You will have heard the Barmy Army. ‘Jerusalem’ is a speciality, though most of their lyrics are bespoke and relate to the cricket players who are their heroes. You will have seen the Army, too, beamed onto television from grounds around the world. Lest anyone mistake their allegiance, they often dress as St George or the Queen, and are festooned in England flags.

If you are a certain sort of traditional blazered cricket supporter, you may disapprove of their noisy brand of fandom and wish they would quieten down and show some respect as England face Sri Lanka and India this summer. That’s what the powers-that-be at Lord’s seem to think because they won’t permit big block bookings. But actually the Barmy Army is very good at respect. So let me explain.

It all began during the Ashes tour of 1994–95, when the Australian media spotted a strangely irrepressible group of England supporters who spent a lot of money following a rubbish team. This made no sense to a country that celebrates only triumph, so the Brits were dubbed the Barmy Army. Within weeks, Paul Burnham, a former Heathrow cargo agent with a degree in sport and business, had sold 3,000 T-shirts and trademarked the name. He had a job waiting for him in the City but never took it up. These days the Army has 3,000 paying members and a 25,000-strong email list, runs a respected youth side, organises tours, sells merchandise and raises money for charity.

It just about breaks even but, more importantly, it fulfils its aim by showing absolute loyalty and unconditional love for the England cricket team. Where it is misunderstood – and a commentator once suggested that its members should be gassed – is that people mistake its enthusiasm for aggression. In my experience you only have to be near the Barmy Army to see (and hear) that, far from displaying the characteristics of football hooligans, its members are merely die-hard cricket buffs who like to have fun, and have the most fun as a group.

The more parlous the score, the louder and sillier they become, and they maintain that they do so at the request of the players. Michael Vaughan, the former England captain, has compared the Barmy Army’s support to having an extra player.

‘If the players asked us to shut up there wouldn’t be a Barmy Army,’ says Burnham. ‘It’s not noise for the sake of noise. We get behind them like a psychological tool, we provide a service. A player will sometimes say, “I bowled a couple of yards quicker because you guys were singing my name.” We can have an effect on the game.’

They have awe-inspiring stamina, too, and if anyone does step out of order, they are swiftly distracted by a blast on the trumpet – played by the resident professional classical musician – or perhaps a girl in a bikini is asked to walk past. I find their company life-enhancing, a spectator sport in itself that offers good humour on a grim day of squandered chances. I like their generosity, which extends to assorted loners and losers for whom the Army provides companionship and sanctuary, while for higher achievers it is a liberating wind-down. A recent survey showed that the average age is 44, the average salary £45,000. Not all losers, then.
The graceless Australians are still baffled, of course. But then they were so embarrassed by the Ashes defeat in January that they boycotted the final day in Sydney. I was there, one of about 18,000 England supporters, the occasion was entirely joyous and all the more moving for the Barmy Army’s exuberance. The commentators were far away and I doubt they could feel the passionate intensity of the singing: ‘We are the Army, the Barmy Army, we are mental and we are mad, we are loyal-est England supporters that the world has ever had.’ Repeat for ever. They certainly did.
PENNY WARK