Quiz Night!

They seem a bit dated, and on the face of it they are a bit dull, but I’m here to tell you people that Pub Quiz nights are the new rock and roll.

A group of us went to one last night. We’d had a happy few already and as soon as we reached the local you could tell that the regulars took this seriously. Little 6-man groups huddled conspiratorially around tables eyed us with barely concealed suspicion. Hushed, angry calls of “ringers” bounced around the silent bar and we felt like we were the 1980 olympic US ice hockey team having walked accidentally into the Soviet dressing room. We each paid our pound and took a table next to some old boys who were whispering over their real ale, probably talking about the war. I offered a chirpy hello and they all, as one, turned to me – the hatred and bloodlust burning in their eyes. The smallest one, 80 if he was a day, cracked his knuckles menacingly whilst the wheelchair-bound one legged old boy sporting a RAMC blazer badge drew his finger slowly across his neck, the path of the imaginary knife zigzagging across his gizzard due to his late-stage Parkinson’s.

The quiz kicked off with a geography round. We play our joker, a clear expression of intent that brings gasps from the barmaids and causes the little man in a bowler hat who’s playing Ol’ Dixie tunes on the piano stop and stare at us (Okay, I made that up).

Question one: In population terms, which is the biggest spanish speaking country?

All around the room, heads drop meaningfully and the slightly more drunk members of the groups, having not entirely grasped the concept behind the evening, sit up suddenly and say “Mexico” before being hushed and thumped into silence by their team mates. The ‘jokers’ in each team say things like “How do you spell Brazil?” over their shoulders for the humorous delectation of everyone else. In our team, the Dyslexic Duff Mivers, the pretty blonde civil servant we’ve brought along as the love interest (and because she doesn’t drink and is willing to drive) simply says: “I’m not very good at these quizzes.” We roll our eyes, look at her chebs for reassurance and send her to the bar for 5 Leffes with Gin chasers and a diet coke.

Pretty soon, just before the music round, we are mullahed. We’ve made Tina (the love interest) our scribe because she writes nice and it gives us an excuse to put our arm round her and stare down her top while we’re dictating the answers. One of the guys is staying sober to try and pull her. It’s a valiant effort because another, unbelievably drunk member of the group has now renamed him “Thicky Thicky No Balls” after a spat they had over whether the Greenwich Meridian is also Zero degrees longitude. Unfortunately for us, the music round is entitled “Music that won the war.” We loudly point out that it was the combined industrial might of the US and USSR that won the war, but it’s no use – the old geezers rub their hands with glee and tell their blue-rinsed wives to put their rum and blacks down, switch on their hearing aids and listen up. We haven’t got a clue what we’re listening to. Luckily for us one of the old girls continues to carry on singing after the music stops, thus revealing the chorus and the name of the song, despite being implored each time to “shut up you silly cow” by her loving husband of 60 years.

By the time we reach the history round we are shambolic. Mick has stopped calling our wannabe Casanova “Thicky Thicky No Balls” but is sat in no-mans land next to the blue rinsed Vera Lynn, singing along merrily to the songs from the last round. Unfortunately he doesn’t know the words, but she’s a bit deaf so it doesn’t matter. We find ourselves unable to answer what year the East India Company was formed because we are literally crying with laughter as Mick offers a dulcet, arm-in-arm rendition of [sic] “I’ll see yer q.uim, don’t know where, don’t know when” to an oblivious octogenarian woman. We finish the round trying in vain to work out what year the guy who hosted Krypton Factor became king of Scotland, it’s not been good on us.

The sport round is next and we’re quietly confident. I’m so drunk by this stage that I keep shouting out the answers directly to the MC. Luckily they are wrong and my team allows me to continue in the interests of Psyops. The thing is that I’m not just answering the questions posed, I’m composing my own, then answering them for the benefit of the pub. Eg:

MC – Who won the 1978 FA Cup
RT – Arsenal, but do you know who held the cup for the longest consecutive (pronounced confepitive after 8 pints of wobbly) period?
Bar – ignorant silence
RT – Portsmouth! Yeay play up Pompeeee-eeeey! 39 to 45, during the war see?
They don’t see.

It’s while we’re trying to work out which events form the decathlon by writing them on Tina’s fingers that the simple beauty of it all hits me. Beer, random facts, pointless competitiveness and nibbles. It’s the stuff of man’s dreams. As I look at my frankly inebriated mates, I see the teamwork involved, how you can put 5 men and a fit doris together and against all adds we get to the point where we believe that Natasha Kaplinski won Belarus’s only olympic gold in gymnastics as if it’s a religious truth. It’s breathtaking.

We eventually come second to the old guys. We’re consoled by the fact that, as one of them makes a shakey L-shape over his forehead with his gnarly fingers at us, his wife is looking into the eyes of an extremely drunk army officer singing “but I’ll know I’ll see yer q.uim some sunny daaaaaaayyyyyyyy.”
Dance-off's, pub quizzes , what will be next? :D
I can reccommend a good Student-Chearleader slave auction if anyone is interested... :lol:


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RTFQ - the trouble with your stories is that I can sooooo identify with them. A sort of been there, done that, paid the fine sort of feeling. :oops:

I suppose the moral to this epic is that it is where you got your nom de plume - RTFQ - Refer T'Fcuking Question you knobber, as put in dulcit under-tones by the Bob Holness wannabe quiz master.
Operator said:
I can reccommend a good Student-Chearleader slave auction if anyone is interested... :lol:
Sigh, student slave auctions, the problem is that the things you want to do to them when you're bidding turn out to be illegal the following morning when you're sober. It always ends up being a ridiculously expensive way of getting one's car washed :roll: .
Question one: In population terms, which is the biggest spanish speaking country?

For Mucks sake just give us the answer, even I know Brazil speaks Portugese ish.
jonwilly said:
Question one: In population terms, which is the biggest spanish speaking country?

For Mucks sake just give us the answer, even I know Brazil speaks Portugese ish.
Mexico :wink:
I was speaking to MDN on Wednesday putting the world to rights, somewhere along the line he got a dig in about me being blonde & female therefore stupid..... :evil:

Needless to say a heated debate ensued where I tried to prove my super intellect. Knowing that he had spent several months in N.I. in the Ops room memorising the worlds capitals and priding himself on always answering the blue questions in Triv, I was determined to kick his arrse. :D

For as long as it took me to drive back from Carlisle to Newcastle we had a sudden death round of naming capital's....... such as Burundi, Paraguay & Namibia.... I think he was quietly impressed when I got Mongolia, however I have to admit he did get Ghana right. 8O

There were a few controversial ones such as South Africa, Israel..... and believe it or not Germany!!!! Mr Dohnut swore blind that the capital of Germany was Bonn, Im not sure what Atlas is on his library shelf...maybe a Collins 1841 Edition?

Knowing the capital was Berlin imagine the grin that appeared on my grid when he offered me a wager.... :wink:

Being MDN he said that if he was right... I had to perform a triple-salco landing across his face in the splits, so that he could tongue my monkeys chin..... !!!!!!

Me being a woman, therefore far superior in the IQ department... I opted for money.

He did a quick google.. and his silence was enough to settle the score.

Needless to say MDN now owes me £100 smackers in cold hard cash..... Knowing what a cheeky cnut he is i've already warned him off about sending it special delivery in 5 pence pieces!! :D :D
Well done, you thicky blonde cow, you beat a cromosone-deficient, 16 year old c.ock-juggler who wants to be a door gunner one day, just like her mum. Suppose you think you're hard too just because you smack old ladies around the fizzer and nick their pensions!

Anyway, what happened to your following through post. I penned a reply and I really can't be arrsed to find the original thread using that blo0dy search engine (am I the only one who finds that difficult?)

Here's my story anyway:

This is not so much a follow through, more a case of me sh1tting myself. I’d just spent a lovely weekend with my then girlfriend, doing the things that young lovers do, you know – re-enacting the heli assault from Apocalypse Now in my bedroom using the couch as the cockpit, computer joystick and dildo as the cyclic/collective, her in my coveralls and gath skydiving helmet and me in my dpm dressing gown with a bandana and ear defence as the co-pilot. The stick of troops was provided by her cuddly toys behind us, one of which was sat on my helmet. Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries was on full tilt and my ironing board was the surfboard bungee’d to the side the chair. Halcyon days indeed…
Anyway, just before I dropped her off at hers on Sunday night, we decided to stop off at a Chinky in Frimley for a quick bite.

Having gorged myself on noodles after a weekend spent practically bathing in Guinness, I dropped her off at hers and started the 2-3 hour journey back to mine. Just as I left hers I got the first, and only combat indicator of the sh1tty prolapse heading my way. The pain was so bad that I had to rest my head on the steering wheel and peek, teary-eyed, between the dashboard and the wheel’s curve. The strain of keeping my foot on the accelerator was unbearable. I thought hard and fast: I could slew off the road, collapse in the school playground on my right and evacuate where I lay, Deepcut officers’ mess was just down the road in front of me and, even better, my best mate lived about 100m beyond that. I jammed my foot down on the accelerator, bit down on the wheel as if I was being operated on by a saw-wielding, blood-soaked Napoleonic surgeon and raced for my life. God has a cruel sense of humour, I know this because on the way I have a number of those square speed bumps to negotiate. Easy, if you align your wheels either side, you can slide over them with hardly a bump. I however was half-blinded by salty tears of bowel pain and my face and entire left side of my body had locked in a spasm of agony. One handed, looking at the world through what looked like a goldfish bowl and doing nigh-on 70, I hit more bumps that I missed; each time I cried out loud – first it was a pathetic, whispered whimper, by the time I careened over the last bump I was the screaming Evil Kneivel of gut anguish, sobbing for my mother as if I were about to give birth to a razor-edged assegai. I rang my mate to warn him to open his door and clear a path to his toilet, preferably with a little guide rope in case my eyes were squeezed shut in sympathy with my besieged starfish. As my call was answered I let out a mournful “Meeaaaaarrrrsssssse”, but it was only his answerphone. Plan B kicked in and I headed to the mess. Despite what you read in the news, entering Deepcut OM is not like walking through a sarejevo market on ‘Sniper Sunday.’ I show my ID card to the lad on the gate and offer a simple “Meeaaaarrrrseeee” in reply to his cheery “Good evening Sir”. Inevitably the only car parking space is miles from the front of the mess. I get out of the car, honestly unable to stand up straight as my abdominal muscles have locked. I waddle like a hunchbacked penguin the unending 50m or so to the entrance, steadfastly refusing to let my ankles part company lest the domino effect causes my sphincter to give way like the bomb doors on a Vulcan.

Finally I reach the door of my salvation. It has a simplex lock. I ring the bell but know it’s futile: since messes were handed over to the gang of thieves and retards variously known as Sodexo/Eurest/Pall Mall etc, messes at the weekends became deserted of staff. The spotty, pubescent, educationally sub-standard boy supposed to be manning the bar will no doubt be out the back wnaking into the bar snacks. I glance around me, knowing I won’t make it back to the car or even out of the courtyard. I seriously consider which well-kept bush would conceal me most. It’s a bloody well-lit courtyard that one I can tell you, and every corridor looks down on it from a myriad of windows. Then I remember I was a Warlord Secret Agent, I glare at the simplex through my half-shut eyes and start typing in the most common 4 or 5 combinations whils hopping from foot to foot and creening like a scared child.

It’s all to no avail. Mr turtle pokes his head out to see what all the noise is about. In a last, beleaguered effort, my ravaged hole muscles attempt to close the falaise gap. Mr Turtle suffers a hairy decapitation just as my old CO comes round the corridor to see a deathly still RTFQ at the glass door, white as a sheet and eyes bulging. He opens the door warmly and shakes my hand.

“Hello RTFQ, how are you old boy?”

At that I shuffle past him apologetically as the late Mr Turtle’s bonce falls from the scaffolding. I start trailing my right leg out as far behind me as possible to try and stop it rolling down the back of my thigh and calf onto the fine mess shag carpet. All the while the mogul hoards are still trying to storm Castle Sphincter. My old CO watches me, bemused, as I enter the toilets. I don’t know if he stood there long enough to hear my birthing scream. I swear that once I was done I rested my head on the toilet roll for a full half hour, I was so exhausted. Then I cleaned up, dead letter dropped my not-so-lucky Calvins and was on my way.
Sadly true and not one to welch on a bet the cheque is in the post......

I'd much sooner use the 'I promise not to cum in your mouth' gag but its not appropriate :D

In my defence I did offer double or quits and this was declined..... she said she couldn't perform a triple salco anyway. I said I wasn't bothered and all I wanted to do was removed the gymnastics leotard from the crack of her arse with my teeth and plate her...

She declined saying 'I don't fancy my chances, send the cash loser'

If I was a chick with a cracking pair of jubblies and a nice plump front bum the last thing I would do is learn countries capitals. credit where its due...... I was thrashed by splitarse Cait. Shame it wasn't with a knotted rope.

She must have had a bloke sat next to her.
RTFQ said:
Well done, you thicky blonde cow, you beat a cromosone-deficient, 16 year old c.ock-juggler who wants to be a door gunner one day, just like her mum. Suppose you think you're hard too just because you smack old ladies around the fizzer and nick their pensions!
I see Triv are launching a Limited BullShi.t Eddition especially for you limp wristed Rodney types, with pump, trumph, bilge, waffle and guff as the categories :D

Now play nicely or i will be forced to see how many of the "cheeses" i can force down your pi.ss slit :D


RTFQ said:
cait said:
Now play nicely or i will be forced to see how many of the "cheeses" i can force down your pi.ss slit :D
19, plus one of the round cheese holders. 8O
Good stunt for a novelty bukkake film! Suddenly spray your victim with little plastic wedges... class!
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