Far be it from me to indulge my latent competetive streak, after all ignominious failure is par for the course since I hit 30, but when someone says 'Who want to be on the pub quiz team?' the tamed beast within me rises all dripping fangs and pumped biceps.
I am old and due to the fact that I am convinced I lie slightly on the ASD spectrum I know loads of really useless stuff, especially if it requires translating from the French, which is strange given the fact I have an entirely unreasonable hatred of anything even vaguely francophile in nature. I blame that incident in the back of a fiat 128 in 1993.....
So tonight I procurred the services of a referee for the heir and the spare, donned me wooly hat, ventured out into the snow and hoisted myself into a landrover in order to mount an assault on the omnipotence of the SENCO. I am Borah! Hear me roar! Put me on a sports field and I will instantly go into cardiac arrest, ask me to convince a panel of the need to adopt new policy and I will wander off for a fag after half-heartedly composing a powerpoint, but ask me to intellectually enter the gladatorial arena of pointless knowledge and I will without a second's debate assemble a metaphorical arsenal of weaponary and sprint into the fray covered in cam cream with a war cry of 'Elvis Presley in 1976, trust me! write it down and move on!'
The Stanley Arms quiz is held on the first Wednesday of every month and there is a special to tempt your taste buds. Legend has it that no one can touch the SENCO who spends the week running up to quiz night flexing his intellectual muscles on logic problem websites. We upstart new teachers like a challenge - we ate 15 chicken fajitas on the plane down, we can handle it. And so teams were amassed, the country cottage pie duly pre-ordered and at 7pm precisely we sauntered through the swing saloon doors of The Stanley Arms, chewing matchsticks and looking like we meant business, or would have done had I not got stuck in the doors a bit and had to be freed.
Split into two teams to mount our upstart challenge and dethrone the king of quiz, we ordered soft drinks so as not to impair our academic prowess and got down to business. Three hours, twelve rounds, a great deal of country cottage pie, 17 pints of diet coke, a great deal of sweating, bitter recriminations and fierce argument and my team came second, a mere point I'll have you know from knocking the SENCO and his viscious cronies into the harbour.
The post bout analysis was not pretty. There was the horrible business about tomato being the world's most popular fruit, the terrible pressure that forced Mr.Science into an early bath regarding inert gasses, the legendary sucess of the film round and my wild card suggestiomn of Biddie Baxter failing to score. All to no avail! Why oh why! I've always prided myself on my ability to recall the seven deadly sins, but in the heat of battle, wrath escaped me. Ah! Twas ever so!
Still there's always next month and this time I will be reading the Penguin News more thoroughly in preparation for round 8. Your days at the top of the ziggurat are numbered Team BFD! Oh yes!
Borah out...
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