Read by Patsy Prince - third story in podcast, at 35:11, link below:
S&L Podcast (right click Open Link in New Tab to enable fast-forwarding)
If you want a peaceful weekend away in the sun, don’t spend it with serious pub quizzers. I was reaching this conclusion before we even got off the plane. Nigel had invited me as a last-minute replacement. I wasn’t much of a quizzer, certainly not in his league, but he knew I had minimal commitments and a flexible schedule (for which read: almost no family, few friends and sporadic-at-best work), so I was a good bet for making up numbers.
On the flight I’d gradually put names to faces. Mary and Deepak, a frowning couple eating egg sandwiches. Steve, a burly northerner talking obsessively about sport.
(“Is sport your specialist subject?”
“You can’t have specialist subjects when you quiz at this level, Annie. You have to be a generalist.”)
“He calls himself a chef, but he can’t even pronounce conchiglie,” Mary was saying, to Deepak’s and Steve’s delight. I ignored them, and turned towards Nigel.
“So how does it work, then? Quizzes every day?”
“That’s right. Different formats each night, and prizes for the winning team and best individual quizzer.”
“And some downtime, to hit the beach?”
“There is free time, but mostly we spend it revising.”
“For a pub quiz? What’s the prize, a kidney?”
“It’s not for the prize, Annie. It’s for glory!”
Was he joking? I decided not to ask.
***
The hotel was actually a hotel-and-conference-centre, emphasis on the latter. Beige and functional, it did at least have a pool, where I quickly parked myself in the last of the afternoon sun. I managed a blissful hour before my phone buzzed. Nigel.
Are you in your room? Hotel bar, 6pm.
It was quarter to. I went to find the others. To my horror, they were wearing jaunty orange baseball caps sporting the words LES QUIZERABLES. Deepak handed me one. “Put it on, then!”
I have a big head and bigger hair, and I wear hats precariously at best, but I put it on obediently. Thus adorned, we walked to a restaurant a few minutes away.
“OK Annie,” said Steve, perusing an uninspiring menu, “what are your strengths, quizwise?”
“I thought we couldn’t have specialisms?”
“Yes, but we have strengths,” he replied patiently. “If I have to nominate someone, I need to know who does what.”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “I know quite a lot about The Only Way Is Essex. And Coronation Street.” I thought for a second. “As long as it’s after 1995.”
“OK, TV,” said Steve.
“Well, only those two really … but sure. If I get stuck, I’ll Google!”
Steve glared. Everyone glared. I decided to stop making jokes.
***
One average meal later we shuffled back to Hotel Beige and a bar, from which a glum-faced waiter dispensed unappealing drinks. My glass of white, when it came, was lukewarm and had a faint but clear lipstick mark on its rim. I drank from the other side.
Once everyone was seated in our teams, a pale-faced man with long hair and a t-shirt that said “I’m Not Old, I’m Classic” called for quiet, and the quiz began. First round: flags. I peered at the pictures hoping for a maple leaf or a rising sun, thereby proving I wasn’t entirely clueless. Instead I saw ten nearly identical sets of coloured stripes.
“Is that Ireland?” I asked hopefully.
Steve looked irritated. “No, it’s Côte d'Ivoire. The orange and green are reversed.” He waved the sheet at me. “Don’t worry, I’ve already filled in the answers.”
"Steve knows all the flags," said Nigel.
The next round went the same way, the answers so blindingly obvious to Steve that he didn’t need help from anyone else. The quizmaster tallied the half-time scores and announced that we were joint first with The-Know-It-Ales.
“That’s even worse than our name!” I laughed. Mary blinked, then turned to Deepak. “Let’s get a drink.” They wandered to the bar, leaving an awkward silence behind them.
Nigel and Steve discussed the minutiae of the scoring mechanism as I occupied myself in inspecting the wall. Mary and Deepak returned, handing me another warm wine. Mary’s mood seemed to have changed. “Guess what we heard at the bar? There’s a TV talent scout here! They’re looking for quizzers to go pro!”
The arrival of royalty could not have thrilled the rest of the team more. Steve slapped the table, slopping the froth from several beer glasses, and looked around expectantly. “Do we know who it is?” he asked, as if the scout might be wearing a badge: “I’m In Telly”.
Suddenly, I’m-Not-Old-I’m-Classic stood up, put two fingers to his mouth and whistled piercingly. “Places for the second half PLEASE!”
***
In the end Les Quizerables came second, with no help from me. Next morning, breakfast echoed with talk of the TV scout. The heightened atmosphere in the room was palpable. Mary was wearing make-up, which she hadn’t the day before, and Deepak had swapped his hoodie for a shirt. Nigel’s hair was combed, his beard trimmed. They were just as excited as they’d been the night before, their eyes swivelling right and left, scout-scouting.
Steve was wearing a Hawaiian shirt.
“I’m off to the beach after breakfast,” I announced. “Anyone?”
“Actually,” said Steve, “I want us to do some quick-fire question and answer practice.”
“At the beach?” I asked hopefully.
“I thought the bar. Compromise on the pool?”
“Deal.”
About fifteen minutes into the practice Steve took pity on me and let me go. I made a beeline for the beach and spent the rest of the day reading and dozing on a sunlounger in the shade. After a while the sun was in my eyes, so I put on my LES QUIZERABLES hat. It almost fitted, if I pushed it down hard.
A sandwich, several lollies and one beer later I returned pinkly to the hotel. Over dinner, Steve tested us on the subjects for that night’s quiz. I did poorly on politics and literature but surprised myself on music.
“Our secret weapon!” Steve beamed.
“Because nobody thinks I’m a threat?”
“Exactly!”
As the quiz began I found myself enjoying the assorted quizzers’ attempts to look like potential TV stars. One woman affected a screeching sort of laugh, which might, I supposed, make her memorable; several men made loud jokes, and looked around to see who’d noticed; and Steve’s northern accent became noticeably stronger whenever he gave an answer.
This fascinated me so much that only when Nigel nudged me and whispered “Annie!” did I notice the others were looking at me.
“What?”
“What’s the answer?”
“What’s the question?”
“Beyoncé’s middle name!” Steve glowered.
“Oh! Giselle”, I said. Nigel flashed me an admiring glance as Steve repeated my answer to the quizmaster (tonight’s t-shirt: “I’m Not As Think As You Drunk I Am”).
“Correct! A point to Les Quizerables, who still lead!”
“We’ll be nominating you for the tie-breaker at this rate,” said Steve.
“The what now?”
“If we draw, we have to answer a tie-breaker.”
“We usually send Steve,” said Nigel.
***
We met again the next morning, Steve assuring us it was “all to play for”. Les Quizerables had won last night by a single point, my spectacular Beyoncé-fu giving us the edge over The-Know-It-Ales: tonight was the decider. No beach visits, no poolside lounging, today: we’d be practising for tonight’s subjects: anagrams, odd ones out, and filling in blanks.
“A bit like school,” I said.
“But more important!” joked Deepak. (I think he was joking.)
It was actually sort of fun. I was hopeless at odd ones out, okay on anagrams, and excellent at filling in blanks until Nigel pointed out that funny answers didn’t win points.
“Well, they should,” I retorted. “And at least we might get a bonus point.”
That night the bar was rammed, and the atmosphere was so thick you could bite it. A few brave souls had clearly decided being bluff and hearty was the way to go, but any witticisms were drowned instantly by the tension. By now, nobody cared much about who won: all minds were on prospective glittering media careers. The barman now had assistance, in the shape of a tall, blonde woman who seemed to have been employed more for looks than competence. Despite the slow service, people were drinking more quickly than last night.
The format was different again: a round robin, with individuals from each team jumping up to answer in turn. Emboldened by last night’s brilliant performance, I looked on happily, becoming only slightly perturbed when I realised tonight’s questions were far harder. Eventually the quizmaster (t-shirt: “I’ve Got A Spreadsheet For That), turned to me.
“Annie, your subject is literature.”
OK, I thought, I’ve read books. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
“What 1989 Jeanette Winterson novel features the character Dog Woman?”
I felt a surge of excitement. I’d read this book for a feminist book group I once joined and almost immediately left. I was about to be even more brilliant than the night before!
“That would be Romancing the Stone,” I announced smugly.
The quizmaster’s eyes crinkled into a laugh. “Close,” he said, “but no cigar. Romancing the Stone is a 1984 movie featuring Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. The answer is Sexing the Cherry.”
Laughter spread around the room as embarrassment flushed through my body.
Even my team-mates were laughing - except for Steve, who was furious. “That might cost us the win, Annie,” he said. “I really thought you had it.”
The conversation moved on as he tried to work out how many points we’d now need to guarantee victory.
“Just off to the loo,” I said to nobody, and slunk away.
***
I came back after a calming walk to the sea to find that Les Quizerables had won at the last minute and were in a forgiving mood. But the shame of my earlier gaffe still stung, so I slipped off for an early night.
In the morning the bedside phone rang while I was packing. “Hello? Nigel?”
An unfamiliar female voice spoke. “Is that Annie?”
“Yes, who’s this?”
“Hi Annie.” The voice was warm and friendly. “My name’s Leah. I’m with VisualiseTV and I’m downstairs - I wanted to catch you before you check out. Do you have five minutes?”
“Sure.”
“Great! See you in the lobby.” The line went dead. I crept downstairs, worried I’d bump into one of the others and have to explain what I was doing, even though I had no idea what I was doing.
A blonde woman with a wide smile approached. I recognised her right away. “Weren’t you serving drinks at the bar last night?” No wonder she hadn’t been much cop.
She smiled. “A subterfuge! I wanted to observe without being spotted. I’m here to cast contestants for a new game show, and I’d love you to come to the studio and try out.”
“But I’m terrible at quizzes. Aren’t you looking for professionals?”
“No!”, she laughed. “We want funny answers as well as good ones. I loved your joke answer last night. You’re just what I’m after.”
A joke. She thinks it was a joke. Okay!
“So this isn’t a … job? Just a one-off? And I can win some money?”
“Exactly! If you’re in, let me know and I’ll email you with all the details.”
***
Nigel thought it was hilarious, but the others only forgave me once I’d been on TV, because they wanted to hear all the stories (and it helped that in the end I’d only won £340), so eventually I was invited to one of their regular pub quizzes.
Now they invite me back from time to time, although I’m pretty sure it’s still as a last-minute replacement. But quizzing, I have decided, is all about the small wins. Because once in a while there’s a question about Mariah Carey or Made in Chelsea, and everybody turns to me.
(c) Laura Morgan, 2024
Laura Morgan lives in Greenwich - or, as she prefers to tell people, at the beginning of time. She has written the beginnings of several dozen stories, and the endings of two. Her favourite things are Agatha Christie, trains, and Christmas.
Patsy Prince trained at RADA & KCL. Film includes: God is Dead, The Bad Nun, Mummy Reborn & Culture Shock. Theatre includes Misfits at the Space Theatre (nominated at The Asian Media Awards) Voices from September 11th (Old Vic) & Swallows (OFS Theatre Oxford). She also co-hosted 'Open', a podcast on The Women's Radio Station. Ex-lawyer, ex-parliamentary candidate & ex-hotelier, Patsy now excels at being a bad wife, drinking too much gin & expanding her millinery collection.
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