Barmy Army’s psychological warfare proved easy to defeat

Vociferous support from the Barmy Army hardly makes England an invincible force.

David Warner shows the Barmy Army exactly what he does have in his pockets. Picture: Getty Images

The first Test had all the hallmarks of ambush: England at home, fresh from triumph in the World Cup, deploying James Anderson with vintage Dukes balls at a stronghold ground where this team were triumphant at their last outing against Australia.

A favoured narrative involved the Barmy Army waging psychological warfare on the Australians from the Hollies Stand, demoralising and debilitating Steve Smith with their repertoire of chants and jeers. Edgbaston was anointed “England’s Gabbatoir”.

The Army nominated themselves as “England’s 12th man”. Joe Root was invited to incite the crowd to greater heights; Tim Paine was mocked for denying the venue was intimidating.

It was a plan so cunning that Blackadder would have stuck a tail on it and called it a weasel. It was a plan that turned out as well as one of Baldrick’s. Before events recede from view, some questions are worth asking. What happened to #fortressEdgbaston? Why did the Australians prove so impervious to the distraction?

For distraction there was. The Hollies Stand was loyally noisy throughout, well equipped with songbook and sandpaper.

A detachment serenaded the Australian team bus every morning and night (“We saw you cry on the telly” etc). Every Australian review was lustily denounced (“Same old Aussies, always cheating”, repeat until hoarse).

The players were certainly aware of this. When England bowled, their fielders could be seen inciting the crowd’s involvement, so fruitful during the World Cup. When Australia were in the field, David Warner played up to the din by turning his pockets out.

Yet it lent the match a faintly hybrid quality, because the interchange between the teams on the field was as mild-mannered as most observers could remember.

When Smith and Rory Burns sustained blows to the helmet, fielders responded with unfeigned solicitousness. When Root was reprieved in the first innings by a sticky bail, the atmosphere was almost of hilarity.

Some thought it all too friendly, which shows how difficult it is to satisfy everyone, and how conditioned we are to the pretences of huff-and-puff in competition.

But compared to what Smith, Warner and Cameron Bancroft had already undergone, what was a bit of a racket? For them, the most desolating moments of the last 18 months have been those spent alone in silent reflection, far from the game that has been their home, wondering if it would ever welcome them again.

To Smith, by contrast, nowhere in the world feels as cosy and comfortable as a crease.

England have an excellent record at Edgbaston, and hearty, cheerful support has enriched the experience: Alastair Cook called it “a fantastic venue for us”.

But cause and effect are easily transposed. That wins make for happy crowds doesn’t make the opposite true. Certainly nothing in the Barmy Army’s repertoire could repair James Anderson’s leg or Moeen Ali’s psyche.

Which is not the same as dismissing the crowd’s contribution to the match. They provided moments of inspired silliness. In one brilliant improvisation, 11 red-shirted fans dressed as England’s previous World Cup winners hoisted aloft a golden-shirted Gordon Banks. It contained a subtle resonance too. What’s usually excluded from the myth of 1966 is the short shrift suffered by England’s leading rivals, especially those from South America — how the Brazilians, for example, were assigned an unkempt training ground without goalposts, and suffered throughout from shamelessly partial refereeing. Fouled repeatedly and with impunity, Pele returned from the Cup feeling that his “heart wasn’t in playing football” any longer.

These days such hometown dirty tricks are harder to pull off. Protocols enforce facility standards. Social media smashes secrets. Umpires may not be uniformly competent but questions of bias no longer arise.

Between players and journalists, media minders police a cordon sanitaire. Between players and crowds, the roping off of boundaries has created buffers.

In Derek Pringle’s droll memoir Pushing the Boundaries, he describes how his teammate Ian Gould chasing a ball to the boundary at the MCG in the 1982 Boxing Day Test had a meat pie dropped on his head by a biker in the crowd.

Gunner shrugged this off characteristically: “Steady on, sunshine, I’ve just ‘ad me barnet done.” It could not happen now. Among the MCG’s various killjoy ordnances is almost certainly a code for behaviour towards pies.

For the Australians, too, Birmingham was not an intimidating locale. Excited about playing and in good humour, they were out most mornings before play in search of coffee, in a way unthinkable in India or the Caribbean.

As a touring destination for antipodeans, in fact, England is just about the best there is: the culture and customs are familiar, the accommodation plush, provision for families ample, the inconvenience of internal air travel absent.

So to Lord’s, where the polarities are not quite reversed, but the records are appreciably different.

Australia did not lose a Test here for more than 70 years, which spawned numerous theories: that English players took the ground for granted; that Australian players were inspired by the occasion; that visitors in the crowd leavened the atmosphere.

Yet exactly the same conditions applied when Australia lost in 2009 and 2013.

The slope, on which Glenn McGrath thrived, troubled Mitchell Johnson and James Pattinson.

Then, four years ago, Australia won again, Steve Smith scoring a double century. Whose ground is it now?

It will at all events be quieter: Marylebone decline to allocate tickets to the Barmy Army, which in some ways is a pity.

Their steadfastness over 25 years has contained much to admire. It’s when you start relying on them to win Tests for you that you’re in trouble.