The Mammoth, Navel-Gazing 2007 EQC Trilogy is Complete
Blackpool Part III: Better Than Lethal Weapon 3, Rush Hour 3 and Superman III Put Together. And Far Far Longer Too.
Nations Cup, I mean Aspirational Cup, curse our rotten public transport system: Champions F*** YEAH!
Well, what can I say. I'm a bit of a last minute doofus and British rail are a bunch of buffoons who obviously wanted to sabotage the national team's chances by saying my train was "full". Forgive them for they knew not what they did. I got there ten minutes early, the smegheads. I would have been happy being pinned upright to a carriage corridor wall for three hours, as long as I got to Blackpool in time. You hear me BR? GRRROWL. Not that that was what I shouted. Or, indeed, growled like a rabid, foamy-mouthed dog. Instead, I dragged myself to the nearest shop wall and slunk on it in dejected mode. Thus, my England senior team place was snatched away by cruel fate. The quiz gods were angry with me that day. They were obviously telling me that I should have got seat reservation. Except I say NO. I want my Saver Return freedom. I need that freedom. So did William Wallace. Don't you curtail my freedom you fascists. (Not entirely sure who the fascists are, but I am sure there are some undermining me, somewhere in the cosmos).
But what's past is past - except in Faulkner's Deep South - and so I parachuted into the "C" team for the last of the four Aspirational Cup qualification rounds, ruing the fact that I had missed round three with its Uxmal, Gran Turismo, Taqwacore and comparatively loads of others that would have put us through to the knockout stages of the Aspirational competition (the UEFA Cup portion of the weekend's itinerary) if my train from Preston hadn't been 20 goddamn minutes late.
Well, it didn't matter anyway because I swapped places with Nic in the A team after the kind, patriotic chap gave away his seat for the good of the country (his words being paraphrased). The tournament rules had been bent somewhat, yes, but playing one round hardly deserves cup-tying does it? It's not like it really truly madly matters. Does it? Not in a "friendly" tournament. (Ok, I'll stop there and will obey the law from now on, maybe.
I am not usually conscious at this time of day, or even early afternoon
The semi-final saw us pitted against the Belgian Babes (all of whom were men ... the name may have been ironic). It was morning. Early morning ... about the time I usually go to bed actually. However, we taxed their asses. And the taxing was firmly in the highest ass-taxing band. But, stepping out of "rude swagger twat" mode, (sorry guys, I didn't mean the bits about ass-taxing ... maybe I watch too much WWE and pop far too many steroid pills for my delicate psyche) the questions fell well for us, starting with our "tactic" of hitting the subjects that Belgium are notoriously good at: sports and arts and oh the humanities! and seeing John get all three swimmer questions without breaking sweat settled us in good and proper. In the end I think we won by 51 points. Not bad, the modest among us might comment.
(Highly amusing moment: Saying "The Fuck Truck" to the "impossible" European reality TV series about filming hookers and their clients. The answer was The Love Truck. Don't try to ponder why I might have come up with such a guess. There are stygian places in my head you don't want to visit. He says like a right demonic monkey.)
Meeting Our Destiny
The final, played out before a packed crowd of one (John's wife), was a skittery affair from the off. Skittery and nervous because Belgian teams always make you jittery and worried on account of their brilliant hardcore reputation, team ethic and encyclopaedic know-how. And I must admit, they are still better scholars of the knowledge that matters than us Trivial Pursuitists here in Good Old Blighty. I felt nervous because even if you are beating them by 20 points at the halfway stage they could come back. With a vengeance. Or at least that's what we think. Or I always think in my paranoid competitive quiz trance; my fears made more horrific by flashbacks - WAIT! There one goes again! *shivers* - to last year's Nations Cup final where our first half lead swiftly evaporated and a succession of nasty errors left us beaten and down.
However, the lead held, aided by some lucky plucking of subjects on our part (thank heavens for the Hitchcock trio; and I thought they were going to ask about Alfred's casting directors. How dumb was that? How loco. I can be a mindless cazzo on occasion) and our once again going for categories Belgium Anarchy would have lapped up (or the ones yours truly was paranoid about them picking up and making off with disheartening full point complements). Have I mentioned the word "paranoid" one too many times? Anyway, it worked a right treat. PARANOIA RULES!
The final score: England A 87 - 62 Belgium Anarchy. Nice one. A good, convivial match, yet one set on a knife-edge made slightly confusing by each side's laptops. A really sharp blade, in fact (but aren't they all when it comes down to trophy collection?). Silver platter number two ready to shine strangely in my face (see the Facebook photo).
Paul, our opposing captain, said there was a bit too much American stuff, but it is not as if English teams are fully tapped into Yankee pop culture (I mean, is Larry the Cable Guy seriously the most popular stand-up in the States? Are they serious? Then again, I think of Jethro and Roy Chubby Brown and any sense of superiority instantly evaporates.) When faced with the trash questions that Ken, Ed and the other members of Team USA had brought over for the first evening of brain-frying festivities and unbelievable bafflement, you realise how little we know about the trivia our Transatlantic cousins call their own let alone the trivia that thrives in non-Anglosphere nations - though I was inordinately proud of getting the Brett Ratner toss-up after the single derogatory quote made about his awful directing skills - for he is a deadly danger to celluloid, wherever it may be (please keep him away from the means of cinema production). Plus, it pays to read blogs like Cinematical at least five times an hour.
The US vs. Europe midnight showdown or, less dramatically, friendly exhibition team match:
It was Ryder Cup action time, a time that was incidentally approaching early morning, and a select band of people who happened to be hanging around the hotel rather than exploring the more interesting features of a Blackpool blighted by weather still so horrific you were constantly making bad Captain Oates jokes, were up against an American quartet plus new US citizen Kevin Ashman, who quite possibly took an oath of allegiance in order to justify his new Yanqui status seconds before proceedings commenced (Ken "El Supremo" Jennings was lost to the waking world in his bedroom: sleeping soundly and NOT being bound and gagged by nefarious Euro-villains).
Some Pun To Do With Flipping
The European team was made up of various representatives from the national senior and A teams, and both wanting to reprazent the Aspirationals I tossed a coin with Bayley to decide which of us would take the England A berth. I won, even though I charitably suggested a best-of-three goes when Ian scrutinised my ten pence coin for potential rigging (now that's paranoid). I also insisted that I do the tossing (HNURFF HNURFF - insinnuendo alert) because when he tossed the thing off it seemed to try and take off into space or at least land 20 metres across the room. Bayley is officially the worst tosser I've seen in my entire life. And you've got that in writing.
The questions were tough (No! You don't say), but while Europe's ragtag bunch built up a respectable but hardly insurmountable lead, the US was never far behind and was soon catching up. Nearing the match's endgame, our fatal misunderstanding of a Robert Falcon Scott set completely blew us off course. We ignored the snowy explorer suggesting subject title. We ignored the fact that the photographic portrait actually did look like Captain Scott. That silly, stubborn bastard who looked nothing like dashing John Mills. Instead we dawdled and murmured wrong answers and handed the match-winning initiative to them lot across the way.
The Denouement
When the last trio of questions for the US - cryptically titled "In Dreams" - was revealed, I made an audible yet muffled howl of anguish (I really have to keep my emotions in check in future times of high quiz drama; some sort of volume control would be good, or perhaps vocal chord snipping is required) on discovering that it was about dream sequence scenes from films (but where was Top Secret and the Skeet Surfing song? I later thought. It was hilarity deprived)*, knowing full well that Kevin was the film buff extraordinaire king superman. Defeat was surely on the cards for Europe. I thought Kevin was going to nail them without mercy and without hesitation and that the match was over. I indulged in floppy, resigned and then mildly aggressive body language meant to convey the overpowering feeling that everything was lost. Team USA + As-Good-As-One-Team Ashman were about to go all triumphant in their own modest way.
*CORRECTION: Oops. That isn't actually a dream sequence. I momentarily confused it with Val Kilmer being tortured by the fat simpleton and the blind guy and his hallucinating he was back in high school - same set as the song, you see - and Val realising, quite joyfully, that he was in actuality being brutally beaten to death. But still, it is hilarious. If you haven't seen Top Secret, please do. The goodbye scene at the end always makes me shed a tear or two. Or even three.
Here came the clips. My worst fears were not allayed: Hitchcock's Spellbound was IDed pronto and so was Wild Strawberries. Easy. Then the last clip and last question of the match was screened. I immediately clocked it as Mulholland Drive (the truly terrifying bit - and here it is courtesy of YouTube! - involving ominous music and a man with a face burned to blackness emerging from behind a dumpster to make two approaching heavies completely fill their pants with shit and then some, along with every viewer ... I must confess since I knew what was coming I turned away not wanting to get that nasty, jump-up scare I suffered the first time I saw the scene). Now, I thought, Kevin should still get it.
But what was this? No immediate answer was forthcoming. There was intense and profound discussion. Brows were furrowed intensely. Then it became obvious - viewing proceedings from the opposition table - that none of our (temporary) nemeses had seen the film - not even Kevin! - and that guessing was the order of the day. My own resignation quickly faded away and there emerged instead a kind of idiotic, anticipatory glee as I knew the chances of them identifying a sinister LA-based weirdfest of a film without any familiar acting faces to guide them were slim.
Flushed with a growing yet ever so twatty triumphalism, I readied myself to go in for the coup de grace and smugly bark out our winning bonus point when their hopefully fingers-crossed wrong punt was announced. And lo, their incorrect answer came to pass and I blurted it out - imitating an annoying smart-arsed nerd (wait, that may actually be a good description of me at most quiz-related times) who couldn't wait to get the answer out in front of their unimpressed and hateful schoolmates - the very second we were handed our match-winning opening by Chris, the quiz master of ceremonies.
Victory Was Ours!
Yes, Victory Was Ours! We had won an exhibition match! It didn't actually matter at all, but then it did! They always do! Getting caught up in the moment and all that, I considered improvising some routines inspired by the horrifically watchable battle-of-words that is Yo Momma!, but thought better of engaging in a maternal-related insult exchange. Because I am not a complete cock. And possibly because they would have hit me very hard in very sensitive places all over my puny body, breaking bones like they were the matchsticks and other, er, brittle, easily snappable (is that a word?) things.
The American team, whom we thanked muchly for coming to this "awful place" for starters (hey, Great God! I'm riffing on Captain Scott, man. He would have found Blackpool's weather system rather challenging dare I say) in the name of quiz competition, were true and enthusiastic gentleman in defeat. All of us were human beings in perfect harmony (wait, that line nearly drew out my natural cynicism in the form of a little barf-spurt, but I have stopped it with all my neck strength and all is saved, and perhaps even my soul). However, this was what great quizzing is all about. Down-to-the-wire tension concluded by smile-accompanied handshakes and beers and friendly chatter at the end. It was nice.
So - going back to the match post-mortem, as you inevitably do when you are one of us - thank the gods of Mount Olympus that neither Laura Harring nor Naomi Watts made a helpful appearance. If the lovely ladies had popped up, lezzed up (as they do in the movie) as they do in the movie, Kevin would have surely got it, but no. Thank God, no. We had snatched victory by one point. Snatched being a truly apposite word in this situation. And a win is a win. A win by one point is fantabuloso. A win by the narrowest of margins against our prodigal sons (well, not mine, or Jussi's or ...) from across the sea was surely enough euphoric payback for Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown. And then some. I may be heading into hyperbolic territory here. You have my permission to prevent me travelling further with the aid of a super-sharp hatchet. I probably deserve it.
Naturally, it demonstrated the innate superiority of European Union (a Hungarian, an Englishman who happened to have Filipino-Norwegian heritage, an Irishman, a Welshman and a Finn) against the US millionaires, even when they had been enhanced by The Ashman (wait, that sounds like some sort of awful Batman or Spiderman villain doesn't it?) And you know what we all pulled together, each contributing important answers. It almost makes you think that the EU Constitution is a good idea. Almost.
By the way, Bob Harris has a far more concise and sane version of our match-up, as well as the EQC right here.
The Flemish aftershow: 3rd.
However, my proudest moment of the entire weekend arrived late Sunday afternoon. Despite the insanity-inducing physical sensation that my brain was disintegrating and its constituent neurones were separating from their cerebral moorings after a weekend in which quiz questions had flooded my head in truly damaging and monumental volumes, about 20 of us still-keen - well just about - stragglers settled down to do 140 non-Belgian biased questions from the recently held 2007 Flemish individual championships (they were translated into English of course; I don't think we would have coped so well with the original Dutch) in the darkened Derby Room.
As ever I steamed through it with maniacal haste as I seem to do with all question papers of late, gladly finding many questions to my liking. Yes, these were the kind of questions my BH quizzes are full to the brim with. I wondered if something on Captain Alatriste - another "destiny" question like Krav Maga - was going to make an appearance during the weekend, and sure enough it did. Even if it was in one of the informal afterthought events. It appeared, okay? But then a quiz is a quiz is a quiz is a terrible Gertrude Stein reference. Which has, in itself, given me a really silly idea for a Facebook Status Update. Those who know, know how silly it could be.
Where is My Mind. Please Bring It Back
But, alas, my fatigue-ridden tactics saw me completely flunk some absolute sitters. Remember Ronnie Rosenthal's open goal doozy? Oh yes. It got that bad on at least two occasions. As usual I scanned the capitalised nouns, or even the whole first sentence if I was really taking my time, and contrived some ugly, hideous errors I will surely take to the grave, cursing as I go.
One I Will Go On About Forever
One question on Casino Royale asked for Le Chiffre's actor. Ah! Mads Mikkelsen! I wrote it down. Unfortunately, I failed to read the other 95 per cent of the question, instead settling for the first five words whilst ignoring the helpful picture stapled to the back of the paper. Had I deigned to see the picture I would have seen raucous-looking fat boy Orson Welles - Le Chiffre from the original, wacky version that everybody thinks is a smouldering tip of donkey turds - laughing it up, and not the ultra-cool Dane with the bloody teardrops. I then re-read, I mean read the whole question the first time once the paper had been swapped for grading and realised that the sixth and seventh words said "Mads Mikkelsen" thus marking me out as some sort of hare-brained imbecile. You should never put down an answer that appears in the question. How silly; how embarrassing and scarlet blush-worthy. After all was done, I began brandishing my question paper at anybody in audible range, shaking proof of my idiocy in an appropriately idiotic manner (which was another way of saying LOOK! I really got that point you know. I should have got more. Believe me. Please believe me.)
Same thing went for the heroin Golden Triangle question. I put down Annam, purely because I thought it was asking for an area of Vietnam (the last of the triangulated points), rather than the said phrase that I knew so well from films like Air America, American Gangster and any other number of flicks featuring enterprising drug smugglers and CIA black ops trying to make some serious dough during Nam. Once again my powers of perception were quite simply rubbish 10. This is what 48 hours of quizzing does to you. Your decisions become increasingly inexplicable. They turn against you. The bastards.
Everyone's Scrambled Brains
But, undoubtedly, Kevin and Pat had also struggled to keep it together with answers they knew but failed to put down on account of the marathon weekend. We were no longer fresh as daisies in springtime sunshine. We were chaff being incinerated in the Australian Outback. Or at least our once working minds were. Now we were utterly zombified. Visibly wilted - IN THE FACE! - by the renewed question onslaught. We were men whose brains had almost been successfully scooped entirely from our craniums, then analysed and found to be operating at far less than optimum power. I felt almost as if I was left with nothing mentally, no way to work out or deduce, merely left to rely on those reflex answers that come without the slightest strain involved in thinking like really really hard. By now I was incapable of reasoning and teasing answers out in the usual manner due to the overwhelming cumulative fatigue. Memory recall can only be tested, tried and teased then torn apart so much before it yields to dysfunction and illogicality. Entropy in action, as it were and was.
Still, it did not prevent us posting highly respectable scores, considering the circumstances. We three (The K.O.P) pulled away from the pack with margins of ten points or more during the first half. Pat had 51/70, Kevin 49/70 and I was tugging on their metaphorical coat-tails with 47. I was within grabbing distance.
The second half was by common consent far harder. To be honest, I didn't really notice. I never moan about difficult questions anymore since I am such a voluminous dealer in them. I get hit with them every day as a matter of personal routine, so I couldn't discern the massive difficulty shift. This reassured me somewhat. So when the final scores were announced in ascending order I have to say I hadn't felt quite so excited all weekend (maybe this was something to do with the real possibility of my breaking up the Gibson-Ashman duopoly. Such gilded glory waiting in the wings to engulf me! Me. Lowly me). Johann, our mercurial host - whatever the hell mercurial means; it almost always seems to go with hosts of things - announced that Nick Mills had clinched fourth with 67. Then came the canyon gap between Nick and the top three.
Drum Roll Please
The scores? Moi with 90 ("Doh!"), Kevin Ashman with 91 ("Oh, only one point behind") and Pat Gibson with 92 ("Wow, that's what you call good bunching"). Damn that was close. So close. I managed to win the second half, but naturally that didn't matter: I still lost. But in a very triumphant-feeling way - the opposite of a Pyrrhic victory - a feeling perhaps compounded by Mark, me old People's Quiz mucker, going on about me being "the once and future champion" (Mark was too chicken to do the quiz. He don't like this international stuff. Too international. He be a pub man). Ah, nowt like a good ego-massage, though if this Welsh prophecy is to come true I may have to eliminate Jesse in a Machiavellian, possibly and ultimately fatal fashion to ensure such glory comes my way (or any other upstart wunderkinder in a Livia-like fashion; yes, imagine me painting figs in the garden with poison. I warned ya). Nevertheless, it is heartening evidence of progress. I have time, if I choose to stay this particular course. I'll stop sounding like some Terminator-style robot now.
Relatively Pointless Comparisons and Further Pinpricks of Regret
The Belgian champion Ronny Swiggers, we were told, scored 94 on the world-relevant questions we took, so we didn't do too shabbily, even if names like "Firewire" and "Shibam" still come back to haunt me at inopportune moments (and I thought my silly phonetic memory connection with a certain Ricky Martin song would have helped me get that last one). Like now. AAARRGHH! Moments of sordid regret. Moments that make regular home visits to my brain, like a kind of malice-driven GP administering prescribed doses of bad medicine in a kind of Bizarro world. But then such an outcome is powerful fuel for future campaigns (you see? I'm turning all Patton-esque. I know you you you know whats. I read your books!). That will always be my ultimate view on defeats whether crushing or close. Ultimately, I am an extreme optimist when it comes to the quiz future we have yet to embrace. A future I hope is not marred by nuclear apocalypse or calamitous climate change, or an unfortunate combination of both.
Final Conclusion Before One Sad Note
I really enjoyed this year's EQC. It gets a double-thumbs up from me, and an extra-wide grin on top. And I'm being serious. I love the forging of our European quiz community. It makes me feel all warm inside, albeit with the hot side-effects of growing competitiveness and devious eyeball-swivelling. Quiz unites. It really does. Er, if you like quizzes that is. But let's forget about those that deride and laugh at such an enjoyable activity. Boo to them. No. Have a DOUBLE BOO.
And how can I forget (even if it actually happened last year, tempus fugit and all that)? Many thanks to Chris, Jane, Steven, Arko, Vibeke and everyone else who helped organise the event.
Lest we forget: A Departed Friend
Of course, the sudden death of Lieven Van den Brande just a few days later cast a shocking pall over the event's genial afterglow. Two of my fellow Broken Hearts quizzed with him on the third-finishing team Les Couers Blesses at Lesigny in 2006 and we can all testify that he knew some astonishing things and was a mighty fine quizzer, and also a competitor us internationalists should thank for making the effort to visit foreign fields and compete in EQCs for the good of the world we call quiz. I often found myself outside in the treacherous cold and rain - where all smokers now naturally belong - smoking a quick fag in his vicinity and exchanging a pleasant word or too. A bloody good bloke, a true character and one, as everyone else has commented, who will be missed. I for one will never forget the look of pure delight that flashed across his face as he clinched second place in the individuals. It gladdened my heart then as much as it saddens me to remember his runner-up smile this very moment. Farewell, Lieven. We will remember.
Nations Cup, I mean Aspirational Cup, curse our rotten public transport system: Champions F*** YEAH!
Well, what can I say. I'm a bit of a last minute doofus and British rail are a bunch of buffoons who obviously wanted to sabotage the national team's chances by saying my train was "full". Forgive them for they knew not what they did. I got there ten minutes early, the smegheads. I would have been happy being pinned upright to a carriage corridor wall for three hours, as long as I got to Blackpool in time. You hear me BR? GRRROWL. Not that that was what I shouted. Or, indeed, growled like a rabid, foamy-mouthed dog. Instead, I dragged myself to the nearest shop wall and slunk on it in dejected mode. Thus, my England senior team place was snatched away by cruel fate. The quiz gods were angry with me that day. They were obviously telling me that I should have got seat reservation. Except I say NO. I want my Saver Return freedom. I need that freedom. So did William Wallace. Don't you curtail my freedom you fascists. (Not entirely sure who the fascists are, but I am sure there are some undermining me, somewhere in the cosmos).
But what's past is past - except in Faulkner's Deep South - and so I parachuted into the "C" team for the last of the four Aspirational Cup qualification rounds, ruing the fact that I had missed round three with its Uxmal, Gran Turismo, Taqwacore and comparatively loads of others that would have put us through to the knockout stages of the Aspirational competition (the UEFA Cup portion of the weekend's itinerary) if my train from Preston hadn't been 20 goddamn minutes late.
Well, it didn't matter anyway because I swapped places with Nic in the A team after the kind, patriotic chap gave away his seat for the good of the country (his words being paraphrased). The tournament rules had been bent somewhat, yes, but playing one round hardly deserves cup-tying does it? It's not like it really truly madly matters. Does it? Not in a "friendly" tournament. (Ok, I'll stop there and will obey the law from now on, maybe.
I am not usually conscious at this time of day, or even early afternoon
The semi-final saw us pitted against the Belgian Babes (all of whom were men ... the name may have been ironic). It was morning. Early morning ... about the time I usually go to bed actually. However, we taxed their asses. And the taxing was firmly in the highest ass-taxing band. But, stepping out of "rude swagger twat" mode, (sorry guys, I didn't mean the bits about ass-taxing ... maybe I watch too much WWE and pop far too many steroid pills for my delicate psyche) the questions fell well for us, starting with our "tactic" of hitting the subjects that Belgium are notoriously good at: sports and arts and oh the humanities! and seeing John get all three swimmer questions without breaking sweat settled us in good and proper. In the end I think we won by 51 points. Not bad, the modest among us might comment.
(Highly amusing moment: Saying "The Fuck Truck" to the "impossible" European reality TV series about filming hookers and their clients. The answer was The Love Truck. Don't try to ponder why I might have come up with such a guess. There are stygian places in my head you don't want to visit. He says like a right demonic monkey.)
Meeting Our Destiny
The final, played out before a packed crowd of one (John's wife), was a skittery affair from the off. Skittery and nervous because Belgian teams always make you jittery and worried on account of their brilliant hardcore reputation, team ethic and encyclopaedic know-how. And I must admit, they are still better scholars of the knowledge that matters than us Trivial Pursuitists here in Good Old Blighty. I felt nervous because even if you are beating them by 20 points at the halfway stage they could come back. With a vengeance. Or at least that's what we think. Or I always think in my paranoid competitive quiz trance; my fears made more horrific by flashbacks - WAIT! There one goes again! *shivers* - to last year's Nations Cup final where our first half lead swiftly evaporated and a succession of nasty errors left us beaten and down.
However, the lead held, aided by some lucky plucking of subjects on our part (thank heavens for the Hitchcock trio; and I thought they were going to ask about Alfred's casting directors. How dumb was that? How loco. I can be a mindless cazzo on occasion) and our once again going for categories Belgium Anarchy would have lapped up (or the ones yours truly was paranoid about them picking up and making off with disheartening full point complements). Have I mentioned the word "paranoid" one too many times? Anyway, it worked a right treat. PARANOIA RULES!
The final score: England A 87 - 62 Belgium Anarchy. Nice one. A good, convivial match, yet one set on a knife-edge made slightly confusing by each side's laptops. A really sharp blade, in fact (but aren't they all when it comes down to trophy collection?). Silver platter number two ready to shine strangely in my face (see the Facebook photo).
Paul, our opposing captain, said there was a bit too much American stuff, but it is not as if English teams are fully tapped into Yankee pop culture (I mean, is Larry the Cable Guy seriously the most popular stand-up in the States? Are they serious? Then again, I think of Jethro and Roy Chubby Brown and any sense of superiority instantly evaporates.) When faced with the trash questions that Ken, Ed and the other members of Team USA had brought over for the first evening of brain-frying festivities and unbelievable bafflement, you realise how little we know about the trivia our Transatlantic cousins call their own let alone the trivia that thrives in non-Anglosphere nations - though I was inordinately proud of getting the Brett Ratner toss-up after the single derogatory quote made about his awful directing skills - for he is a deadly danger to celluloid, wherever it may be (please keep him away from the means of cinema production). Plus, it pays to read blogs like Cinematical at least five times an hour.
The US vs. Europe midnight showdown or, less dramatically, friendly exhibition team match:
It was Ryder Cup action time, a time that was incidentally approaching early morning, and a select band of people who happened to be hanging around the hotel rather than exploring the more interesting features of a Blackpool blighted by weather still so horrific you were constantly making bad Captain Oates jokes, were up against an American quartet plus new US citizen Kevin Ashman, who quite possibly took an oath of allegiance in order to justify his new Yanqui status seconds before proceedings commenced (Ken "El Supremo" Jennings was lost to the waking world in his bedroom: sleeping soundly and NOT being bound and gagged by nefarious Euro-villains).
Some Pun To Do With Flipping
The European team was made up of various representatives from the national senior and A teams, and both wanting to reprazent the Aspirationals I tossed a coin with Bayley to decide which of us would take the England A berth. I won, even though I charitably suggested a best-of-three goes when Ian scrutinised my ten pence coin for potential rigging (now that's paranoid). I also insisted that I do the tossing (HNURFF HNURFF - insinnuendo alert) because when he tossed the thing off it seemed to try and take off into space or at least land 20 metres across the room. Bayley is officially the worst tosser I've seen in my entire life. And you've got that in writing.
The questions were tough (No! You don't say), but while Europe's ragtag bunch built up a respectable but hardly insurmountable lead, the US was never far behind and was soon catching up. Nearing the match's endgame, our fatal misunderstanding of a Robert Falcon Scott set completely blew us off course. We ignored the snowy explorer suggesting subject title. We ignored the fact that the photographic portrait actually did look like Captain Scott. That silly, stubborn bastard who looked nothing like dashing John Mills. Instead we dawdled and murmured wrong answers and handed the match-winning initiative to them lot across the way.
The Denouement
When the last trio of questions for the US - cryptically titled "In Dreams" - was revealed, I made an audible yet muffled howl of anguish (I really have to keep my emotions in check in future times of high quiz drama; some sort of volume control would be good, or perhaps vocal chord snipping is required) on discovering that it was about dream sequence scenes from films (but where was Top Secret and the Skeet Surfing song? I later thought. It was hilarity deprived)*, knowing full well that Kevin was the film buff extraordinaire king superman. Defeat was surely on the cards for Europe. I thought Kevin was going to nail them without mercy and without hesitation and that the match was over. I indulged in floppy, resigned and then mildly aggressive body language meant to convey the overpowering feeling that everything was lost. Team USA + As-Good-As-One-Team Ashman were about to go all triumphant in their own modest way.
*CORRECTION: Oops. That isn't actually a dream sequence. I momentarily confused it with Val Kilmer being tortured by the fat simpleton and the blind guy and his hallucinating he was back in high school - same set as the song, you see - and Val realising, quite joyfully, that he was in actuality being brutally beaten to death. But still, it is hilarious. If you haven't seen Top Secret, please do. The goodbye scene at the end always makes me shed a tear or two. Or even three.
Here came the clips. My worst fears were not allayed: Hitchcock's Spellbound was IDed pronto and so was Wild Strawberries. Easy. Then the last clip and last question of the match was screened. I immediately clocked it as Mulholland Drive (the truly terrifying bit - and here it is courtesy of YouTube! - involving ominous music and a man with a face burned to blackness emerging from behind a dumpster to make two approaching heavies completely fill their pants with shit and then some, along with every viewer ... I must confess since I knew what was coming I turned away not wanting to get that nasty, jump-up scare I suffered the first time I saw the scene). Now, I thought, Kevin should still get it.
But what was this? No immediate answer was forthcoming. There was intense and profound discussion. Brows were furrowed intensely. Then it became obvious - viewing proceedings from the opposition table - that none of our (temporary) nemeses had seen the film - not even Kevin! - and that guessing was the order of the day. My own resignation quickly faded away and there emerged instead a kind of idiotic, anticipatory glee as I knew the chances of them identifying a sinister LA-based weirdfest of a film without any familiar acting faces to guide them were slim.
Flushed with a growing yet ever so twatty triumphalism, I readied myself to go in for the coup de grace and smugly bark out our winning bonus point when their hopefully fingers-crossed wrong punt was announced. And lo, their incorrect answer came to pass and I blurted it out - imitating an annoying smart-arsed nerd (wait, that may actually be a good description of me at most quiz-related times) who couldn't wait to get the answer out in front of their unimpressed and hateful schoolmates - the very second we were handed our match-winning opening by Chris, the quiz master of ceremonies.
Victory Was Ours!
Yes, Victory Was Ours! We had won an exhibition match! It didn't actually matter at all, but then it did! They always do! Getting caught up in the moment and all that, I considered improvising some routines inspired by the horrifically watchable battle-of-words that is Yo Momma!, but thought better of engaging in a maternal-related insult exchange. Because I am not a complete cock. And possibly because they would have hit me very hard in very sensitive places all over my puny body, breaking bones like they were the matchsticks and other, er, brittle, easily snappable (is that a word?) things.
The American team, whom we thanked muchly for coming to this "awful place" for starters (hey, Great God! I'm riffing on Captain Scott, man. He would have found Blackpool's weather system rather challenging dare I say) in the name of quiz competition, were true and enthusiastic gentleman in defeat. All of us were human beings in perfect harmony (wait, that line nearly drew out my natural cynicism in the form of a little barf-spurt, but I have stopped it with all my neck strength and all is saved, and perhaps even my soul). However, this was what great quizzing is all about. Down-to-the-wire tension concluded by smile-accompanied handshakes and beers and friendly chatter at the end. It was nice.
So - going back to the match post-mortem, as you inevitably do when you are one of us - thank the gods of Mount Olympus that neither Laura Harring nor Naomi Watts made a helpful appearance. If the lovely ladies had popped up, lezzed up (as they do in the movie) as they do in the movie, Kevin would have surely got it, but no. Thank God, no. We had snatched victory by one point. Snatched being a truly apposite word in this situation. And a win is a win. A win by one point is fantabuloso. A win by the narrowest of margins against our prodigal sons (well, not mine, or Jussi's or ...) from across the sea was surely enough euphoric payback for Cornwallis's surrender at Yorktown. And then some. I may be heading into hyperbolic territory here. You have my permission to prevent me travelling further with the aid of a super-sharp hatchet. I probably deserve it.
Naturally, it demonstrated the innate superiority of European Union (a Hungarian, an Englishman who happened to have Filipino-Norwegian heritage, an Irishman, a Welshman and a Finn) against the US millionaires, even when they had been enhanced by The Ashman (wait, that sounds like some sort of awful Batman or Spiderman villain doesn't it?) And you know what we all pulled together, each contributing important answers. It almost makes you think that the EU Constitution is a good idea. Almost.
By the way, Bob Harris has a far more concise and sane version of our match-up, as well as the EQC right here.
The Flemish aftershow: 3rd.
However, my proudest moment of the entire weekend arrived late Sunday afternoon. Despite the insanity-inducing physical sensation that my brain was disintegrating and its constituent neurones were separating from their cerebral moorings after a weekend in which quiz questions had flooded my head in truly damaging and monumental volumes, about 20 of us still-keen - well just about - stragglers settled down to do 140 non-Belgian biased questions from the recently held 2007 Flemish individual championships (they were translated into English of course; I don't think we would have coped so well with the original Dutch) in the darkened Derby Room.
As ever I steamed through it with maniacal haste as I seem to do with all question papers of late, gladly finding many questions to my liking. Yes, these were the kind of questions my BH quizzes are full to the brim with. I wondered if something on Captain Alatriste - another "destiny" question like Krav Maga - was going to make an appearance during the weekend, and sure enough it did. Even if it was in one of the informal afterthought events. It appeared, okay? But then a quiz is a quiz is a quiz is a terrible Gertrude Stein reference. Which has, in itself, given me a really silly idea for a Facebook Status Update. Those who know, know how silly it could be.
Where is My Mind. Please Bring It Back
But, alas, my fatigue-ridden tactics saw me completely flunk some absolute sitters. Remember Ronnie Rosenthal's open goal doozy? Oh yes. It got that bad on at least two occasions. As usual I scanned the capitalised nouns, or even the whole first sentence if I was really taking my time, and contrived some ugly, hideous errors I will surely take to the grave, cursing as I go.
One I Will Go On About Forever
One question on Casino Royale asked for Le Chiffre's actor. Ah! Mads Mikkelsen! I wrote it down. Unfortunately, I failed to read the other 95 per cent of the question, instead settling for the first five words whilst ignoring the helpful picture stapled to the back of the paper. Had I deigned to see the picture I would have seen raucous-looking fat boy Orson Welles - Le Chiffre from the original, wacky version that everybody thinks is a smouldering tip of donkey turds - laughing it up, and not the ultra-cool Dane with the bloody teardrops. I then re-read, I mean read the whole question the first time once the paper had been swapped for grading and realised that the sixth and seventh words said "Mads Mikkelsen" thus marking me out as some sort of hare-brained imbecile. You should never put down an answer that appears in the question. How silly; how embarrassing and scarlet blush-worthy. After all was done, I began brandishing my question paper at anybody in audible range, shaking proof of my idiocy in an appropriately idiotic manner (which was another way of saying LOOK! I really got that point you know. I should have got more. Believe me. Please believe me.)
Same thing went for the heroin Golden Triangle question. I put down Annam, purely because I thought it was asking for an area of Vietnam (the last of the triangulated points), rather than the said phrase that I knew so well from films like Air America, American Gangster and any other number of flicks featuring enterprising drug smugglers and CIA black ops trying to make some serious dough during Nam. Once again my powers of perception were quite simply rubbish 10. This is what 48 hours of quizzing does to you. Your decisions become increasingly inexplicable. They turn against you. The bastards.
Everyone's Scrambled Brains
But, undoubtedly, Kevin and Pat had also struggled to keep it together with answers they knew but failed to put down on account of the marathon weekend. We were no longer fresh as daisies in springtime sunshine. We were chaff being incinerated in the Australian Outback. Or at least our once working minds were. Now we were utterly zombified. Visibly wilted - IN THE FACE! - by the renewed question onslaught. We were men whose brains had almost been successfully scooped entirely from our craniums, then analysed and found to be operating at far less than optimum power. I felt almost as if I was left with nothing mentally, no way to work out or deduce, merely left to rely on those reflex answers that come without the slightest strain involved in thinking like really really hard. By now I was incapable of reasoning and teasing answers out in the usual manner due to the overwhelming cumulative fatigue. Memory recall can only be tested, tried and teased then torn apart so much before it yields to dysfunction and illogicality. Entropy in action, as it were and was.
Still, it did not prevent us posting highly respectable scores, considering the circumstances. We three (The K.O.P) pulled away from the pack with margins of ten points or more during the first half. Pat had 51/70, Kevin 49/70 and I was tugging on their metaphorical coat-tails with 47. I was within grabbing distance.
The second half was by common consent far harder. To be honest, I didn't really notice. I never moan about difficult questions anymore since I am such a voluminous dealer in them. I get hit with them every day as a matter of personal routine, so I couldn't discern the massive difficulty shift. This reassured me somewhat. So when the final scores were announced in ascending order I have to say I hadn't felt quite so excited all weekend (maybe this was something to do with the real possibility of my breaking up the Gibson-Ashman duopoly. Such gilded glory waiting in the wings to engulf me! Me. Lowly me). Johann, our mercurial host - whatever the hell mercurial means; it almost always seems to go with hosts of things - announced that Nick Mills had clinched fourth with 67. Then came the canyon gap between Nick and the top three.
Drum Roll Please
The scores? Moi with 90 ("Doh!"), Kevin Ashman with 91 ("Oh, only one point behind") and Pat Gibson with 92 ("Wow, that's what you call good bunching"). Damn that was close. So close. I managed to win the second half, but naturally that didn't matter: I still lost. But in a very triumphant-feeling way - the opposite of a Pyrrhic victory - a feeling perhaps compounded by Mark, me old People's Quiz mucker, going on about me being "the once and future champion" (Mark was too chicken to do the quiz. He don't like this international stuff. Too international. He be a pub man). Ah, nowt like a good ego-massage, though if this Welsh prophecy is to come true I may have to eliminate Jesse in a Machiavellian, possibly and ultimately fatal fashion to ensure such glory comes my way (or any other upstart wunderkinder in a Livia-like fashion; yes, imagine me painting figs in the garden with poison. I warned ya). Nevertheless, it is heartening evidence of progress. I have time, if I choose to stay this particular course. I'll stop sounding like some Terminator-style robot now.
Relatively Pointless Comparisons and Further Pinpricks of Regret
The Belgian champion Ronny Swiggers, we were told, scored 94 on the world-relevant questions we took, so we didn't do too shabbily, even if names like "Firewire" and "Shibam" still come back to haunt me at inopportune moments (and I thought my silly phonetic memory connection with a certain Ricky Martin song would have helped me get that last one). Like now. AAARRGHH! Moments of sordid regret. Moments that make regular home visits to my brain, like a kind of malice-driven GP administering prescribed doses of bad medicine in a kind of Bizarro world. But then such an outcome is powerful fuel for future campaigns (you see? I'm turning all Patton-esque. I know you you you know whats. I read your books!). That will always be my ultimate view on defeats whether crushing or close. Ultimately, I am an extreme optimist when it comes to the quiz future we have yet to embrace. A future I hope is not marred by nuclear apocalypse or calamitous climate change, or an unfortunate combination of both.
Final Conclusion Before One Sad Note
I really enjoyed this year's EQC. It gets a double-thumbs up from me, and an extra-wide grin on top. And I'm being serious. I love the forging of our European quiz community. It makes me feel all warm inside, albeit with the hot side-effects of growing competitiveness and devious eyeball-swivelling. Quiz unites. It really does. Er, if you like quizzes that is. But let's forget about those that deride and laugh at such an enjoyable activity. Boo to them. No. Have a DOUBLE BOO.
And how can I forget (even if it actually happened last year, tempus fugit and all that)? Many thanks to Chris, Jane, Steven, Arko, Vibeke and everyone else who helped organise the event.
Lest we forget: A Departed Friend
Of course, the sudden death of Lieven Van den Brande just a few days later cast a shocking pall over the event's genial afterglow. Two of my fellow Broken Hearts quizzed with him on the third-finishing team Les Couers Blesses at Lesigny in 2006 and we can all testify that he knew some astonishing things and was a mighty fine quizzer, and also a competitor us internationalists should thank for making the effort to visit foreign fields and compete in EQCs for the good of the world we call quiz. I often found myself outside in the treacherous cold and rain - where all smokers now naturally belong - smoking a quick fag in his vicinity and exchanging a pleasant word or too. A bloody good bloke, a true character and one, as everyone else has commented, who will be missed. I for one will never forget the look of pure delight that flashed across his face as he clinched second place in the individuals. It gladdened my heart then as much as it saddens me to remember his runner-up smile this very moment. Farewell, Lieven. We will remember.
posted by That Quiz Guy at 8:37 AM
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