Shortly after half past five a wild and barbarous noise consumed Headingley, the sort that brings local residents to their windows and the day-trippers in the hospitality boxes streaming out on to the balconies.
A few of the dozing members in the pavilion may even have been stirred from their evening slumbers. Out in the middle Stuart Broad was pumping his arms like a preacher. England’s slip cordon were clapping in time, beating out a fearsome tribal rhythm.
