The Quiz

Norbert

Chapter 50

The Quiz

The social club is bursting at the seams. Every seat is taken and people are pressed up against the walls. The queue at the bar is six-deep.

Peregrine and Baldy have reserved seats in the centre of the front row. We, the contestants, are sitting behind trestle tables either side of the quizmaster’s desk and at an angle so that Ruben can comfortably see every contestant and who has buzzed. Not only do the buzzers buzz, they light up, so the audience can see who is answering. Peregrine Foote-Wharmer stands at the front of the stage and makes a short speech of welcome.

‘Good evening, ladies and gentleman. This is the largest crowd I have ever addressed. My lectures on faeces draw only a small audience of eminent physicians, academics and weirdoes...’

‘Plus you talk a load of shit,’ says Baldy, getting a huge laugh.

Peregrine acknowledges the joke with a smile. ‘We are gathered here for a fun evening of non-competitive quizzing, between two teams of friendly colleagues with nothing at stake except perhaps a little pride…’

‘Are we tickle,’ pipes up Rube, from centre stage, bringing more laughter.

Peregrine continues. ‘And to say goodbye to a revered and much loved colleague on the occasion of his retirement after forty year’s loyal service.’

‘You mean someone else is retiring, other than Rube?’ shouts Kit Cattermole-O’Hare, to more laughter.

Peregrine raises his hand for calm. ‘You are all aware of the situation and the impossible position we have been placed in by the media. Some may say that it is ludicrous to appoint someone to the position of Senior Technician by means of a quiz…’

‘Not in Haematology,’ shouts Jembediah Maine-Rhodes. ‘You’re all stupid idiots.’

‘Precisely,’ says Peregrine. ‘Now, are there any questions before we get started?’

‘Will the girls be getting their tits out at some point?’ Hungry Henry shouts.

‘No they will not. This is not a football match.’

At least thirty men walk out, leaving just about enough space for everyone.

‘That’s better,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer. ‘I will now hand you over to your quizmaster, Ruben Steele-Mills.’

The applause is interspersed with boos.

‘The feeling is mutual,’ says Ruben. ‘You’re all grannytickling tosspots.’ This gets a cheer. ‘This may not be a football match, but there are still rules…’

‘Not where Haematology is concerned,’ yells Cattermole-O’Hare.

Rube ignores him. ‘As you are all aware, the stakes for this little Pub Quiz are high. No one is allowed to question my decisions. I have the final say.’ He sweeps his eyes across us. ‘Do you all understand?’

‘Are we not allowed a comfort break?’ says Dora Mae Blimp.

‘You should have gone to the toilet before we started.’

‘Your idea of comfort is different to mine,’ she says, taking a bite from a pork pie.

‘Get on with it,’ a heckler shouts.

‘No hiding mobile phones under the desk.’

‘It’s not worth cheating,’ says GT. ‘My iphone is like the Titanic. It takes forever to sync.’

‘The team on my right is captained by Manuel Forth-Gere…’

A loud cheer goes up from all the females in the room. GT stands up, pulls his fists back twice and pumps his groin at them. He is garbed in tight black jeans and a black shirt, open to his belly button. He’s shaved his chest and oiled his torso to emphasize his pecs and rippling abdominal muscles.

‘It sounds like he’s had most of you, in which case this is probably the single largest gathering ever of women with herpes.’

‘I can vouch for that,’ shouts the Consultant Microbiologist.

‘The team on my left is captained by Norbert Winstanley Rockhampton-Smythe…’

A female voice shouts: ‘Gargoyle-faced grannytickler.’ And I get a chorus of boos from the Biochemistry section of the audience.

Rube picks up on this and retaliates. ‘Yes, the humble minionshit who masterminded our great victory and returned the inter-departmental football trophy to its rightful place.’ He pauses to polish off a tumbler of brandy. ‘I will now introduce the teams. With GT we have our puddle-brained medic, Healer Daffyd Llewellyn-Llewellyn, the daftest thing to come out of Wales since lava bread. At his side, clinging like a limpet as always, is Clothilda Church-Pugh. Making up the numbers is Dora Mae Doll, who might as well be the mascot for what she is likely to contribute intellectually.’

‘At least she gives us men something to look at,’ Hungry Henry shouts.

‘I prefer the captain,’ says the biochemist with his arm round Dougie.

‘On Norbie’s team we have the delectable Isabel Wringing-Lowd, who, like her fellow striker, is probably just here as eye candy.’

Isabel has certainly pulled out all the stops. She is encased in a tight, low cut sequined green dress (so she is probably a regular both in and behind the Palais), her hair is lifted, tucked and curled, and her make-up perfect. ‘I’ll have you know that if I didn’t have brains I would have been a supermodel,’ she retorts.

‘My dear, if you had any brains you would have been.’

The audience laugh.

Isabel leans close to me. ‘What does he mean?’

‘Supermodels earn millions,’ I explain, catching a tantalizing glimpse of her golden globes (she has just come back from a holiday in Spain). ‘And by the way, you look absolutely fabulous.’

‘Of course I do. My parents are here to see me perform. They’re sitting in the front row.’ She waves, stands up and shimmies. ‘My name is Isabel Wringing-Lowd. I am twenty-one years old…’

‘And the rest,’ a heckler shouts.

‘My measurements are 38 – 23 – 36. I love riding my pony…’

‘Does she ever,’ shouts GT. ‘Neigh, giddy up GT.’

‘And my ambition is for world peace in the Far East…’

‘It’ll never happen, pet,’ shouts a Geordie Histologist. ‘Not whilst Sunderland exists.’

‘This is not a beauty pageant,’ shouts Rube. ‘Sit down you gormless tart.’

‘If this was a beauty contest, Isabel, you’d win.’ I whisper. ‘Your hair looks especially nice. Have you had tints put in?’

‘Yes, it was the highlight of my day. And yes, of course I would win.’

‘Because you’ve got the most gorgeous loolybells in the universe,’ I say, even more quietly, two seconds after Ruben switches on the microphones and broadcasts it to the room.

Mrs Wringing-Lowd grabs Mr Wringing-Lowd by the arm and pulls him back on to his chair.

‘Next in line is Foultongue.’ Ruben raises his voice above the sniggers. ‘Who, I feel, might be hiding her light under a bushel.’

‘Isn’t that cheating?’ someone in the audience asks.

‘On the end, occupying two seats and in danger of collapsing the stage is Dora Mae Blimp, who I can see is desperate to ask a question.’

‘Yes. Are there any meat pies during the interval?’

‘The rules are very simple. Two points for a correct answer. Get it wrong and I will pass it over to the opposition for one point. Fingers on buzzers and let’s get this farce under way … Name the four seasons.’

Isabel buzzes excitedly and nearly pops out of her dress. ‘Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar.’

‘Wrong.’

She pouts.

GT buzzes. ‘Frankie Valli was one. I think Elvis Presley was another…’

‘Wrong.’

I buzz. ‘Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme.’

Rube puts his head in his hands in exasperation. ‘It is not a music question.’

Velcro buzzes ‘Summer, spring, winter and fall, all you have to do is just call.’

‘I said it’s not a grannytickling music question. What a bunch of imbeciles.’ He calls for a Tia Maria and Coke. ‘Moving on. What do you call a short flourish on a brass instrument?’

‘Is that not a music question?’ says Healer Dai.

Dora Mae Blimp buzzes. ‘A trombone.’

Velcro buzzes. ‘A funfair.’

‘You’re both wrong, it’s a fanfare.’

‘I was only one letter out,’ says Clotty. ‘Can’t I have six-sevenths of a point?’

‘No you can’t ... What a blinding start. Two questions asked; no points scored.’

Dora Mae Blimp buzzes again. ‘Does that mean it’s time for the snack break?’

‘No, it doesn’t, you big fat tub of lard … Define foreplay.’

Foultongue buzzes. ‘The number of people in a game of bridge.’

‘Wrong.’

Isabel buzzes. ‘Something GT has never heard of?’

Dozens of women cheer.

‘Only one person per team is allowed to buzz per question, but I’ll take your word on that and give you the point ... What is a skip stealer?’

Velcro buzzes. ‘Those scrap metal dealers what hung around outside my house when I had the builders in.’

‘Wrong.’

I buzz. ‘A thief in a playground?’

‘Correct ... Where was Forrest Gump shot?’

I buzz again. ‘Hollywood?’

‘No.’

Healer Dai buzzes. ‘In the head?’

‘If he wasn’t he certainly should have been. One point ... What is long and hard and puts girls off marriage?’

GT buzzes. ‘Firstly, you forgot to mention my girth, second, many of them are already married, I don’t discriminate, and lastly, the single concubines must sign a waiver to the right of matrimony.’

‘Only buzz if you intend to answer,’ says Rube, tiredly.

Healer Dai buzzes. ‘A Polish man with no vowels in his surname.’

‘Correct ... What do the initials GT stand for?’

GT buzzes. ‘Gran Turismo. I’m hot, Latin and with oodles of thrust.’ He stands up and repeats his earlier gesture, to wolf whistles from the ladies.

‘Incorrect.’

I buzz. ‘Could it be Granny-Tickler?’

‘It most certainly could ... What is the best way to get a mortgage?’

Velcro buzzes. ‘Buy a house.’

‘Wrong.’

Isabel buzzes. ‘Have tits like these?’

‘Correct.’

The audience cheer and Isabel waves. ‘Thanks Mum.’

‘What is the best way of attaching a carpet to a flight of stairs?’

Healer Dai buzzes. ‘Use steroids.’

‘Correct.’ Ruben pauses. ‘This is thirsty work. Can someone get me a banana daiquiri and add it to my tab?’

Foultongue leans close to me. ‘I’m not sure if Healer Dai meant it, but steroid is a pun on stair rod. He’s accepting puns as answers.’

‘Maybe that’s what he meant at the beginning when he said pub quiz. He really meant pun quiz.’

‘We need to be on our guard,’ says Vera.

I turn to Isabel and Dora Mae Blimp. ‘He seems to be using a lot of puns. Think about your answers.’

‘What’s a pun?’ asks Isabel.

‘It’s like a word or words that sound similar to the word he says, but mean something different.’

‘Like bun?’ says Dora Mae. ‘I like buns.’

Rube quenches his thirst and continues. ‘How do you stop milk turning sour?’

I buzz. ‘Keep it in a Blood Bank.’

‘Wrong.’

Velcro buzzes. ‘Keep it inside the cow.’

‘Correct ... What is the fibula?’

GT buzzes. ‘Everyone knows that, it’s a bone in your leg.’

‘Wrong, there are no medical questions in this quiz.’

I buzz. ‘In that case it must be a small lie.’

‘Correct.’

‘Define caesarean section.’

‘You just said there were no medical questions,’ GT complains.

‘You’re so pig ignorant on everything else. I thought it was the only way of getting a few right answers.’

Foultongue buzzes. ‘Is it a district of Rome?’

‘Correct. One point ... Name a terminal illness.’

Velcro buzzes. ‘I once puked up in Heathrow airport.’

‘That counts. Two points ... Where will you find the perineum?’

Dora Mae Doll buzzes. ‘On the promenade next to Tesco.’

‘Wrong.’

Dora Mae Blimp buzzes. ‘I’m not sure, but having it licked is really rather nice.’ She waves and smiles at GT, who puts his head in his arms on the desktop.

‘No points to lardy, I’m afraid, though the image circulating through everyone’s mind at this moment is worth ten ... Where would you locate the genitalia?’

Foultongue buzzes. ‘On South Parade.’

‘Wrong, it’s between your legs.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ says Foultongue. ‘Janet Taylor is a dress shop. She dropped the Tinker from her surname because it wouldn’t fit above the door.’

GT buzzes. ‘That isn’t fair. You gave the answer before allowing me to buzz.’

‘Would you have got it right?’

‘Come on, Rube, no one in this room knows more about that area of the female body than me.’

I raise my hand. ‘I can attest to that. He’s got hundreds of photocopies. I’ve seen them. In fact, I’ve probably seen every kebab in this room.’

The room falls silent. Sagebrush blows across the front of the stage.

‘Okay then, dickwad,’ Rube says to GT. ‘What’s a vulva?’

‘A Swedish make of car. Now ask me a question about fannies.’

‘What is the strongest muscle in the human body?’

GT buzzes. ‘The fanny.’

Healer Dai buzzes. ‘Is it the big one in your thigh?’

‘God help us all,’ says Ruben, banging his head on the desk. ‘Intermission time.’

‘Have the pies come?’ shouts Dora Mae Blimp.

‘What’s the score?’ I ask.

‘Tickle-shit,’ says Rube. ‘I knew I was forgetting something.’

‘It’s 8 – 6 to the bum licker,’ shouts Nunky.

‘How would you know?’ says Rube.

‘He’s special,’ says Mr Foote-Wharmer, confirming the score.