MAY 30, 2005, WEST HAM SUPPORTERS SPILLED OUT OF THE MILLENNIUM STADIUM, CLARET AND BLUE FLAGS WAVING, AIR HORNS BLOWING, THE STAIRCASES OF THE SUPERB MODERN STRUCTURE ECHOING TO SONGS ABOUT MEETING UP AGAIN WITH OLD FRIENDS FROM CHELSEA AND TOTTENHAM AND OLD BOY FRANK LAMPARD.

Outside, gathered on Millennium Plaza by the River Taff, about 200 women were waiting patiently. Wives, daughters, girlfriends, these were the war widows of the playoff final who had followed their menfolk devotedly to Cardiff knowing that they had no tickets and no chance of getting in to see the match, but who had to be there to show their own kind of support.

Among them was my lady. She had been stood on one of the benches by the river as if that extra few inches in height would help her see into the stadium, sending me text messages that I wouldn’t pick up until later because the noise of the crowd was drowning out the phone alerts.

She chatted to her new found friends, a Mum and daughter whose husband and brother were inside. They had hoped to watch the game in one of the pubs surrounding the stadium but everywhere they went it was no children allowed. Eventually, they stood outside one bar where they could see the corner of a TV screen and had to rely on the shouts and cheers bouncing out onto the pavement to give them an idea of what was happening.

Across St Mary Street they could see similar huddles of women and children in claret and blue, pressed against windows, hanging outside pub doorways, all trying to get some idea of the drama being played out just around the corner.

These outcasts were the only people occupying the deserted pavements and walkways around Cardiff city centre, save for the odd mounted policeman or burger seller, preparing for the final whistle. But it didn’t matter. They exchanged knowing smiles and nods across the street. This was simply something they had to be a part of.

Then it happened. With nearly an hour gone, the Z-Man cometh, Bobby Zamora neatly sidefooting what turned out to be the one and only, promotion-clinching goal. The bars and pubs erupted, oblivious to the fact that groups of women, young and old, some related and some complete strangers, had converged in the road outside, hugging and leaping, laughing and crying, all at once.

Without any instruction or command, they knew instinctively that it was time to move, time to get to the stadium, time to be as close as they could get to their loved ones, the game, the euphoria.

While the stadium rocked to Bubbles, the women gathered, first ten, then twenty, fifty, a hundred, all drawn within minutes to the same vantage point near the exit, Gates 5 and 6. Some were still trembling with nervous excitement, others threw out random questions to unfamiliar but grinning female faces that had gathered round them:  “Who have you got in there?”, “What time did you get here?”, “Were you here last year?”, “How long do you think is left?”

Blind now to the action inside, they had to rely on the cheers and the oohs and aahs to give them some idea of how the battle was going. Little girls with Hammers face paint and novelty flags clutched the hands of bigger girls, who had regained some sort of calm on the outside, but who were happy to reveal to anybody within earshot that the knot forming inside of their stomach was bigger than Poplar. Practical advice was being passed around: headache tablets could be picked up from Boots down Wood Street, go to the Arcades later because there are small cafes and restaurants where you can sit and eat while having a drink, stand to the side near the railing because we’ll be swamped when they open those gates.

This loyal band waited and waited, and chatted, and waited. Then came the cheer. It was all over. Inside was pandemonium. Outside, the stranger grabbing and the crying began again. Ignoring all of what had just been said, the women headed for the gates, many clambering onto the benches ready to acclaim their returning heroes, waiting for that celebratory hug.

The singing that had been cocooned within the Millennium stadium appeared to grow louder until into the open spaces appeared the chanting, yelling, air-thumping menfolk. Daughters ran up to their fathers, wives grabbed husbands, family huddles formed and danced on the spot. And waving frantically from the middle of all of this mayhem, jumping up and down on a bench, was my bride to be.

She ran up and threw herself towards me, nearly knocking me over. “I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it!” she cried from under her small pink hat with crossed Hammers on.

A month later we were married. On our honeymoon she was telling another couple about that afternoon, how we’d been to both finals but she couldn’t get in last season, despite my job with its so-say privileges and connections.

“It’s such a lovely day out in Cardiff,” she said. “I’m almost sad that we won’t be going there again next year, though I don’t think I could ever go through that again.”

Does one of you lot want to tell her, or shall I?