Chris Waters: Time to press the mute button on antics of the Barmy Army

“BARMY Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army…

“Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army…

“Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army…

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“Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army… Barmy Army…”

Bored yet? I certainly am, constantly typing out “Barmy Army”.

But that is nothing compared to listening to it all day at cricket grounds in England and throughout the world.

To be honest, it does not normally bother me too much when I am covering England’s Test matches at Headingley, for instance.

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High up in the gods, in that enclosed lecture theatre (sorry, press box) you can not really hear it anyway through the constant clanking of wine glasses and leisurely lighting of King Edward cigars.

But, on a serious note, watching England’s Test series in New Zealand on television has brought home to me – if I didn’t know it already – what a sad, selfish and thoroughly self-important lot the Barmy Army really are.

Why, their chanting has been so loud, so incessant, so unbelievably irritating that I have resorted to Fred Trueman’s old tactic of reaching for the mute button and simply watching the action in silence, something I probably would have done in any case given that Mark Richardson is part of the commentary team.

Of course, I realise that by criticising the Barmy Army, the self-styled unofficial 12th man of Team England, I have broken one of the unwritten rules of sports journalism.

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Namely, under no circumstances criticise the fans because they might well be your readers.

Oh well, what a pity – not that the demographic of the Yorkshire Post readership is likely to embrace too many of the “Barmies” in any case.

Quite frankly, I could not care less who is offended by these observations – just as the Barmy Army apparently could not care less about anyone else who attends games and who does not want to sit through hours of their inane chanting.

Unfortunately, some of the smaller grounds in New Zealand, such as the University Oval, Dunedin, and the Basin Reserve, Wellington, venues for the first two Test matches, have intensified the impact of these tragic individuals.

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Like so many English out grounds, those venues are tight, intimate and picturesque, with the result that the noise of the Barmy Army has been amplified to an extent that it would be were they suddenly to descend in their juvenile droves on Arundel, Colwyn Bay or – heaven forfend – North Marine Road, Scarborough.

Of course, the usual argument put forward against those with the temerity to criticise the Barmy Army and their infantile ilk is to suggest that they should get out more and stop being such old sticks in the mud.

Why, it is just a bit of good, entertaining fun, or so they always claim.

In fact, it is very much the same argument advanced by those who sit in the West Stand at Headingley during Test matches and lob plastic beer bottles around as though chucking confetti at a wedding.

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Although there is clearly a difference between chanting songs and chucking bottles, the principle is actually the same: namely, if you can not enjoy the high-jinks and tomfoolery – and appreciate their importance in helping generate atmosphere – there must be something wrong with you.

Which brings us to the core characteristic of the Barmy Army – arrogance.

Make no mistake, these people take themselves seriously – very seriously.

When England last played a Test match in Brisbane in 2010, members of the media received this preposterous email:

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“Barmy Army members will be available for lunch and post-play discussion/interviews throughout the final day at the Gabba.

“Available will be Paul Burnham, founder of the Barmy Army and Bill the Trumpet, plus selected Barmy Army members.

“Please find us during lunch and after play at The Chalk Bar, Stanley Street, Woolloongabba.”

The conceit of that communication beggars belief.

It also emphasises that the raison d’etre of the Barmy Army is not, as they would have us believe, the support of Team England but to be seen and heard by as many people as possible, something which the television cameras willingly oblige as they hone in on the throngs, who then tragically wave back at themselves on the big screen.

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However, my principal objection to the Barmy Army, which is a very much an English type of malaise, is not the fact that most of them are about as funny as David Brent from The Office but that they have no regard for those who want to watch the cricket in peace.

Indeed, they are symptomatic of our society in general, where “respect” has become a dirty word and where people routinely put their own considerations above those of others.

With summer fast approaching (if you can call it summer), consider those cretins who will soon be striking up their loud music in a residential neighbourhood near you, oblivious to the effect it will have on others in the area.

As a great music lover myself, I like to turn up the volume as much as anyone but I do so with the headphones on or when I am driving down the motorway – not when the old dear next door is about to turn in for the night.

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The Barmy Army justify themselves with the thought that the England players apparently love having them around.

But do they really? I doubt that very much.

Why, they could hardly say anything else, could they, unless they want to put themselves in the firing line of “frivolity”.

Not that the players themselves are above criticism, given their constant cries of witless encouragement to each other on the field, punctuated by the sort of whooping and yelling whenever a wicket falls that would embarrass the average group of teenage girls.

All of which means that spectators at cricket matches these days are subjected to an aural assault on all fronts.

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Long gone are the days when you could sit back and simply savour the gentle hum of chatter and thwack of leather on willow.

Of course, no-one is suggesting that cricket should be viewed in cathedral-like silence before everyone trots off to evensong, but there is a fine line between creating atmosphere and causing annoyance to all and sundry.

The Barmy Army cross that line time and again because, don’t you know, it’s all about them.

and another thing...

WHENEVER I am asked to pen this column I am often left racking my brains as to what to write.

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It is not enough simply 
to come up with the main piece, a good 1,000 words 
or so on this, that or t’other, but one has to fill this pesky “and another thing” slot, 
too.

This week, I have found this bit particularly hard to fill with “purple prose”.

Why, I have tried everything and anything to come up with an idea to fill this hopefully amusing sidebar to the main column.

I have studiously devoured every newspaper in the world from cover to cover, even gone for walks around the block in the middle of the night.

Finally, I have to concede that the idea cupboard is bare.

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I just cannot think of a single way to round off the column.

Er, er (sound of panicking scribe), have I perhaps told you about my best ever bowling figures of 7-26, and that after my first two wicket-less overs of “leg-spin” had disappeared for 24?

Or what about my highest score of 78?

No? Oh, all right then, I’ll give you chapter and verse on that if you like.

Aw, shucks, I’ve only gone and run out of space…