It could be the cross of St George draped over a back, or a splash of red and white face paint, or maybe just an official T-shirt, but everywhere you go in Christchurch at the moment, the Barmy Army are never far behind. In fact, they're usually in front, filling up the queues to the local clubs and beating you to the next drink at the bar. But last night, they all seemed to have congregated in the same place. The Holy Grail is a sports bar in the heart of Christchurch's compact city centre, and a sandwich board outside on the pavement is too good an opportunity to miss. "The Holy Grail welcomes the Barmy Army." You knew from the start that it wasn't going to be a good night to be a Kiwi. Ian Butler, who had earlier conceded 137 runs in 23 overs, was seen hurrying for the exit after the Barmies had started to question his credentials as a Test bowler. And an innocent punter at the door asked the bouncer what the score was at the end of play. "We need 550, mate."

"550! What did Flintoff get?"

"Dunno, mate."

The punter was soon to find out. Inside, all attention was focused on a huge screen on the back wall of the ground floor. They were showing highlights of the day's play at the Test, which in effect meant they were showing one boundary after another from the bats of Graham Thorpe and Andrew Flintoff. A couple of hundred heads, mainly male, British and drunk, watched transfixed, despite the fact they'd probably been at Lancaster Park that day and had seen it all in the flesh. You couldn't hear the commentary - who cared - because the bar doubles as a club and the music was loud. A pocket of revellers boogied to Wham! and Kylie, but while the cricket was on, leather and willow reigned over leather handbags.

It was a very unEnglish scene. Last summer the British TV company Channel 4 tried to mix cricket and rave on Brighton beach. An Ashes Test was broadcast live on a big screen, and at the close of play the DJs took over. But it didn't work, partly because England were getting stuffed, but mainly because most cricket fans think Fatboy Slim is the latest diet. As soon as the cricket finished, the cricket fans left and were replaced by the ravers, who think leg slip is a dance move. Only football, and sometimes rugby, has mass appeal in Britain.

The reason the Holy Grail cocktail mixed so well was because the Barmies are cricket fans who are looking for a bit of fun too. They worship at the altars of cricket and booze in equal measure, and as the fours and the sixes flashed up to the sounds of Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go, there was certainly no danger of falling asleep.

When Flintoff reached his century, the fans applauded above their heads, football-terrace style, and they repeated the dose with extra helpings of noise when Thorpe got to 200. England's sixth wicket doesn't usually add 81, let alone 281, so they were determined to enjoy it.

The cricket served as a tasty entrée, because the moment it was over the fans moved hungrily onto the dance floor in search of action of a different sort. It was a heady night, and, for a while at least, cricket actually felt quite sexy.

Lawrence Booth is assistant editor of Wisden.com.

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