On
arrival
She’s
not quite as I remember
I
can’t decide if she’s got too much make-up on
Or
not enough
So
I take her
To
a pub
Where
no one knows me.
Though
I fear
If
caught in strange lands
The
whole act will seem all the more
Incriminating.
The
decision
Is
immediately made worse
By
the announcement
Of
the imminent
Commencement
Of
the Wednesday Night Pub Quiz
I
instantly take the lead
In
declining our participation
For
fear
We’ll
be here
For
over a year
Trapped.
I
caught a glimpse of the answer sheets
And
there definitely appears
To
be more rounds than I’m willing to sit through.
Considering
the mardy countenance
Of
my company
I
buck my ideas up
My
dwindled enthusiasm
For
the evening
Has
clearly been twigged
And
I fear for being thought ungentlemanly
“What
have you been up to?”
She
asks politely
“America
I blurt
out
One
ear on the quiz.
She
let’s it slide
I
get back onside
With
a heady mix of jokes and compliments
God
knows why
Perhaps
playing the long game
As
though she might tell a more attractive
Friend
of my qualities
Giving
me an immediate ‘in’
At
a later date
With
a more desirable mate
I
would hate
For
rumours of my dickishness
To
ruin such an opportunity.
“Who
do you hang around with?”
She
persists
“F
Scott Fitzgerald” I offer
Wondering
if it’s too late
To
stump up the 50p entry fee.
The
puzzled looks
And
overheard wrong answers
Tells
me I’d have it in the bag
I
spy the quiz master
Having
the time of his life
He lives
for the quiz I can tell
I’ve
seen him around
And
I’ve never seen him
With
that much gel in his hair.
He
bops and boogies
To
the music round
Clearly
from his own collection
Winks
and nods at the girls
Offering
clues
As
if being privvy to such info
Would
inspire sexual gratitude.
The
whole thing
Seems
like
one big stage
for
this guy
To
give some kind of quantifiable importance
To
every piece of shite trivia
usually
known for inspiring
Nought
but the glazed eyes
Of
his drinking buddies.
“Points
mean prizes!”
He
swaggers
“What do they mean, Jeff?”
“Fuck
off”
Offers
the surly geezer in the corner
The
quizmaster visibly quavers
As if
reminded
Of
the temporary nature of his authoritative charisma.
My
company looks pissed off
I’d
forgotten she was here if I’m honest
I’ve
acted like an ignorant dick
And
we both know it
But
only one of us cares
“Who
do you think you are?”
She
demands
I
declare with confidence
“The
Count of Monte Cristo”
And
receive a glass of cheap shit
Square
in the kisser
Alone
at the bar
I
listen to the answers
“Count
Duckula”?
I must
have misheard the question.
I
receive a text message
“Twat”
it reads
I
delete it
And
agree
to
a ticket
for
Play Your Cards Right
No
winners last week
Rollover
jackpot.
