We went to The Local on Tuesday evening for the return of the weekly quiz which the new landlady has asked Mr P and Mr E to do on alternate Tuesdays. I’m not overly thrilled about this and have stumbled upon the unsettling realisation that I simply do not like pub quizzes. The reasons for this are many-fold. This shit deserves a bullet-pointed list:
- The people (this deserves a sub-list:
- There’s always the Quiz Wanker (in our local, it’s actually Mr E when he isn’t compering himself). This person (usually a bloke) will question every poser that the quizmaster asks, taking all the fun out of the activity by making it too serious. He will also dole out half points unless the the answer is 100% spot on without giving any leeway whatsoever.
- The Gobby Bird – she’s the one who will eagerly sing along to any song in Mr P’s music quiz, loudly and with aplomb. She will also laugh far too enthusiastically at the quizmaster’s jokes to ensure that every other person in the building knows that she is there and yes, she’s got a great sense of humour and a fantastic singing voice as well actually.
- The Quiz Bores – on Tuesday, there were three of them; men in their sixties who happened upon the pub not knowing that a quiz was on and will then lean in and whisper answers which you have already written down.
- If Mr P gets the gig, it means that I have to attend in the spirit of wifely loyalty and then because Mr E’s lot always come to Mr P’s quizzes, we have to return the favour and attend theirs.
- This is turn means that inevitably my Mum and F-I-L will attend the quiz. I love both of them dearly but Mum’s a tad deaf and struggles to hear loud whispering across a pub table. The F-I-L mulls every question over so that by the time he thinks he’s come up with an answer, the quizmaster is two questions on. This causes me to get confused and put the answers in the wrong places because…
- …I am always the scribe. This is a nightmare, not least because people change their minds or debate the answers and then if one is eventually plumped for and turns out to be wrong, I get the blame because I’m the dickhead wielding the pen.
- If Mum and the F-I-L attend, news will spread and then our friends, Mr C and Miss G, will come too. Miss G is one of those people who always claim she knows nothing but then get one right meaning you have to spend the entire evening praising her for her one correct answer, which’ll turn out to be something as simple as ‘name the four members of The Beatles’.
- It’s a waste of money frankly. Mr P gets paid £20 for the effort – and by God, does he put the effort in (see next point) – which then gets put immediately back into the pub’s coffers twice over because, if I’m at a pub quiz, I’m gonna need a lot of vodka.
- Mr P is always keen to make sure the quiz is varied and interesting with questions that don’t often crop up and this means he will spend days – literally, days – trawling the internet for imaginative nuggets of information to form into questions. After he’s been doing this for several hours and I’m sitting on the sofa, knee bobbing impatiently, waiting for him to say he’s finished, he will look up, eyes glazed from too much screen time and announce ‘right, that’s five done.” There’s forty questions, by the way.
- Mr P will often plough through the beer during his quiz hosting sessions (something to do with ‘nerves’ apparently although I beg to differ) and then become a bit obnoxious when the round on TV theme tunes from the seventies is met with derision by the assembled twenty-somethings.
All in all, it’s a shitty deal and I really hope he changes his mind about his decision.