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It’s a rough time to be called Andrew. In recent years, notorious figures such as Andrew Tate and the former prince have dominated the headlines, giving us a bad name. Even the CEO caught up in that Coldplay scandal was an Andy. It’s been a bad run. As an Andrew myself, I wanted to unearth some better representatives, so I recently set out on a mission: to find some fellow Andrews doing good in the world.

That’s how I stumbled upon thousands of Andrews at once.

These Andrews belong to an exclusive community. It’s a closed-off collective you can only join if your forename derives from the Greek root name Andreas. They meet in private online, sending hundreds of messages back and forth each month. They follow specific rules, have their own flag, and hold an annual festival where members meet in person. I’ve just travelled 140 miles to attend one of their gatherings, which is how on a Saturday in January I find myself walking towards a circle of strangers, all called Andrew.

It started on Facebook, where I spotted a group called the Council of Andrews. It was locked, but I could see it had almost 6,700 members. “This group is for Andrews only”, one of the rules in the sidebar insisted. The cover photo featured a stylised letter “A” surrounded by a circle, like a parody of the Star Trek logo. In the “About” section, the group describes themselves as being, “Dedicated to uplifting the Drewish Community towards prosperity and self-actualization”. I didn’t know what any of that meant, but I wanted to find out, so I requested to join and I was quickly accepted.

My feed instantly filled with Andrews, Andrés, Drews and Andreas. There was a seemingly endless stream of every kind of Andrew, going back years. It was clear that the group went far deeper than a meme about a shared name. But what exactly were all these Drews doing here?

***

In early February 2019, Andrew Patts was feeling lonely. The now 34-year-old had returned from deployment in Djibouti and Somalia with the US army reserve and relocated from his home town in California to St Louis, Missouri. He was in a new city more than 1,600 miles from home, Valentine’s Day approaching, with no date and no friends. So he doomscrolled on Facebook and saw a comment from someone called James, inviting another person called James to an exclusive group just for people called James.

“I was, like, ‘Huh, you know what? I think it’d be pretty cool to meet a whole bunch of Andrews,’” Patts tells me. So he created a group aimed at people with his name. He only knew one other Andrew back then, so he looked through Facebook for more and sent them a mysterious message that read, “You’re invited to join the Council of Andrews.”

It worked. Although it wasn’t clear what they were signing up for, 1,000 members joined within eight months. Patts remembers the date they hit that milestone, 15 October, because it’s now known among the community as Drewnity Day.

Andrew Austin, a 55-year-old from Fort Payne, Alabama, was among them. “It intrigued me as I was retired and, as we southerners are fond of saying, ‘I was bored outta my gourd,’” Austin says. Seven years on, he’s a committed member and spends about 30 minutes a day in the group, drawn in by the wide variety of Andrews.

“We have doctors, mechanics, lawyers, law enforcement officials, clergy, military, craftsmen, truckers, homemakers, arts and crafts experts, collectors, gamers, students, retirees and more from whom to seek knowledge,” says Austin. “Even if you never post, one can always read and learn.”

In the last month, there have been 631 new posts in the group. On a typical day, members will start Andrew-centric discussions, such as determining who has the most Andrews in their family (the winner was a fourth‑generation Andrew with a son called Andrew V) or where in the world there are places named Drew (such as Drew, Oregon and Drew, Ontario). Others share memes, daily updates about their lives, or ask fellow Andrews for advice on everything from installing a printer to dealing with a breakup. Then there are the fundraising posts, which are a staple of the group.

“The moment I realised that the council had potential to have an impact on the world was when one of the Andrews needed help in a custody battle,” says Patts. “He was putting all of his funds into paying for a lawyer, and he needed money to help pay for rent, so he came to the council for aid, and the Andrews were able to raise $1,500 for him.”

Inspired, Patts turned the Council of Andrews into a non-profit organisation so they could help more Drews in need. When they learned that a member named Andrew Pagano had lost his leg in a motorcycle accident, they raised about $5,000 to buy him a prosthetic replacement, according to Patts.

Pagano tells me over email that “the Council has made me feel nothing short of loved. I’m for ever grateful to my Drewish brothers and sisters. There’s nothing quite like this council, and I hope to find the success to pay it forward to the plenty of other Drewds who are more deserving than I am.”

They also have a yearly Christmas gift drive, where members buy presents for the children of Andrews struggling financially, and Patts launched a fund to support members through college. “Our scholarship helps Andrews know that they have an entire world of Andrews cheering them on,” he says. “Our $50 scholarship isn’t much, but it covers most application fees.” So far, at least six members have received this bursary, including Andrés Tejeda, a 28-year-old from Chicago, Illinois, who joined in June 2020.

“At first, I honestly did think it was strange that a group of men and women who have similar names had a place to gather online,” says Tejeda. He used the scholarship to buy a vital textbook during his TV and radio broadcast journalism degree, and went on to secure his dream job as a sports broadcaster. He now shares career updates with fellow Andrews who rally around him. “It’s so nice to have the kindness of strangers who just voice their support,” he says. “It is a point of hope in my online spaces.”

So far, says Patts, the group has raised more than $15,000 for Andrews. “It’s such a blessing to be able to help other people help other people.”

In June 2024, members agreed on a design for their official flag. Patts can be seen holding it aloft in his profile photo. It’s blue with a gold X running diagonally, which is supposed to echo the St Andrew’s Cross, but looks a bit like a misprinted Swedish flag. The centre has their logo, the stylised “A”, surrounded by seven stars, which embody their core values: aspire, network, develop, resilience, excellence, wonder and succeed. The stars also represent their plan to unite all kinds of Andrews across all seven continents, although they’re not quite there yet. Patts says about 95% of members come from the US, and the remaining 5% from another 30 countries spanning Europe, Mexico and Canada.

There are a few hundred women in the group, including Andrea Carbone, a 38-year-old from Greenville County, South Carolina, who was named after her grandfather. Carbone joined in 2023 when she was looking for a sense of community, as she had moved house with no nearby family. She amused herself by sharing Andrew-themed images, such as a photo of a local restaurant called Andrew’s Atomic Dogs in March 2024. An Andrew commented on her post, excited, because he recognised the spot.

“He then asked if we could be friends, and I accepted,” Carbone tells me. “I didn’t think much of it at first, since I already had over 70 Andrews on my friends list.” They started chatting, discovered they had a shared love of history, and “sparks flew”. By April 2024, they were dating. In November last year, Andrew took Andrea on a day trip to an automotive museum. “He proposed to me in front of a Ferrari,” says Carbone.

***

There’s no doubt our name has lost its shine of late. For 50 years, Andrew sat among the three most popular monikers in Scotland (thanks, no doubt, to its patron saint), until 2024, when it plummeted, failing to crack the top 100, according to the National Records of Scotland.

“It’s a pity that the name has become less popular,” says fellow Andrew, Dr Andrew Jennings, an expert in onomastics, which is the study of the origins and evolution of names. Jennings’ expertise is the Norse names of the Scottish islands, not Andrews, but he has a theory about its waning appeal.

“I imagine the secularisation of Scotland has had something to do with it. What is a patron saint, anyway? His day on 30 November is a bit of a damp squib,” he says. “With the recent infamy of a certain Andrew, I don’t imagine our name – which means ‘manly’, by the way – will regain popularity any time soon.”

It’s a similar story stateside. In 2003, more than 22,000 babies were named Andrew in the US, but there were just 4,772 in 2024.

“Names begin to feel overused,” says Taylor Humphrey, a professional baby-name consultant. “The next generation gravitates toward fresher options that resonate with their own value system, cultural references and lived experiences.”

I’m curious, given the controversial Andrews in the headlines, if any Andrew can be a member.

“If there’s publicity around them, then they’re probably not gonna get in,” Patts tells me. “It’s based on severity.” Although the council advocates Andrews, they don’t tolerate all Andrew behaviour, and disruptive Drews are not welcome. Their number one rule, even above “Andrews only”, is “Peace among Drews”. This means the group has no political leaning; they’ve removed Andrews in the past for being too political, or for dodgy behaviour such as scamming fellow members. Plus, they need to maintain peace with one another so they can focus on their real enemies, or “Benemies”.

The Council of Andrews is not the only community with same-name members. They have friendly rivals such as the Council of Bens and the Kingdom of Kyle, but perhaps the most well known are the Ryans, who have 103,000 followers on Instagram. The Ryans have been hosting regular meet-ups since 2023 and are trying to break the world record for the largest same-name gathering (a record maintained by 2,325 Ivans, who met in Kupres, Bosnia and Herzegovina in 2017).

Patts says they’re “trying to play catch up” with the Ryans, who have the benefit of famous members to boost their cause. What appeared to be hundreds of Ryans turned up to the office of US reality TV star Ryan Serhant in December to celebrate the launch of his upcoming Netflix show. Patts hopes his council will one day attract the likes of Andrew Garfield and Andrew Lincoln, but so far their most notable member is American science-fiction author Andy Weir. “Honestly, I joined because someone sent me an invite and it seemed funny,” Weir tells me. “I’m not very active on it and I rarely do anything on Facebook at all these days.”

The Andrews meet-ups are called DrewFests, which began in February 2020 with a few members celebrating the one-year anniversary of the group. It became an annual tradition that now takes place every September. Their largest turnout was in 2024, when 30 to 40 Andrews met at Topgolf in Las Vegas, according to Patts. “I’m certain that I’ll be talking to some of these Andrews 40 years from now,” he says.

I wanted to see for myself if connections can really be formed through nothing more than a shared name, so I placed a call-out in the council: would UK members like to meet for a mini DrewFest? After weeks of planning – in the most confusing group chat I’ve ever been in, since we all had the same name – we settled on a meeting place, right around the corner from St Andrews Chambers in central Manchester.

***

I approach the cluster of men standing near the Quaker building. They’re casually dressed for members of an exclusive collective. “Are you Andrews?” I cautiously ask. “Hello!” they reply in unison. We shake hands and introduce ourselves. “Hi Andrew, I’m Andrew,” I say. “Hi Andrew, I’m Andrew,” they all say back.

We head to a nearby sports bar where we’re seated in the basement, making it feel even more like a secret society meeting. It’s 11am and we’re the only group inside, which means 100% of the bar’s clientele are called Andrew. Members have travelled from every direction to be here, spanning Newcastle, Grimsby and north Wales. There are five of us, with three more on the way. Each time a new Andrew arrives, we all introduce ourselves by first name all over again.

If you didn’t know why we were meeting, it would be hard to guess a common theme. Andrew Brown has a thick red beard and tattoo sleeves; Andrew Edwards‑Hughes is a neatly dressed restaurant area manager; Andy Whitson is a wedding DJ with a shiny eyebrow piercing.

The day unfolds much like time spent in the council online; lots of Andrew-centric chat at first, then you almost forget that’s why you’re there. Unlike most groups, where members join because of a shared interest, there’s no guarantee we’d have anything in common, but that feels like a perk as we discover one another’s disparate lives. “It’s just nice, isn’t it, to think that just based on a name there are nearly 7,000 of us?” says Edwards-Hughes. “A sense of belonging I never knew I needed.”

Men can often struggle to make and maintain friendships, too focused on family and work life to foster those connections, so something like the council, which provides thousands of friends with very little effort, can be a blessing. The invitation to open up can also be liberating for men who wouldn’t typically share their personal problems.

For some men it also helps to have a shared activity to bond over; something they can do shoulder-to-shoulder, such as building a same-name community or attending a DrewFest. It turns out two of the Andrews at the meet-up were former colleagues; the bearded Brown and Andrew Conyers, a maintenance engineer from West Yorkshire, had worked together at a sauce manufacturer four years ago. They always got on really well when they crossed paths in town, but this was their first proper catch-up in almost half a decade.

Andrews drift between darts and pool, while others sit and talk. Andrew Warner tells us how the council became his social lifeline. Like many, he joined as a joke, but around the same time he decided to stop using drugs, which meant cutting off his old friendship group. With no one else to chat to, he spent more time in the council. Now, it’s all he uses Facebook for; he calls it the “Andrew app”.

Later, Warner makes an admission: before joining the group, he didn’t like his name. “You look it up and it says ‘manly’, ‘leader’, and I’ve never felt like that. I feel a little bit feminine, I’m not into sports, and I’ve always thought, ‘Oh, well, I’m not an Andrew,’” he tells me. “I wanted to change my name originally, because there wasn’t anyone I could relate to who had my name. I’ve really come to terms with who I am, in a sense, through a silly little Facebook group.”

As photos from the day are shared back into the council, multiple Andrews express disappointment that they couldn’t make it, or ask when the next meet-up will be, and the group chat is renamed in anticipation of the next event, with new members invited. I’m reminded of something Patts told me about the potential of this same-name network, “You know, 40 can soon be 400, and soon be 4,000. It feels like just the beginning of something major.”