Adrian Barich: The Barmy Army will always be part of The Ashes and deep down, we wouldn’t change it

By the time you read this column, we’ll know whether the Barmy Army kept their promise to “clean up their act” during the first Ashes Test in Perth.

Did they behave?

Did they resist booing Alex Carey?

Did they refrain from weaponising Verdi?

I’m writing this before a ball has been bowled. But the suspense is delicious.

Because really, this column isn’t about whether the Barmy Army kept their word.

It’s about our obsession with them.

For a lot of Australians, being in something like the Barmy Army looks all a bit too hard.

After all, you need to memorise a songbook, invent new chants, select your villains, practise your opera-infused mockery, and work mostly in the sun, often without wearing sunscreen.

At one stage in history, England literally ruled the world and while a good amount of that was through force, the other crucial factor was sheer persistence and resilience: a trait that survives today in the Barmy Army.

The players won’t always admit it, but of course it affects them too. As Mitchell Johnson has openly said, having 10,000 people chanting about your failure in perfect unison can rattle even the toughest fast bowler.

It’s not just random noise; it’s co-ordinated psychological warfare. These people rehearse.

So when Alex Carey was told the Perth chapter of the Barmy Army had no plans to boo him, he reacted with the same disbelief Jonny Bairstow showed at Lord’s in 2023 when Carey stumped him fair and square.

Carey blinked, half-smiled, and politely said: “That’s nice of them . . . I don’t know if that will stand for the whole series.”

And he’s right to be sceptical. The English journalists covering the Test were practically choking on their Earl Grey.

“No booing? From our fans? Pull the other one.”

Because let’s be honest, the Barmy Army are the custodians of some of the greatest sledges in cricket history. The most brutal of all? The Mitchell Johnson chant that echoed across cricket grounds for years:

“He bowls to the left, he bowls to the right . . . That Mitchell Johnson, his bowling is shite!”

The kicker? It was sung to La Donna E Mobile from Verdi’s opera Rigoletto.

Elegant. Classical. Devastating.

Johnson later admitted that it stuck with him. And who can blame him? If a grandstand full of Poms choreograph an opera to mock your bowling, it would tend to linger.

But this is why Carey’s story is so fascinating. Because he’s now the latest in a long Australian tradition of copping English hostility: a lineage that includes some of the all-time greats, such as Ponting, Warne, Warner and, of course, Johnson.

And the sledges that have flown between the sides over the years remain unmatched.

Take Glenn McGrath, famously asking Michael Atherton: “How come you’re so fat?”

Atherton, quick as you like, fired back: “Because every time I sleep with your wife, she gives me a biscuit.”

Then there’s the wonderful 2001 moment when Mark Waugh tried to unsettle James Ormond:

Waugh: “What are you doing out here? There’s no way you’re good enough to play for England.”

Ormond, without hesitation:

“Maybe not . . . but at least I’m the best player in my own family.”

A swing, a miss, and a direct hit.

And of course, who could forget the iconic Michael Clarke to Jimmy Anderson threat in 2013: “Get ready for a broken f...ing arm.”

The audio equivalent of chin music.

And the Army doesn’t stop there. They’ve been obsessed with Mitchell Starc, their favourite jibe sung to the tune of Que Sera Sera:

“Starc’s gonna bowl, the ball . . . Starc’s gonna bowl.

“Whatever will be, will be. . .”

It usually continues into an unprintable line directed at Starc’s accuracy.

I keep trying to imagine Doris Day singing that song.

Ironically though, sometimes the chant backfires: during the 2019 World Cup, Starc’s wife revealed that the pre-game serenade fired him up, and he delivered a match-winning performance.

Why can’t we compete? Our version of a chant is “Ozzie, Ozzie, Ozzie, Oi Oi Oi”. A feeble version of the British “Oggy Oggy Oggy, Oi Oi Oi” which is linked to Cornish tin miners and their wives. When the pasties were ready, wives would shout “Oggy, Oggy, Oggy!” down the mine shafts.

Anyway, it’s awful.

So, the idea of the Barmy Army going “soft” this year feels like a violation of the sporting universe. And yet, beneath the jokes and the mockery, there’s a reason we’re obsessed with them. They bring theatre. They bring tension. They bring the feeling that something bigger than ourselves is happening — a sporting war dressed up as a carnival (or clown show, sometimes).

By Sunday, we’ll know whether the Barmy Army stuck to their promise of good behaviour.

But honestly, villain or hero, booing or silent, opera or not, the Barmy Army will always be part of The Ashes story.

And deep down, we probably wouldn’t have it any other way.