It started, as these things do, with a question.

“What are we doing on the 3^rd May?”

May is a strange month in our house. Football has been such a presence for so long that it’s entirely normal, most of the year, for our plans to slalom round the fixture list without a second thought. 

That changes in May, the weather improves, there are birthdays and bank holidays. We are transitioning into summer mode. It’s generally accepted that football’s tapping out and that other priorities can take over. But equally, there are cup finals and play-offs between teams I’ve otherwise no interest in. Negotiations have to take on a more sensitive diplomatic tone. In May, there is always leverage in the argument that football dominates nearly every other month. I can’t deny it.

At the time we were eight points clear of relegation and in reasonable form. It was looking like the final game at Swansea would be meaningless. But equally, if our form dipped, we could still be looking at a big South Wales showdown. It’s hard to explain to someone with precisely no interest in Oxford United that George Elek reckons the bookies are right and we’ll stay up, but the mood amongst fans is less optimistic given our run in and our struggles to score from open play. 

The kick-off times still hadn’t been announced, it was even possible the games might be switched to the Sunday, which wouldn’t be the 3rd May. Equally, I planned to go to Cardiff (aka Wales, but nearer), taking up another bank holiday.

In my typically decisive style, my answer to the question ‘what are we doing on the 3^rd May?’ was to respond with a robust and unequivocal ‘I don’t know’.

There was a bit of a hurumph and life moved on. A few days later an event was added to our shared calendar: ‘Titanique, 3^rd May’. Titanique is a high-camp comedy musical, satirising the film Titanic currently running in the West End. Someone I follow on social media thought it was brilliant. I couldn’t in good grace say that I didn’t want to see it, I like musicals and it’s been receiving rave reviews. A few tickets were available for the 3^rd May, such was the eagerness to confirm it.

Given our relative safety, I was broadly happy to have the decision taken out of my hands. Then our form dipped, or more specifically, everyone else’s improved. We started to slip. Swansea was looking like a game of real significance. It might even become Tranmere ’92 for the TikTok generation.

We’d booked to go to the matinee, there was a real possibility that I would not only miss the game physically, but that I’d also be unable to watch it on TV. Being in London, I would even be out of range of Radio Oxford.

Then I found out that Titanique is in the subterranean Criterion Theatre, a theatre unable to receive any mobile connection. We’d be going in as the game reached its climax, it was conceivable that I would simply have no way of knowing the result until we’d left the theatre hours after the final whistle. Although I couldn’t influence the outcome, the sense of detachment would be unbearable. I would be amongst the highest concentration of homosexuals in my life and I’d be the one theatrically sobbing in despair.

I was facing the reality of watching a musical about the sinking of a vessel that looked unsinkable while the previously unsinkable Oxford United risked hitting a Swansea shaped iceberg and plummeting to the depths of the League One. All of which, I found out later, would be done exclusively using the songs of Celine Dion. Is it possible to have recurring trauma about something that didn’t happen because I think I’m going through it right now. 

In the end it worked out fine, confirming survival against Sunderland gave us the opportunity to crack out the fancy dress (sensible fancy dress, according to Swansea’s dress code) and breathe in the fresh air of freedom. 

It’s been a season in which the rules about what we believe to be true have been re-written. Survival is success, and that means enduring and accepting prolonged periods of significant pain. We’ve shifted from having a loving and sensual experience to one which is sadomasochistic in tone. We’ve learnt to enjoy the torture and appreciate the tension and intimacy it creates.

We’ve confronted teams who we can’t hope to emulate and become meaningless cannon fodder in their bigger story. But equally, this has heightened our sense of identity, selling out home and away and enjoying our humble limitations.

We’re in a division that’s so paranoid about failure that every team from ninth down seems to have been through a period of crisis, admittedly many in a category labelled ‘you don’t know you’re born’. Most have replaced their manager, we’ve done the same.

As a result, we’ve shifted from a team who has typically played stylish if naïve football to one which is rugged and practical. We have a manager who sacrifices charisma for results. Our attackers are expected to defend and defenders are our biggest attacking threat. Our joint top scorer is a left-back who has only started half the season. Goals from open play have become your girlfriend who goes to another school.

I probably sound a bit harsh when talking about Gary Rowett, but I’m more of a fan than I seem. We’ve seen this kind of admirable loathing in managers like Denis Smith and Brian Horton. People who understand their role is to get results, ‘how’ being a luxurious, secondary concern. Their impact is often appreciated most with the benefit of time.

You have to admire Rowett’s resilience and can’t deny his results. There were plenty of times under Des Buckingham where playing ‘the right way’ felt like we’d accidentally switched Alka-Seltzer for Mogadon. I don’t love the down times under Rowett any more than those under Des Buckingham, but I’d take them for Cameron Brannagan’s howitzer against Cardiff or Sam Long’s winner at Sheffield Wednesday.

In a world where being on the back foot is the new being on the front foot, perhaps it was fitting that, for the final game, we chose to wear purple; our goalkeeper’s preferred kit. I’d like to think of it as Rowett’s little joke.

But far from being a dour meaningless grind, the season concluded with a jamboree, an orgiastic celebration of being alive in the division. It was like a gala performance at the end of an intense ice dancing championships where the players were released from the pressure of competition and showed off little.

Having conceded through Eom Ji-sung, we hit back with Greg Leigh’s rasping drive into the bottom right-hand corner giving him a joint claim to the golden boot. The second equaliser, after they’d retaken the lead through Ronald (yes, just Ronald), was a typical set-piece, the central strategy to our survival. But, rather than Helik nodding it down to the strikers, it was Mills nodding it to the giant centre-back to prod home. A crazy switcheroo, just for the laugh.

After conceding a third through Liam Cullen, they replaced Welsh legend Joe Allen to give him a moment in the spotlight after a stellar career for club and country. We brought on Marselino Ferdinan for the Instagram likes. It’s an odd world.

The injury time board indicated that the season had just five minutes to play before we could float away contented and fulfilled. Land, was indeed, ahoy! 

With just two minutes to go, Swansea were showing their ‘proper football’ credentials, casually playing it out the back and watching the time slip by. Liam O’Brien, his mind perhaps on his holidays, rolled the ball into the path of Tyler Goodrham a who advanced and he slid it into Shemmy Placheta to make it 3-3. A goal from open play, our first for two months.

And that was that, we’d made it to shore, a little bit battered and significantly changed but in tact and undoubtedly stronger for the experience. Where everyone expected us to collapse to ignominious failure this year, we will, in fact, enjoy another season feeling a little less like imposters. Far from the scrambled panic of last summer, we have some time to re-stock and rebuild. But before that, Swansea was always going to be about the fans; noisy, colourful, committed, full of hope and with a role to play even as we navigate into more corporate waters. It was a riotous celebration of survival from catastrophic failure. Perhaps watching Titanique wasn’t so different after all.