“What can be given to the dying, lives in the sea and/or grows in the desert”, asked the Quizmaster? I saw Jason surreptitiously picking his nose: we all noticed, urgh, wondering how this moron got onto our team! He had BO too, and that shirt, complete with deodorant stains, hadn’t been ironed, either! You’d think Beryl would be embarrassed to be out with him. Apparently not!
Mitzi gave a heave of her not inconsiderable chest, moving into a more prominent position and proffered “What about a drink of water?” Nathan, ever the clever dick, clearly suffering irritation at Mitzi’s early posit, huffily threw to the team “It’s a thorny problem for the Reef, a succulent and I believe Jesus was offered a sample!” We all thought for a moment; John considered “…in the desert, ah … oh yes. The Crown of Thorns”, a collective nodding and Jenny, our Scribe, recorded the answer. Mitzi sulked!
“Question fourteen. What is the ancient process for forestalling decomposition?” Jason hissed “Embalming”, we agreed, and Jenny’s pencil obliged.
A break. Nathan and I went to the bar and ordered another round. “Three Sauv Blancs, a half Guinness, two house reds and two of those special rhubarb liqueurs, thanks.” I’d seen Beryl demolish one of these Rhubarb numbers earlier – they looked deadly! I watched as measures of orange juice, orange liqueur, vodka, rum, candied orange, a shake of Angostura, pulped rhubarb and ice were brought together. The fruity-looking concoction was poured into two generous glasses. “Two Viscosity Slammers!” announced the barman.
The room settled back into competitive mode. “Fifteen. When did the last known Thylacine die?” A deeply seated Maureen sprang forward in her chair – “Nineteen thirty … arrr … six” she confidently offered, and went back to sipping her Sauv.
“Sixteen. How many people involved in a duumvirate?”
The final questions were closing in. There were throat-clearing coughs, squished, restless bums were wriggled, a trouser-toot was politely ignored, competitive glances made across to neighbouring tables, conspiratorial whisperings.
Our rogue member, Nick, was reviewing our answers. Self-appointed El Capitano, he was a terrier at these nights. He was known to argue the toss, to challenge answers, recently replacing his miniature Britannica set with an Apple Smartphone linked permanently to Missus Google. He projected ‘unassailable’ – but to us, he was an embarrassment.
The third round of drinks appeared; my second Viscosity was going to impact my composure. But they were wonderful! What the heck?
“Three”, said John. Nick spun on his heel. “What?” “Three” John repeated and went on to explain that ‘Du’ means three in Latin, similar to the French ‘deux’. “Oh shit. Hang on. I meant to say two!” Nick delivered a withering look. Maureen thought it meant ‘Whitlam’, but was told by Beryl to shut up. “What was the question”, asked Mitzi, at which point she spilt her wine across our answer sheet. Nick swore!
I had to join another team. Nick: jees, a right royal pain, a prick by any other name