CARDIFF - London is just a short three-hour drive from Cardiff, but it might as well be a million miles away.

London is electric. London is alive. London is chaotic. London is exciting.

Cardiff is bleak. Pretty, but bleak.

Even though it has some lovely little bookstores to browse through and some half-decent record shops where
you can find rare 45s, Cardiff is a dreary place. The weather is pretty depressing too, and the city's grimness isn't helped much by the locals who all seem to have a permanent scowl etched on their faces.

Funny that English football's Division One Playoff final, an event built around the theme of hope and the promise of sunny days ahead, would be staged in a city overcast with the stench of doom.

Of course, all of this dreariness mattered very little to supporters of Sheffield United and Wolverhampton
Wanderers (Wolves for short) who attended the Playoff final at Cardiff's magnificent Millennium Stadium.

For those of you unfamiliar with the English football system, allow me to offer a quick crash-course.

The highest rung on the ladder is the 20-team Premiership (the top division that is home to the
country's best clubs like Manchester United, Arsenal, Liverpool). Below that is the Nationwide League, consisting of Division One, Two and Three.

At the end of the season, the bottom three teams in the Premiership standings are relegated to Division One for the next year. Conversely, the top two teams in Division One are promoted up to the Premiership. The same goes for the bottom three in Division One and the top two in Division Two, all the way down to Division Three where the bottom teams are then relegated out of the Nationwide League into the Conference - the equivalent of football purgatory.

While the top two teams in Division One, Two and Three are automatically promoted, teams that finish third through sixth are paired off in the playoffs - a winner-take-all final-four where the last team standing gets promoted and the others stay where they are for another year.

Now, I'm sure you hardly need me telling you that football has some pretty unique, passionate supporters. As a fan of the game all my life, I've met some pretty outrageous people.

But it was while watching the Division One final inside the Millennium Stadium that I came to know a particularly charming bunch of fans known as the Barmy Army.

The Barmy Army is the nickname for Wolves' longsuffering fans. Clad in their gold and black replica jerseys, the Barmy Army are England's equivalent to Toronto Maple Leaf fans - always shaking their heads at the end of the season and saying 'maybe next year'.

For the Barmy Army, they've been saying 'maybe next year' for 19 years now. The last time Wolves competed in England's top division was in 1984. Since then, the club has bowed out in the playoffs three times, and seen no less than 25 other clubs promoted ahead of them.

Last year, Wolves threw away an 11-point advantage as local rivals West Bromwich Albion overtook them for second place and won automatic promotion to the Premiership. Wolves, meanwhile, finished third and eventually lost in the playoffs.

For a club that is 126 years old and has won three league titles, four FA Cups and the League Cup, Wolves have fallen on hard times the past two decades.

Despite this dismal state of affairs, the Barmy Army knew in their heart of hearts that they were going to beat Sheffield even before the referee blew the opening whistle on Monday afternoon.

The atmosphere in the Millennium was simply amazing. The stadium was split down the middle with a sea of
gold and black (Wolves fans) on one half and an ocean of red and white (Sheffield supporters) on the other.

I was sitting in section M10 of the East Stand, which meant I was in the heart of Wolves country. As
someone who didn't have an affinity for either team, I was one of the few neutrals in the Wolves section.

But that didn't last.

As soon as the game kicked off, the Barmy Army burst into song, pounded on drums, waved their flags and
team scarves, threw their hands in the air, and cheered their heroes on. When Mark Kennedy put Wolves up 1-nil after only six minutes, the gold and black half of the stadium erupted into pure bedlam.

"We are Wolves! We are Wolves. We are, we are, we are Wolves," immediately came the chant from the Barmy Army.

They quickly followed that up by leaping into verse, singing the full catalogue of club songs -- some steeped in English folklore, others just variations of childish nursery rhymes -- all in perfect unison and syncopated rhythm.

"Wolves will never die. Wolves will never die. We'll never die. We'll always keep the flag flying high," they sang.

This carnival-like environment was having an affect on me. I began to tap my foot in tune with the songs and started to sway with the beat of the crowd.

When Nathan Blake's header in the 22nd minute put Wolves up 2-nil, the Barmy Army once again exploded.

"Oh when the Wolves, go marching in. Oh when the Wolves go marching in. Oh Lord I want to be in that number, when the Wolves go marching in."

In between the singing and dancing, members of the Barmy Army began to hug and embrace one another. A few blokes in front of me called their mates back home on their cell phones to give them an updated score. And then came the rhythmic chanting.

"Barmy Army. Barmy Army. Barmy Army."

Over and over again came the chant. They were taunting the Sheffield United fans, who at this point
were totally silent and sitting on their hands. The chant became so hypnotic that I soon joined in.

"Barmy Army. Barmy Army. Barmy Army," I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Without even knowing it, I had been drafted by the Barmy Army.

Kenny Miller's goal just before halftime gave Wolves a 3-nil lead. When the ball crossed the line, the Barmy Army took their cue to start up the singing again.

"The Wolves are going up. The Wolves are going up. The Wolves are going up."

My voice was among the loudest.

The second half came and went with the only real excitement coming in the 48th minute when the referee
awarded Sheffield a penalty shot for a Wolves' hand ball.

It was clearly a foul, but the Barmy Army didn't want to hear any of it.

"Bloody 'ell ref," screamed one fan behind me. "Open your eyes, you stupid twat. You hopeless wanker."

Wolves' keeper Matt Murphy was equal to the task, though, as he dove to his left and made a brilliant save to preserve Wolves' three-goal lead.

Sheffield continued to press and hemmed Wolves' back in its half of the field.

"Come on boys," one fan screamed. "Just 25 minutes to go, lads."

Sensing their team needed motivating, the Barmy Army (myself now a full member) went back into song.

"Wolves will never die. Wolves will never die. We'll never die. We'll always keep the flag flying high."

After three minutes of extra time, the referee finally blew the whistle and Wolves had won 3-nil.

Promotion had been secured. 'Next year' had finally come for the Barmy Army.

"Are you watching now Albion?" came the chant, an obvious dig at their local rivals who robbed them of
promotion last year and who, coincidently, were relegated from the Premiership at the end of this season.

"The Wolves are going up. The Wolves are going up. We are Premier League. We are Premier League," we all
sang.

Had I been a Kleenex salesman at that moment in time, I would have made a killing. Some of the most hardened members of the Barmy Army were openly weeping and struggled to keep their composure.

The bloke directly behind man hugged his son and wiped away the tears from the boy's cheek and then hugged
his father and did the same. The grandfather then returned the favour for his 30-year-old son. Soon, three generations of Wolves fans were holding onto each other for dear life, crying, singing, clapping and chanting.

"How does it feel?" I asked the young father.

"Bloody fantastic," came his teary-eyed response. "I've been waiting for this since I was a kid. To share it with my dad and my son, it's just unbelievable."

While the Sheffield end of the stadium quickly emptied, the Wolves' end stayed around for an hour, soaking in the moment and sharing in the trophy presentation.

"We're going up. We're going up. We're finally going up," we all sang.

We waved our flags, we shook our fists, we kissed our team scarves, and we sang some more before we finally called it an afternoon.

I bid a fond adieu to my new mates, wished them good luck next season, and drifted off into the dreary Cardiff evening.

There is a popular proverb that Wolves fans have clung to since their nearly two-decade exile from top-flight
football: Out of darkness cometh light.

After 19 years, the darkness has subsided and the Barmy Army has finally seen the light.

It couldn't have happened to a nicer, more charming bunch of lads.