Bucket Hats v Blazers

I remember my first ever trip to Wales’ national stadium. It was 1999, I was eight years old, and Wales were hosting the reigning World Champions the Springboks ahead of the Rugby World Cup. Wales won that day. Mark Taylor scored the first ever try on Millennium soil, and the Boks pack couldn’t contain a rampant Scott Quinnell.

It was a good day.

The stadium hosted Wales v South Africa months before construction of the stadium was complete.

I’ve been to the stadium to watch Wales dozens of times since then. I think it’s worth emphasising that I’m an avid rugby supporter, and have been forever. It’s been a part of my life in one form or another for I've 25 years; I stoutly believed that rugby union was the best sport in the world.

I’m one of those weird people that rocks up to their seat in the stadium far too early, watching the goings on around the ground for up to two hours before kick-off sometimes. Some prefer to get to the stadium closer to the action, but I enjoy seeing the tranquillity before the game, the set-up, the slow build, and the thunderous climax of the team finally running out. It’s a time to remember to enjoy the little things, especially when sharing those moments with friends and family.

Ironically, the experience that will live with me forever was when my friends and I were running late for the game. We sprinted the entire way from the train station to the stadium, tumbled through the turnstiles, and took the stairs three at a time to try and beat the first whistle. As I tore through the warren like concourse, rounded the corner, and climbed the final dozen steps into the heart of the stadium, it hit me like an anvil to the chest.

A wall of noise from the 75,000 strong crowd. The dazzling floodlights like dozens of stars, a shining contrast to the gloomy concrete concourse behind me.

But the image that stays with me is the vibrant green grass of the pitch. Like a glowing emerald at the heart of a cavernous cathedral; I could’ve sworn as the final notes of Calon Lân rang out, that the cheers of the crowd were for me and my entrance. I could feel the electricity in the air. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end and my heart to race.

I remember the heat on my face from the giant columns of flames as Wales ran out, the tear in my eye as we all belted out Hen Wlad Fy Nhadau as if we’d never get the opportunity to do it again. It was awesome, in the literal sense of the word. Awesome and unforgettable.

Wales lost the game against the All Blacks that day, but I didn’t care. The pride and passion of that evening ensured I’d leave that stadium content and happy regardless of the on-pitch result. It was the Millennium Stadium, it was the best stadium in the world with the most electric atmosphere in all of sport, and I would’ve died on that finely mowed, white washed hill.

Fast forward ten years or so to 2022.  It is now controversially called the Principality Stadium, although just a sponsorship name as it was when it was the Millennium Stadium, the association of the word is held with contempt among many proud Welshmen. Wales is not a principality. It never has been. Wales is a country, and a proud one at that.

Welsh football has now arguably overtaken Welsh rugby as the national sport and the vessel for patriotism in the country. Under the guidance of first Chris Coleman and now Rob Page, lead by the talisman that is Gareth Bale, and infused by the spirit of Gary Speed; Cymru stood up in the world, reaching the semi-final of the Euros in 2016 and now qualifying for their first World Cup since 1958. Welsh football has been propelled to the fore, and it’s carrying the entire country with it.

If FA Wales are the sherpas guiding Wales to the peak of its Everest… the Welsh Rugby Union is the under-prepared, unfit tourist trying to keep up in board shorts and flip flops, huffing and panting at the back of the line.

The WRU has come under fire for its old-fashioned outlook on professional sport lately; unable or unwilling to change for the sake of progress, both feet firmly shackled to the weight of the values and traditions of pre-millennium rugby. Not only are they getting the governance wrong at the WRU, I feel they’re also getting the controllable elements wrong too. Turning easy wins I to own goals. Ironic, considering you can't do that in rugby.

I went to watch Wales v New Zealand last weekend, and the matchday experience was exactly how I predicted it would be. Disappointing. It’s like those making the decisions feel obliged to live up to their own hype, and therefore throw a mishmash of different experiences at full volume in hopes that enough lights and noise constitutes atmosphere. It doesn’t.

Let’s start with the pre-match entertainment. A collaboration of musical theatre stars from Britain’s Got Talent singing stereotypical Welsh songs such as Delilah, Green Green Grass of Home, Cwm Rhondda and a line or two of Calon Lân at an agonisingly slow tempo more suitable for a funeral than a sporting clash.

There was a bit of fun with the giant inflatable ball camera that was bounced around the lower tier, but it was short-lived and I wasn’t entirely sure where the footage was shown other than on the big screens. I don't particularly want to have the top of my balding head on a giant screen in front of everyone, diolch yn fawr.

Then we had the The Royal Welsh Regimental Drum Band marching around the pitch, disrupting both teams’ warm up routines, in their British red coats and glistening brass buttons, looking like they were about to go fight against the Zulus. They were, of course, accompanied by Shenkin (an anglicised version of Siencyn) the regimental goat of the Third Battalion of the Royal Welsh.

He had a GoPro on.

They called it GoatCam.

As the teams prepared to come out, we were treated to the tribal drumming and heavy rhythms of Metallica’s Enter Sandman; and as the stars trotted out from the tunnel, the pyrotechnics were spectacular. Columns of flames that threatened to since the ceiling and bursts of sparks erupting in beat with the music was very entertaining and got the place bouncing.

Then, after getting everyone riled up, pumped up, and ready for a battle… there was a moment’s silence and a solemn tribute video in memory of Eddie Butler and Phil Bennett, two legends of the game who sadly passed away this year. I get it. But… couldn't they have done that before the adrenaline injection? It's like drinking a can of Monster and putting on your favourite gym vest; only to be told to sit down quietly in church.

I couldn’t hear what was being said on the film either, it was, ironically, too quiet despite the stadium speakers only moments ago making it impossible to hear yourself.

The anthems were inevitably rousing, as is their nature. But as usual, the amplified brass band and male voice choir meant you couldn’t really hear the crowd… which says a lot considering the attendance.  

Then we were treated to the world famous All Blacks haka which got drowned out halfway through by baying fans. That was followed by another deafening rendition of Guns ‘N’ Roses’ Welcome To The Jungle for a few minutes before we were shown another video; a 60 second countdown and a montage of clips showing Wales losing to the All Blacks in previous encounters while a pre-recorded, bass heavy version of Cwm Rhondda’s chorus swelled to a crescendo.

Then once Rhys Priestland got the game underway, there was an amplified roar from the crowd, and then the microphones were cut, the music ceased abruptly, and you could hear a pin drop.

All that build up, all that hype, all that noise… all manufactured. An atmosphere as plastic as the chairs we were sat on to fool people into thinking the stadium is still the pinnacle of matchday experience. The truth is it’s a shell of its former self. A film set façade of passion. Peek behind the flames and the rock music and the three feathers and it’s just as disappointing as seeing the back side of a film set. Propped up by cheap wood and scaffolding.

There were moments in the game where the crowd found their voice again. Rio Dyer’s try; Nick Tompkins’ break; Tipuric’s try; and Anscombe’s near miss in the corner all provoked a reaction from the crowd, but they were few and far in between. Nary a song was sung.

In conclusion, the atmosphere was good, but not great. And it isn’t a one off either, I felt exactly the same when I went to watch Wales face Scotland and France in the 2022 Six Nations Championship.

What the organisers have failed to grasp is that it isn’t the volume of noise that makes an atmosphere… it’s the source. The most electric moments at the stadium in the past wasn’t when there was music blaring or when choirs were singing. It’s not the laser shows, the plumes of smoke, nor the pillars of flames.

The power comes from the unification of voices cheering and singing over a common cause. Listen to the difference between the Welsh anthems sang by 75,000 in the Principality, accompanied by a mic’d up band; and less than half that many singing the anthem, unaccompanied, at the Cardiff City Stadium ahead of a Cymru football match.

One of them is infinitely more powerful… and it isn’t the one with the more voices.

Hark back to 2013, Wales v England. England chasing a Grand Slam and Wales looking to not only prevent the visitors from taking that title, but also within reach of claiming the Six Nations Championship for themselves. The stakes were high and the tensions palpable. The stadium was filled to the rafters well before kick off and the noise levels never dropped. It was a constant roar so loud that the pitch-side pundits could barely hear each other, half an hour before the game had even begun. The volume of singing threatened to burst the closed roof open. I’m convinced the unwavering support and sheer will power of the crowd on that day ensured Wales had won the game before a ball had been kicked. It was incredible.

Wales v England 2019, the game still in the balance with a little over ten minute to go… enter Dan Biggar and the boys in red begin to build momentum in England’s half… the din of the crowd grows, and grows, and grows to such a crescendo that it seemed inevitable that Wales would score. And score they did, twice, to win the game and continue on their Grand Slam journey. The crowd played no small part in building that momentum and willing their team over the line.

Thinking back… do you remember what song was playing as the boys ran out? Do you remember how much fireworks went off? How much flames were spouted into the air? I don’t. The best songs were sung by the crowd. The best fireworks were on the pitch. The real dragon’s fire was exhaled by the spontaneous voice of the supporters.

The conclusion I’m getting to here is that genuine, authentic atmosphere can’t be forced. You can’t manufacture those sort of experiences. In 2015, Wales welcomed England to the stadium with one of the most spectacular pre-match shows you’d ever seen. The stadium became dark and the lightshow commenced to a dramatic soundtrack. Wales lost that game.

If you want atmosphere that can make a difference, an atmosphere that inspires eight-year-old children to jabber non-stop about their day to all that would listen, an atmosphere that can physically drive your team on to victory… you need a crowd that believes. Belief that the players on the pitch and the people in charge represent them. Belief that the organisation is doing its best for the game. Personally, I feel none of that from the WRU.

Without getting too political, as it’s obviously a sensitive topic, I think Welsh rugby represents a version of Wales that’s quintessentially British. It’s a gift-shop version of Wales; all daffodils, castles, royalty, and sheep. It’s Wales fitting into a British landscape.

In contrast, Cymru football, who have adopted the Welsh language more readily into their culture and have are now set to officially change their name from Wales to Cymru, represents the complete opposite. They’ve adopted Yma O Hyd as their World Cup anthem, a song that intertwines Welsh history, its strife, political battles, and pain with the success of Welsh stubbornness to never yield, to continue to grow, and more importantly, the journey ahead. It’s optimistic.

They promote a confident Wales proud of its own unique identity. By doing so they’ve won over huge swathes of supporters.

I’ve only casually followed football since Wales’ success in the Euros in 2016; but it wasn’t the on-field antics that won me over.

In a country where the two sports have been at constant odds, a clear winner is emerging. In a battle of bucket hats against blazers; dragons and flares against daffodils and feathers; Ich Dien against Gorau Chwarae Cyd Chwarae; Men of Harlech against Delilah; Wales Wales Wales v Waka Waka Cymru; I know which makes me prouder.