You know what they say? Television makes you look bigger. Strangely it's the same with football grounds.
Much as I like a late night drive, I love an early morning one, when the sun's a-rising (that "a" makes it so much more authentic don't you think?) and the day hasn't been ruined by whatever's about to ruin it. So, I'm pootling along the M25 at 7am and off to Swansea for a morning kick off. Obviously this isn't wholly good news, but it's far from bad either. There's that early morning drive and the concomitant reduced likelihood of hold-ups; there's the magnificent steelworks a-belching (that "a" makes it so much more authentic don't you think? I'll stop now) at Port Talbot (is my memory playing tricks or did football coaches used to glide right past it before the M4 was extended?). And, whoo hoo, there's a new ground at the end of the road. I've never been further west on the M4 than Swansea. What can it be like?
Since Swansea City's away support was traditionally small, the violent intensity of them at home was always a surprise. Going to the Vetch Field was like spending the afternoon at Fort Apache, The Bronx, with a swimming lesson at the end of the day if you'd come from Cardiff, near London). As Jill Sobule once said, things here are different, although, not I suspect, when Cardiff visit. As it is, one the one hand Leeds fans wander around the Liberty Stadium in their shirts, wholly unmolested; on the other they're advised by police not to go "up there", wherever "up there" might be.
It being a new stadium, I'm contractually obliged to walk around it. Usual stuff, bit like a mini-Reebok. I knew I was going to like it here since the nice PR man allocated me parking. Better still, the woman at the door's lovely and the kind man who looks after the hackroom spends ages explaining everything including the wifi to me. Bless.
And like it I do. There's the sense the inevitable march of history is going their way and that the fans really ought to take the offer of buying next season's away ticket early.
Less friendly are the local hacks and I don't blame them. Swansea being in the Championship is fine for them because they can file their stories to everyone because nobody sends anyone. Alas, the more successful City are, the more people such as myself will arise at 6.30 am and head west to take work out of their mouths. If Swansea reach the Premier League, they'll be crowded out even further and there won't be room for the scowly person next to me - no laptop, no pen, no paper - who leaps up when Swansea score and nearly takes my laptop with him. It's the same on the Ipswich/Norwich, Sheffield, Bristol and Torquay/Plymouth/Exeter circuits: locals who freelance for several nationals don't want their teams promoted.
Anyway, as I said the ground is much smaller than it looks on television, the hackbox isn't bad, but its views are fantastic. The game's a cracker too. Leeds are spectacularly poor: Their holy trinity Robert Snodgrass, Jon Howson and - admittedly less so - Max Gradel have off days; they're feeble in attack and terrified in defence where George McCartney defends like he's surely never defended before, but not in a good way.
Whether Leeds make Swansea look good or they simply are good remains to be seen, but they're a joy, scoring two wonderful goals and a penalty. The superlative Nathan Dyer creates fear like I've not seen a winger do in years.
Afterwards, Leeds's Simon Grayson argues his side should have had a penalty - he was right too - but he admits his team were wretched. I suggest his side hadn't under-estimated Swansea's passing game, but they had under-estimated their strength and energy. He's having none of it and details how often Swansea have been scouted, etc, etc and ends with "we're not a bad team, you know". I like him more each time I see him.
Brendan Rodgers seems inherently decent (although Watford fans may not see him as a great human being) and I'd quite like to talk football with him, although the benefits of the conversation would be one-way. He knows he's stuck gold here and I think he's trying not to let on. I switch off when he starts saying how humble two-goal Scott Sinclair is though, thinking it's a bit like Tony Pulis saying what a nice lad Ryan Shawcross is after he's decapitated someone.
Half an hour later when I've finished (the website's report is twice as long as the printed version), I spot Scott Sinclair and his wife/girlfriend driving off. Unbidden, he gives a cheery wave to the Sky television folk who're packing away (they look flabbergasted and there's much 'did you see that?' type discussion to follow) and not only that, but he's driving off in a mini. A humble footballer. Whatever next?


Playlist
PJ Harvey
Let England Shake
Those reviews which seemingly go over the top about its brilliance? They're the ones to believe.