Successful Hollywood tales often spawn sequels. But how many are left in the can for Wrexham, the working-class northeast Wales town whose football club is in its fifth season as the subject of a wildly popular Disney+ fly-on-the-wall documentary series?
Possibly plenty, judging by the childlike enthusiasm and endearing eccentricity that is on show at the Turf bar at the club’s Racecourse ground on Saturday, as the new season kicks off.
If anything, the love-in may be strengthening between the town and Wrexham AFC’s owners, Deadpool star Ryan Reynolds and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia actor Rob McElhenney, who have bankrolled the little club’s promotion through three divisions to the Championship.
This is a club, pub and town now collectively punching above their weight: the local economy is doing better than almost anywhere else in Wales, with a £180 million (€208 million) tourism boom fuelled by global interest in the Welcome to Wrexham Disney+ show.
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Wrexham’s wholesome, football-themed story stands out as a nugget of feelgood gold in a Britain dogged by insecurity over its national identity and political crises.
But first, to the pub for Saturday’s Championship opener away to Southampton. Wrexham’s match might be 354km away on the south coast, but the heart of the club is on the sleeves of those watching screens at the Turf, built into a stand at the Racecourse.
Kickoff is at 12.30pm. I arrive at the pub by 11.15am to a sea of panicked faces: the Turf is already almost full as harried staff turn away locals and tourists seeking tables. Standing room only. By noon, customers can enter only on a one-in-one-out basis.
One of the first faces I recognise is Richie Griffiths, a barman on my last visit in 2023 when the club had just won promotion to the football league. On that occasion, hordes of daytime tourists had drunk out all the Madri. On Saturday, things are heading the same way. Griffiths is off duty this time, however, supping his pint outside.
Inside is a symphony of soft Welsh accents fused with North American twangs, an echo of the unlikely transatlantic alliance that has brought the town global recognition. I eke out standing room, wedged against a wall by the bar. Nearby, a US couple have snaffled a table with their young son, who dons a Welsh language Wrecsam bobble hat.
On my other shoulder is Dave, a Canadian who works at a mine three hours from Calgary. He has flown in just to sample the vibe for Saturday’s match, as well as Tuesday’s cup fixture. A kid squeezes past us through the mass of limbs. He wears Welsh rugby underpants over his trousers. The waistband says “Oddballs”.
Customers – locals – harvest empty glasses for the staff. This being a wedged pub on a hot day, the musk of flatulence drifts through our zone. Culprit unknown. “I can breathe, I can breathe,” jokes a barmaid as the queue for beer thins. Meanwhile, I am struggling.
Wrexham go a goal up with a penalty against Southampton. Tourists and locals alike scream and blow kisses at the screens. The fairytale continues, for now.
Later, I take a walk around the town. The economic statistics look good on paper but Wrexham hasn’t yet morphed into Utopia. There are wrinkles in the success. The pubs teem, there’s a buzz on the streets. But while the tourists buy beer, the number of shuttered retail outlets suggests they don’t stay long to buy much else.
Hope Street, an awkwardly-named thoroughfare in the centre, is an avenue of vape shops, charity shops, barber shops and shut shops.
There is a plot twist back at the Turf. Southampton equalise in the 90th minute. In the 96th minute, they go 2-1 up. Woe descends. There’ll be no Championship fairytale for Wrexham today. As the whistle blows, silence fills the Turf ... for all of about three minutes.
The frivolity, at an incongruous level for 2.30pm, soon intensifies if anything. The result appears to be forgotten. The pub gets busier than it was during the match.
A seven-piece band sets up in a corner beneath one of the television screens: three of them, for some reason, are tooting saxophones. The singer, aged maybe in his late 60s, looks one of the youngest of the lot, as they belt out football tunes and ballads in Welsh.
Who is that, I ask a local. “It’s Geraint Lövgreen,” comes the reply. “He is one of the best-known singers in the Welsh language. That’s his daughter over there, look ...”
His daughter is Mari Lövgreen, a Welsh language television presenter. She sings along as she watches her dad’s band. US tourists try to sing along too, but they have no idea what is going on. It’s entirely possible that nobody knows what’s going on, but none of that seems to matter to anyone. The sun is out. So is the fun.
Welcome to the madhouse in Wrexham, the town that won Hollywood’s lottery and is still loving every minute.
