Table Quiz Blues
Fuck, shit, piss. Nobody remembers who came second do they? Except the people who finish in this frustrating position. Like me and three mates last night at a table quiz. Supposedly all for a good cause and not to be taken too seriously, I find that table quizzes unlock some kind of primeval competitive streak that compels me to brand other contestants cheats, aresholes or worse. I hang my head in shame at not knowing who the previous artistic director of the Abbey was- Ben Barnes - and rail against our indecision about whether Clint Eastwood is allergic to horses - he is but we double bluffed ourselves. Then we bungle a question about the capital of Sierra Leone. The margin for error is slim because we lose by three points to a team who - oh the injustice, the sheer fucked up unfairness of it all - have five players. Next time, next time. Another well-worn cliche: no prizes for second place. Not true. For our travails, we depart with the Insider's Guide to Fair City, an indispensable reference work, various CD's including Def Leppard, Heading South and Dustin the Turkey as well as a meal for two in a trendy Thai restaurant. A fair cop, then. But I continue to lament not knowing where the Stone of Destiny is.