Swansea Evening Post Obituaries

Right, let’s talk about the Swansea Evening Post Obituaries. You might think this is the most boring part of the paper, the place where your nan turns the page with a sigh. But I’m telling you, this column is a hidden gem, a comedy goldmine wrapped in a respectful cardigan.

Missing it is like skipping the end credits of a film that had a surprise guitar solo. The obits are where real life—with all its glorious, bizarre, and slightly tragic details—goes to get a final shout-out. And Swansea, my friends, is a city that knows how to shout.

Why These Are Not Your Average Death Notices

Forget the stiff, corporate obituaries you see in national papers—the ones about bankers and lords who “presided over quarterly meetings.” Swansea Evening Post obituaries are written by the families, for the community. They are love letters, written in chicken scratch, by people who have just lost someone and are absolutely done with being formal.

This is where you learn that a 78-year-old man, “Gareth the Milk,” was the undisputed champion of the local darts league for three decades, and that his secret weapon was a pint of Brains and a terrible aim that somehow worked. The editors don’t edit the charm out; they let the weirdness shine.

It is the only section of the newspaper where you can find a eulogy that mentions a Beano comic collection and a passion for arguing about the correct way to hang a curtain rail, all in the same sentence. It’s beautiful chaos.

Surprising Fact #1: The “Fondest” Arms Race

Here’s a truth bomb: Swansea obituaries have an unspoken competition. It’s called the “Fondest Memories” arms race. One family writes, “Fondly remembered by all who knew him.” The next family ups the ante: “Deeply treasured and remembered with a warm heart.”

I spotted one last month that claimed the deceased was “the absolute favourite uncle of everyone on Gower Peninsula.” That is physically impossible unless the man was a secret superhero who handed out free chips. But you can’t fact-check a eulogy, and I respect the audacity.

It’s a lovely, competitive game of who loved the most, and the winner gets a little icon of a flower next to their name. Very high stakes.

The Hobbies Section: A Parade of Pure Eccentricity

This is where the entertainment value skyrockets. The obituaries list hobbies like they’re auditioning for a reality TV show. “Hobbies included: competitive hedge trimming, collecting novelty eggcups, and walking his dog, Basil, backwards.” I’m only half-joking.

You’ll learn that every man in Swansea over the age of 65 was either a “master gardener” or a “crack shot with a shotgun” (often both, which is terrifying if they have a greenhouse). And every woman was either a “whizz on the sewing machine” or “the life and soul of the bingo hall.”

But the real gold is when the hobby is listed as “dancing at Top Rank” or “enjoying a quiet pint at the Greyhound.” These aren’t just hobbies; these are identities. You can picture the person, can’t you? The one who did the foxtrot with a lit cigarette, or the one who guarded their seat at the bar like a territorial badger.

Surprising Fact #2: The “After a Long Illness” Code

Let’s decode the language. When an obituary says “after a long illness, bravely fought,” it usually means they had a rough go of it. Fair enough. But sometimes it says, “unexpectedly, but peacefully, at home.” That’s code for, “The paramedics were very surprised, but he left with a smile and a half-eaten bag of crisps.”

But the absolute king of the euphemisms is this: “Gone to join the choir invisible in the sky.” In Swansea, this is almost exclusively used for men who were notorious pub singers who could only do “Delilah” and thought they were Tom Jones.

One obituary I spotted said the deceased “finally lost his battle with the golf course.” I’ve never laughed and felt so sad at the same time. The man clearly hated that 5th hole with a passion that followed him into the afterlife.

Why You Should Actually Read Them

You might think you’re too young or too hip for this. You’re not. These obituaries are a snapshot of Welsh social history in real time. They tell you that Swansea still has a working-class soul, where people were known by their nicknames like “Johnny Two-Boots” or “Mary the Cake.”

They remind you that a life isn’t measured by bank accounts, but by whether you were “always first on the dance floor at the Mumbles Ritz.” Or if you “could fix a leaking tap with a bit of string and a prayer.” That’s a real skill, and the obituaries honor it like a PhD.

Plus, you never know when you’ll find a surprise connection. I once found an obituary for a woman who “loved feeding the swans at the park and yelling at kids on skateboards.” I had been yelled at by that exact woman the week before. I felt a weird kinship. She was protecting my swans.

The Verdict

So next time you see the Swansea Evening Post lying around, skip the depressing front page news. Flip to the back, near the classifieds. You’ll find a weird, wonderful, and occasionally heartbreaking soap opera about real people.

Read it. Smile at the 92-year-old who died “with a lettuce in one hand and a winning bingo card in the other.” Nod respectfully at the gentleman who “never missed a Swans match in 60 years.” And remember: you, too, will one day have an obituary. Make it weird enough for me to enjoy. Make it include your eggcup collection.

And if it doesn’t say “fondly remembered for their terrible jokes in the café queue,” what are you even doing with your life?