, chick, chicken, lay a little egg for me’ was reworded to become ‘Fow, Fow, Fow, Fow, Fowler, score a little goal for me, We haven’t had a goal since the last match and now it’s half past three’.  Tapping into this crowd participation, the club often encouraged the Vetch voices to stretch their musical chords even further.  At the Bury FA Cup tie in 1927 mass singing was organised at a game in Wales for the first time when the conductor Thomas Radcliffe was sponsored by the Daily Express to lead the crowd through a repertoire of popular numbers.  The ground, it was said, ‘blossomed into song’, and ‘the harmony and melody of community singing rose on the fog-laden air.’  Later, records were played over the PA system in order to get the crowd going, although this did not always have the desired effect.  At the Portsmouth Cup tie of 1934 hit tunes were played ‘but a big section of the crowd preferred Welsh hymns and particularly “Cwm Rhondda”’.  Following the same game, a reporter also wondered about the wisdom of playing the doleful hymn ‘O God our help in ages past’ just moments after Portsmouth had scored what proved to be the winning goal.

Singing gave people a sense of full involvement in the occasion, but in their excitement they also swayed from side-to-side together in unison.  This was unnerving for some in packed crowds, and the practice was considered dangerous by the authorities, but little could be done to stop it.  To prevent crushing, small boys were moved to the front ranks of the banks and terraces, and during big games spectators sat on the very edge of the pitch.  There was little by way of any official stewarding, but on major occasions ‘packers in’ were used to move the crowd toward the centre of the banks and megaphone-wielding policemen loudly encouraged people to stand as tightly together as possible.  They did this in the belief that such a strategy offered the best countermeasure against surges, but this seems now to have been a somewhat dubious practice and on occasions the club managed only narrowly to avoid serious accidents in the ground.  ‘Rolande’ wrote in the Sporting News that when the Swans scored against Aston Villa in the Cup in 1925 ‘the spectators [in a crowd of almost 20,000] rose as one person and for a moment one trembled to think what might happen to the barriers at the Mumbles End.’  Nine years later a then record attendance of 27,910 packed into the Vetch to watch a cup tie against Portsmouth, and such was the demand for admission that it was said that the club needed a ground that was twice the size.  The crowd were repeatedly encouraged to ‘close up’ but the effect of this was such that at one point before kick off workmen were called in to hammer in wooden battens to support the fencing that surrounded the pitch.  This had little effect, however, and ten minutes into the game a barrier gave way at the ‘Wind Street End’ of the ground and dozens of people spilled out on to the pitch, causing the game halted.  Fortunately no-one was injured, but then the front section of the Richardson Street Enclosure collapsed, although again, miraculously, no-one was hurt.

As photographs and news reels of the time show very clearly, the Banks and popular ‘cheap side’ were something of an exclusive male preserve, and beyond the seated areas there seem to have been few women present in the ground.  Omri Huxtable recalls that women were a ‘rare, rare thing’ at games of the 1930s.  Groups of work mates congregated together in their favourite spots on the Banks, where they smoked and laid bets, but many fans also moved around the ground during the game, and it became something of a ritual for large numbers of fans to switch ends at half-time.  There were no barriers closing off the separate banks, and thus large numbers of supporters moved from one end of the ground to other in order to stand behind the goal that the Swans were attacking. This freedom of movement did not lead to any crowd trouble, and there is certainly no evidence of aggression towards visiting supporters who intermingled quite freely with the home fans with little fear for their safety.  Visitors openly demonstrated their allegiance, as was the case in 1922 when supporters from Merthyr poured into town to back their team.  They drove down in charabancs, and by one o’clock ‘the colours of the Martyrs were prominent all over the town’.  On the occasion of the epic Arsenal cup-tie of 1926 ‘Two special trains from London crowded to the last inch of corridor space brought down a cheering mass of Arsenal backers, wearing their colours defiantly.’  When Portsmouth played the cup-tie of 1934 they were urged on by a ‘big band of supporters who had arrived from the naval town [and] made a brave show of blue and white streamers and rosettes.’

It is evident that big games attracted large support for the Swans from within the town and immediate district, but they also drew in large numbers of spectators from further a field and this serves as a useful reminder that in those days the club days possessed a very large catchment area, which for a variety of social, economic, and cultural factors has since been lost.  When Cup games were made ‘all-ticket’ there were howls of protest from ‘Valleyites’ who complained that they were being denied access because they could not comply with the club’s rule that they must apply in person for tickets.  As this suggests, there were plenty of people from across South and West Wales who were prepared to travel to Swansea for major games, and this demonstrates how the club acted as a vehicle for wider Welsh sporting enthusiasms and identities.

The really special occasions could even attract substantial interest from neutrals beyond Wales.  This happened most notably perhaps in 1926 when Arsenal came to town for the FA Cup Quarter Final.  On that day in March nineteen special trains ran to bring in supporters from near and far.  It was reported that ‘advance guards’ of general football enthusiasts came in from Ireland, Lancashire, Yorkshire, Cornwall, and London, and observers noted the great variety of accents that could be heard in the huge crowds that thronged the streets around the Vetch from the early morning of the game.  But the South Wales Daily Post also noted that that this was ‘essentially a Welsh day.  North and South Wales poured enthusiasts into the town.’   Six Great Western Trains brought in fans from all over the South Wales coalfield, and football specials ran from places such as Llandovery, Craven Arms, Brynamman, Ystalyfera, Newport, and even Cardiff.  This was akin to a full-scale military-style mobilisation of Welsh support for the Swans, and it is not surprising that the official attendance reached 25,158, with the Arsenal supporters said to be outnumbered by fifty to one.

By the time Portsmouth arrived for a cup-tie eight years later, in 1934, different patterns of supporter transportation had begun to emerge.  A significant number of ‘football special’ trains were still laid on for this important occasion, but plans also had to be made to cope with the influx into the town from outlying areas of a large number of cars and motor vehicles.  The AA put up ‘to the match’ signs at all the approaches to the ground, and khaki-clad officers were on duty to direct the traffic.  At the end of games such as the Portsmouth Cup tie, a great tide of humanity surged back out of the ground into the centre of the town.  Oxford Street was routinely brought to a standstill, and the massed ranks of supporters hurrying to cafes, pubs, and transport gave way to nothing other than the trams that continued to operate until 1937.

On big match days the town in general could not help but be swept up and carried along on this general tide of enthusiasm.   Large crowds gathered at High Street Station to greet visiting teams, and the recently relegated Aston Villa attracted much attention prior to the first game of the 1936/7 when they arrived in a specially chartered one-carriage diesel train.  People camped out for hours in the streets around the ground prior to big games, and it was reported that on the evening before the Arsenal game of 1926 ‘enthusiasts’  knocked on the doors of local houses and made ‘extraordinary offers’ in the hope that they might be able to spend the night on the sofa.  On several such occasions the ground could simply not cope with such demand for access, but it was nevertheless said that when ‘sold out’ signs were put up those locked outside the big games managed to behave in a ‘commendable manner’.  Several thousand ticketless hopefuls were still outside the ground when the gates were closed before the Portsmouth cup tie of 1934 and, although some hung around hoping for late entry, a large percentage of them were said to have gone away in good order to watch the All-whites playing at St Helen’s.

Success gave a healthy boost to local pride and it also was thought to enhance the profile of the town, not least in the long-running battle for civic supremacy that existed between Swansea and Cardiff.  More broadly, as the Daily Post put it in 1926, any major footballing victory for the Swans meant that ‘Indirectly the town benefits for there is nothing like sporting eminence to advertise a locality, and the geographical diffusion of interest of an association team is necessarily much wider than can be hoped for with Rugby.’  Rather more prosaically, success on the pitch helped to give a much-needed shot in the arm to local business.  For big matches, licensing hours were extended so that thousands of thirsts could be quenched before and after the game, and small entrepreneurs tried to cash in on the influx of supporters.  Around the Vetch all manner of favours, streamers, and rosettes were sold, and greengrocers must have done a roaring trade given the large number of giant leeks that were always in evidence at big games.  Indeed, it became something of a tradition for a spectator or two to run onto the pitch prior to kick off in order to tie a leek to a goalpost.  Before the Stoke cup tie of 1926 those queuing for entry to the ground ‘were serenaded by a number of street musicians, banjoists, and a male quartet’, and by the time the supporters went through the turnstiles most were wearing recently purchased miniature Swans in their hats.

Those living in close proximity to the Vetch took advantage of the fact that supporters were locked out of the biggest fixtures.  Fans desperate to watch the game often had to resort to desperate measures, and when a cup tie was played against Aston Villa in early 1924 it was reported that people were standing on the roofs of houses in Gam Street and William Street, and it was said that men had even managed to scramble on to the roof of the nearby brewery.  Later, the flat roof of the Drill Hall offered an ideal viewing point, and this caused people to ponder on the full range of benefits on offer to recruits to the Territorial Army.  People with homes that backed onto the Vetch also found that they were in a prime location, and they began to offer premium viewing facilities to friends and family, while the more mercenary took in paying guests for the duration of the match.  Harry Secombe’s grandparents lived in 38 William Street, and he later recalled the scene on match days: ‘The house backed on to the Vetch Field, the home of Swansea’s Football Club, and in order to watch the games the family erected a wooden stand which could only be reached by a ladder.  On Saturdays the Secombe males would turn up in force for their free entertainment, and the platform would rock to and fro with the rhythm of the match.  It was strange to see how these gentle little men turned into red-faced militants as they yelled abuse at the referee.’

Harry Secombe declared that he had little interest in soccer although he was often to be found standing on the West Terrace.  Indeed he eventually became the founding President of the junior supporters club, and prior to the FA cup tie against Arsenal in 1968 he sent a telegram to the club offering himself as a goalkeeper in the belief that he was by then so large that no one could possibly score a goal past him. He recalled that during the 1930s the club built higher and higher fences around the Vetch in order to prevent onlookers having a view of the game.  The building of private stands had become a matter for great concern to the club, especially in view of its own straitened financial circumstances, and in 1935 it was reported that a woman who owned a house in Madoc Street had constructed one capable of holding 35 people, each of whom paid one shilling for a ticket to watch a match.  This budding female entrepreneur was eventually taken to court by the Customs and Excise on the grounds that she was not paying entertainment tax on the profits she made from this enterprise.

Of course, not all games generated large crowds and a positive atmosphere, and these years should not be viewed through rose-tinted spectacles as though they now represent some sort of golden age when everyone behaved themselves, threw their hats in the air when goals were scored, and gave three rousing Welsh cheers to both sides.  At a time when life was harsh and popular protest was common, it is hardly surprising to find that crowds often gave loud and robust expression to their frustrations.   Indeed, some sections of the crowd became a constant cause of concern to the authorities.  These so-called ‘unruly elements’ generally did not direct their anger at either the opposition or its supporters, but instead they vented their anger at the shortcomings of the home team and, especially, the referee.  From the very beginning, appeals had to be made for the crowd not to resort to heckling and barracking the Swansea players, but these seem to have fallen on deaf ears and the problem seems to have become acute after the First World War.  Calls were made for stewards to step in to prevent fans shouting abuse or ‘hurling epithets’ at players who were trying their best, and it was hoped that the club would get rid of a ‘small sprinkling of roughs’.  It was of course wholly unrealistic to think that people could be expected to control their emotions and keep quiet, and an undercurrent of barracking was to continue throughout the interwar period.   It was not always tolerated, however, as ten-year old John Conibear found out to his cost when he shouted abuse at a Manchester United player and then swiftly received a clout round the back of the head from a complete stranger who was standing next to him.

On the whole, however, any aggression in the ground remained of the verbal type, and there seems to have been no fighting or tribal conflict within the crowd.  Certainly the press reported no major incidents of crowd ‘trouble’, or perhaps they chose to turn a blind eye to episodes of misbehaviour in the hope that they could prevent copycat actions from impressionable youths.  Very occasionally, some missile throwing occurred and it is known that in 1934 a referee at the Vetch was pelted with oranges by those who were upset by his performance.   Rather more seriously, John Conibear has a vivid recollection of the well-attended Swansea-Bolton game of April 1935 when the referee was hit on the knee by a rock or half-brick thrown at him from the East Bank.  Fortunately for Mr E.C. Carnwell of Lichfield the damage was slight and he was able to carry on, but the general mood of the crowd is perhaps best summed up by the fact that the offender was immediately apprehended by those around him.  He was charged and later convicted of a public order offence, and it is telling that most people in the ground that day were truly appalled by an event they considered as being entirely untypical of the general Vetch experience of the time.

Most supporters paid for entry to the ground on a match-by-match basis, although it was reported that during the years of greatest hardship there were always crowds of boys and unemployed men clustered around the turnstiles hoping for free admission.  If they did not manage to dodge, force, or climb their way into the ground, they were at least guaranteed entry for the last fifteen minutes when the gates were thrown open ready to let the crowd.  Interwar admission prices stabilised at 1 shilling for ‘Field’ (or Bank) entry for adults, and 6d for boys.  A seat in the Main Stand cost 3 shillings, and the seats in the Double Decker stand were priced at 2s 6d, although the entertainment tax introduced during the 1930s added a little more to the cost of entry.

A considerable number of supporters strengthened their commitment to the Swans by becoming ‘members’ or season-ticket holders at the Vetch.  Broadly speaking, their numbers fluctuated in line with average attendances and while there were 1,131 members in 1926/7 there were less than 400 in the doldrums year of 1931/2.  These people formed the core of the support that gathered at the Vetch, and many of them organised themselves into a very active supporters’ club.  Of course, following the Swans was the main point and purpose of the supporters’ club, and excursions were organised to away games.  Trips to games in London were especially popular, and trains were timed to depart from Swansea very late on a Friday evening so that people could arrive at Paddington early on the Saturday morning and enjoy a good few of hours sight-seeing before making their way to the game at Fulham, Q.P.R., or wherever.  As a reflection of the times, the excursions to London also allowed supporters the opportunity to visit the Cenotaph where they could honour the memory of friends and comrades who had fallen in the war.  But the supporters’ club also organised a wide variety of social events such as dances, ‘smoking concerts’, and fund-raising shows, while the close season saw bowls and cricket matches, together with picnic excursions to Gower beaches and beauty spots.  Rather more ambitiously, the supporters club organised holiday trips to the continent.  In August 1927, after the Swans had returned from a month-long visit to Spain and Portugal during which Real Madrid had been beaten 3-0, a large group of supporters left Swansea for a 10-day holiday in Belgium.  A party of 150 headed for Ostend and Brussels to follow an itinerary that included what must have been an extremely poignant charabanc tours to the First World War battlefields.  Clearly the Vetch Field lay at the heart of an extended social network that brought together people who were happy to spend much of their leisure time in the company of other supporters.  As a result, a substantial community of fans came together for rather more than ninety minutes of footballing action on a Saturday afternoon.

While the interwar Vetch Field was home to the Swans and its supporters, it should not be forgotten that the ground also hosted other teams and indeed other events.  Several high-profile boxing bouts featured local stars such as Len Beynon, Ronnie James, and Jim Wilde who fought Tommy Farr for the Welsh Heavyweight Championship before Farr went on to pit his skills against the legendary Joe Louis.  Wales played three international soccer fixtures at the Vetch between 1919 and 1939, but they did not draw in the crowds in anything like the numbers that attended FA Cup ties involving the Swans.  Indeed, in 1925 a crowd of only 8,000 watched Wales lose 2-1 to England, even though the Swansea goal-scoring hero Jack Fowler was awarded his first cap in what might have been a calculated attempt by the FAW to draw local spectators to the game.  A much greater level of public support was evident for some schoolboy internationals, however, especially when the Swansea district provided a good proportion of the team.  In 1935 six local lads lined up for Wales against Ireland, and their 5-1 victory was watched by a 16,000 crowd ‘including small boys with gigantic leeks that almost obscured their view.’  No doubt the size of this midweek crowd was determined by the fact that pupils were let out of school for the afternoon, but the town had already developed a voracious appetite for schoolboy football.  Under the expert direction of Dai Beynon, who cultivated several generations of top-quality players, Swansea Schools had embarked on a crusade to capture the English Schools Shield.  They lost in the final in both 1934 and 1935, on the latter occasion to Manchester Schools at the Vetch, but it was a case of third time lucky and in May1939 they finally lifted the Shield for the first time by beating Chesterfield 2-1 in front of a home crowd of 20,000.

The Swansea Schools victory of 1939 gave the town’s football supporters a tantalising glimpse of a very bright future, but realisation of the enormous potential of the vintage crop of local players had to be postponed because of the outbreak of war a few months later.  On 2 September 1939 the reserves were in action at the Vetch and the depressing news filtered back to the crowd that the first-team had lost 8-1 away at Newcastle.  This was put into perspective somewhat the following day when war was declared, but it was still not the best way to bring down the curtain for six years on league football at the Vetch.  Shortly afterwards, the military authorities took possession of the ground and Bill Woolway recalls that a trench was dug in the Main Bank to house anti-aircraft guns.  Fortunately, the ground avoided the devastation that the Luftwaffe inflicted on much of the town centre, especially during the ‘Three Night’s Blitz’ of February 1941, but rumours long circulated that the Vetch was used as a central point to which the authorities carried the bodies of those killed in the bombing.  Whatever the truth of this claim, the Swans were denied residence at the Vetch Field between 1939 and 1942, and they were obliged to play fixtures at St Helen’s.  The club returned to their home in time to take part in a ‘League West’ competition during the 1942/3 season.  This involved sides such as Cardiff City and Bristol City, as well as lesser lights such as Bath City, Aberaman Athletic, and Lovell’s Athletic, and the aim was to give the sport-starved public some competitive action.  This served its purpose and, in the absence of men who were away with the services, the wartime games also offered opportunities to budding local stars, the most outstanding of whom proved to be Trevor Ford, who made a more than adequate switch from full-back to centre-forward.

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Filed under 1910s, 1920s, 1940s, Uncategorized

Swansea City: more than just a team of players

Swansea may just be a small city in the west of Wales but it’s a proud place. It’s proud of its history built on metal, coal and shipping. It’s proud of beautiful beach and spectacular coastline. And it’s proud of its football club. For a century the Swans have put Swansea on the map.  They have made the name known, not just throughout Britain but beyond too. They nurtured some of the world’s great players and reminded people near and far that there was much more to Welsh sport than rugby.

The club seemed to sum up the place too. The Vetch Field, the club’s home from 1912 to 2005, was nestled in-between terraced homes, overlooked by hills and a stone’s throw from the sea.  Even when things weren’t going well on the pitch, you could hear the sound of the crowd across the city. Much loved as the Vetch was, things progress and the move to the Liberty Stadium was a sign, not just of the regeneration of a club but of a city too. It stands where a copperworks once did. Whereas once Swansea’s copper went round the world, now its Premier League football does.

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104 Years

All football clubs are proud of their history. All football clubs have their ups and downs.  The Swans are no different but perhaps their highs and lows have been rather more concentrated than most. For decades the club spent most of its time in what used to be called Division 2 and the club seemed at home there.  But by the late 1960s that stability had been lost and the large crowds and reputation for playing attractive football had slipped away and the club was to be found near the bottom of the Football League.

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But some dared to dream and in 1978 the club took a new player-manager from Liverpool. Under John Toshack, the Swans flew to the first division in just four seasons, and even sat at its pinnacle for two all too brief moments. But the rise had come too quickly and too much money had been spent. It couldn’t last and successive relegations and bankruptcy followed. The club was saved from closure but the dreams were dashed and the club found a new stability as a regular in the bottom divisions.  Yet the fans never lost a belief that the Swans should or could be flying higher.

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A remarkable rise

In 2003 the Swans came within a game of relegation out of the Football League. An epic 4-2 win over Hull City at a packed and emotional Vetch Field secured their survival on the pitch. This came little more than a year after a consortium of local businessmen, aided by the Supporters’ Trust, had brought the club back from the brink of bankruptcy and extinction.

From these low points, the rebuilding of the club began. A new team was assembled that began a gradual but steady rise through the divisions. When former-player Roberto Martinez took over as manager in 2007, the club gained a reputation for a slick passing game that had echoes of the club’s cultured teams of the 1950s.  That philosophy was continued by the managers who followed him and won the club promotion to the Premier League in 2011, less than a decade after it had nearly gone out of the league and out of existence. In 2013 the club won the Carling Cup, its first major English trophy.

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What was perhaps more remarkable was that this rapid ascent to football’s top table had been achieved without breaking the bank. The fans in the boardroom knew their club’s history and the dangers of living beyond your means. They showed the football world that financial sustainability and success on the pitch were not incompatible.

The future

The club is now under new ownership but the Supporters’ Trust continue to own a substantial proportion of the club and the fans’ loyalty does not depend on what division their team is in. Whatever the future holds for the club, its fans remember their shared history. The Swans are part of their lives and it is the fans who breathe life into the football club and make it more than just a team of hired professionals.


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The “Swans” War Song – the first club chant from 1913 re-discovered

Staff at Swansea Library have unearthed an incredibly rare document which contains the lyrics to the first specially-written club song. Local Studies Librarian Gwilym Games found what he believes is the only surviving copy of The World of Sport, a magazine produced in 1913 to provide more in-depth coverage of local sporting interests. The first issue from the 7th February 1913 is in very poor condition, but staff were able to scan it. Amid articles on cycling, dog training and other minority sports, there was a report on the Swansea Town Supporters’ Club, and notice of their fund-raising “Smoker”; and the words to the Swans War Song.

The lyrics refer to players of the day, and should be sung to the tune of “The Chocolate Major”. The opening line about the gay crowd heading for the match could be taken in quite a different light today (don’t let the Cardiff fans get hold of it…)

Simon Hurford and Rob Baker have sent us links to the tune “Here Comes the Chocolate Major”. It was written by Bennett Scott and A.J. Mills, and a version sung by G.H. Elliot can be heard on Spotify, and also by following this link: https://www.box.com/s/223be2e275cfc8de8357

Follow the links to other pages on this fascinating story:

To read about the song and its lyrics: Swans War Song

To find out more about the Supporters’ Club in 1913: Supporters’ Club 1913

To learn a bit more about the World of Sport: World of Sport 1913

It doesn’t seem that the World of Sport was very successful – there is no trace of any other issues!

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Swansea Town/City average league attendances


Year Average
1921       13,370
1922       11,685
1923       15,050
1924       14,870
1925       12,600
1926       16,118
1927       14,286
1928       12,153
1929       11,201
1930       12,101
1931       10,506
1932         9,756
1933         9,566
1934         8,204
1935         8,332
1936         8,966
1937         9,880
1938       12,015
1939       10,843
1947       21,039
1948       17,858
1949       22,535
1950       21,571
1951       19,398
1952       18,228
1953       20,469
1954       17,197
1955       21,052
1956       19,487
1957       16,585
1958       15,711
1959       14,612
1960       14,355
1961       12,084
1962       12,174
1963       10,365
1964       10,911
1965       10,467
1966         7,694
1967         6,390
1968         5,855
1969         5,664
1970         8,406
1971         8,034
1972         6,412
1973         3,104
1974         2,815
1975         2,070
1976         2,932
1977         5,311
1978         8,108
1979       13,746
1980       14,391
1981       13,143
1982       18,226
1983       11,704
1984         6,980
1985         4,421
1986         4,306
1987         5,169
1988         4,471
1989         4,897
1990         4,223
1991         3,665
1992         3,367
1993         5,199
1994         3,534
1995         3,582
1996         2,996
1997         3,850
1998         3,443
1999         5,225
2000         5,895
2001         4,913
2002         3,690
2003         5,160
2004         6,853
2005         8,458
2006       14,112
2007       12,720
2008       13,520
2009       15,187
2010       15,407
2011       15,507
2012       19,946
2013       20,370
2014       20,407
2015       20,555
2016       20,711
2017       20,619

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