QLL: Broken Hearts 50-40 Chester Army
Do You Think I'm Paranoid? I Know I'm Silly
Another win. When I said to the Chester Army that "we used to lose to you guys all the time" they said that we BHs had strengthened considerably since then (which may or may not be a reflection on those who have flown the Broken Hearted roost). Beforehand Chester Army were making noises about this season being the one where they were going down on account of factors like the questions and not having young children to answer them. I didn't think this is the case and was still remembering their giving us a several memorable beatings over the years (I talk of the years now ... it's been years ... jeez). Then we played the match and daylight more or less opened between our scores, letting in mostly sustained periods of metaphorical sun.
There were one or two scary periods, but we pulled it back. At the end we were left ruing a few rudimentary and terrible mistakes that made us feel a bit silly to be honest. We could have scored about five to eight more points just by being a bit more careful.
I can't believe I got the title of the novel that is subtitled: "A Parish Boy's Progress" wrong. Since Sean seemed so sure, I went with my entirely false gut instinct (must have been a spot of dyspepsia) and spouted "David Copperfield" when everyone else in the catchment area of the room we were playing in (much cleaned up and emptied of kit bags with ringing phones in them) knew it was "Oliver Twist". Man, I hate Charles Dickens. I think my continuing failure to get any questions about him right, stemming from my first appearance on Fifteen to One getting a question about Barnaby Rudge wrong to last bloody night, is the reason why I refuse to read his breeze block-sized books. They are painful reminders of trivia failures past. So sod Boz.
But then I did my best impression of the nascent Darth Vader at the end of Revenge of the Sith - "Nooooo!!!!" - not once but twice, thanks to Sean saying that Barca play at the Bernabeu and Lucy not Ruth Wilson played the latest Jane Eyre. So you see, shares in the profligacy are shared out. Everyone bears the burden of shambolic mental processing more or less equally. In the end.
Anyway, listen to this disturbing exchange.
Jesse: "Yes, I scored more than [the author of this blog] for the first time this season."
Me: "That's only because you've been stealing all the bonuses."
Jesse: "That's because you've been stealing them for three years."
OOH, handbags. That isn't strictly true. In fact, it's a damned lie from a power maddened scoundrel. Whenever I captained I was always generous with the bonuses like. Thus, we can firmly point the finger at Stainer, he who has departed and takes cabs everywhere, who would often pilfer them or give them to Bayley. Because they were formerly part of an Oxford mafia-like faction within the BHs hellbent on filling their own points coffers and looking after their dreaming spired own.
In fact, Jesse seems to be the only one who really cares about his score (he writes them down! He writes other peoples' down!) and must have been thinking when he took on the mantle of Team Secretary: "All these beautiful bonuses are now mine, mine, MINE!!". Unfortunately, this kind of habit spreads like a disease and turns everyone into hyper-competitive prima donnas who sacrifice team unity for their own filthy, magnificent scores. It's evil, I tells ya, and I will soon be shouting out answers as soon as the word "Team" is heard, never mind who delegates and what where. Solipsism rules.
Now I would print Jesse's nice little reports about our matches but some of the descriptive elements are, how shall I sat, a tad libellous. He would spend months in jail and we would be deprived of I quote from past correspondence, a "fantastic guy" and "a fantastic quizzer" who came SECOND in the last Quizzing GP. Yes, he came SECOND. (You think he should get his own right of reply? Well, he refuses to blog and says his fiancee is the real writer. So I shall continue ribbing him mercilessly until he revises such an opinion and starts to believe that maybe he could be the greatest blogger ever seen - like Nabokov turning from Russian to English - and give it a go)
Thankfully, the ham and tuna sandwiches that had made our gullets contract and our tongues wibble with green nausea were gone. To be replaced by a pretty humdrum collection of sarnies characterised by huge lumps of butter. Though a vast improvement, I still went to that noodle bar opposite Kings Cross station and had some deep fried chicken wings (hey, chicken wings are a perfect half time quiz league food).
Another win. When I said to the Chester Army that "we used to lose to you guys all the time" they said that we BHs had strengthened considerably since then (which may or may not be a reflection on those who have flown the Broken Hearted roost). Beforehand Chester Army were making noises about this season being the one where they were going down on account of factors like the questions and not having young children to answer them. I didn't think this is the case and was still remembering their giving us a several memorable beatings over the years (I talk of the years now ... it's been years ... jeez). Then we played the match and daylight more or less opened between our scores, letting in mostly sustained periods of metaphorical sun.
There were one or two scary periods, but we pulled it back. At the end we were left ruing a few rudimentary and terrible mistakes that made us feel a bit silly to be honest. We could have scored about five to eight more points just by being a bit more careful.
I can't believe I got the title of the novel that is subtitled: "A Parish Boy's Progress" wrong. Since Sean seemed so sure, I went with my entirely false gut instinct (must have been a spot of dyspepsia) and spouted "David Copperfield" when everyone else in the catchment area of the room we were playing in (much cleaned up and emptied of kit bags with ringing phones in them) knew it was "Oliver Twist". Man, I hate Charles Dickens. I think my continuing failure to get any questions about him right, stemming from my first appearance on Fifteen to One getting a question about Barnaby Rudge wrong to last bloody night, is the reason why I refuse to read his breeze block-sized books. They are painful reminders of trivia failures past. So sod Boz.
But then I did my best impression of the nascent Darth Vader at the end of Revenge of the Sith - "Nooooo!!!!" - not once but twice, thanks to Sean saying that Barca play at the Bernabeu and Lucy not Ruth Wilson played the latest Jane Eyre. So you see, shares in the profligacy are shared out. Everyone bears the burden of shambolic mental processing more or less equally. In the end.
Anyway, listen to this disturbing exchange.
Jesse: "Yes, I scored more than [the author of this blog] for the first time this season."
Me: "That's only because you've been stealing all the bonuses."
Jesse: "That's because you've been stealing them for three years."
OOH, handbags. That isn't strictly true. In fact, it's a damned lie from a power maddened scoundrel. Whenever I captained I was always generous with the bonuses like. Thus, we can firmly point the finger at Stainer, he who has departed and takes cabs everywhere, who would often pilfer them or give them to Bayley. Because they were formerly part of an Oxford mafia-like faction within the BHs hellbent on filling their own points coffers and looking after their dreaming spired own.
In fact, Jesse seems to be the only one who really cares about his score (he writes them down! He writes other peoples' down!) and must have been thinking when he took on the mantle of Team Secretary: "All these beautiful bonuses are now mine, mine, MINE!!". Unfortunately, this kind of habit spreads like a disease and turns everyone into hyper-competitive prima donnas who sacrifice team unity for their own filthy, magnificent scores. It's evil, I tells ya, and I will soon be shouting out answers as soon as the word "Team" is heard, never mind who delegates and what where. Solipsism rules.
Now I would print Jesse's nice little reports about our matches but some of the descriptive elements are, how shall I sat, a tad libellous. He would spend months in jail and we would be deprived of I quote from past correspondence, a "fantastic guy" and "a fantastic quizzer" who came SECOND in the last Quizzing GP. Yes, he came SECOND. (You think he should get his own right of reply? Well, he refuses to blog and says his fiancee is the real writer. So I shall continue ribbing him mercilessly until he revises such an opinion and starts to believe that maybe he could be the greatest blogger ever seen - like Nabokov turning from Russian to English - and give it a go)
Thankfully, the ham and tuna sandwiches that had made our gullets contract and our tongues wibble with green nausea were gone. To be replaced by a pretty humdrum collection of sarnies characterised by huge lumps of butter. Though a vast improvement, I still went to that noodle bar opposite Kings Cross station and had some deep fried chicken wings (hey, chicken wings are a perfect half time quiz league food).
posted by That Quiz Guy at 6:32 AM
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