Northants in My Pants
First GP of the Year
Saturday saw the quizzing regulars get back into the competitive saddle after the Xmas break. I didn't hang around long and scarpered with my ranking points before lunch was taken, but was certainly glad I made the quick trip to Northampton, especially when I knew it was my President's Cup team-mate Nic was setting the questions in his perpetually interesting and entertaining way.
So it was only the individuals. Stainer and I got down to business to be confronted by questions that seemed markedly harder than years gone by. But though I may let out a plaintive moan at such a turn in events, I knew everyone else would be running into similar obstacles and I do love a good question that I don't know. In the end, we only want to chip away at the gigantic rockface of our ignorance, and such a set helped us do so.
But what is incredibly frustrating is when my brain ceases to function and the easy questions seem to metamorphosise in my brain and become a jumble of words that my cerebral cortex is unable to process properly. The result is me scribbling illogical cack in the answer boxes. I mean, of course that was Camilla Parker-Bowles, of course a scalene triangle has no equal sides and, of course, Algeria is bordered by all those countries. Then there were the ones where I knew, but not well enough to spell them: writing "Petracova" when I meant Petra Nemcova. The same going for "Bradley Whitter" and Bradley Whitford. Darn it twice and thrice. I was lacking clarity in the morning and it cost me little by little, until all the littles combined to create an avalanche of "WHAT WAS I DOING?" during the marking process.
Sure, I got a lot of tricky ones, but it is the straightforward ones that banjaxed on the day. That's great when you have a sentient and alert team working as your safety net, not when you're on your lonesome. I think my SHK count added up to a miserable 27 lost points. Anything more than 15 for me now is a disaster. I have excuses ready, but one rises above all else: January, miserable January when I retreat into a television and internet-encased cocoon and begin to experiment with my sleep patterns in ways that do me no good. My susceptibility to irritability is never as strong as it is during this cursed month of darkness and wet. Please come sweet spring, and at least bring me more sun rays (not that I am enjoying the amount of daylight as it is; I always seem to miss it by a few hours, which means I probably entering full vampire mode).
You're lucky I seem to have misplaced my question paper because if it was lying by my side right now I would list every appalling error and cataclysmic omission right here, right now and rub them in each of our faces as if they were the ashes of oppurtunities well and truly incinerated and gone. So consider yourself spared from an even more detailed and pointless post-mortem (which I secretly love in a way).
However - typical loss of the sense of perspective there - fifth ain't bad at all and there was one victorious crumb of comfort: I was the only person in the entire competition to correctly identify Rodolphe Topffer, the Swiss comics pioneer. Okay, make that an infintesimal crumb that will be taken by the wind in swift fashion. But still, I got me a crumb. Look at my crumb; my singular crumb. I'll stop using the word "crumb" now (brilliant documentary btw: watch it and be both disturbed and delighted).
Results are here
Audition: Not the Piano Wire Kind
I have my Mastermind audition at the Doughnut today (they rejected my wanting to do the original Star Wars trilogy for one of my specialised subjects straight away. Oh well. It just means actual work in learning stuff in detail comes more into play) Do you think they'll let me on?
NB: Bayley has informed me that he too is going for the black chair this series. Game on, I say. Prepare for months of idiotic digs, hugely gamesmanship and total silliness as we hope and pray that we aren't drawn together in the very first round. May we both get fair and balanced general knowledge rounds.
Saturday saw the quizzing regulars get back into the competitive saddle after the Xmas break. I didn't hang around long and scarpered with my ranking points before lunch was taken, but was certainly glad I made the quick trip to Northampton, especially when I knew it was my President's Cup team-mate Nic was setting the questions in his perpetually interesting and entertaining way.
So it was only the individuals. Stainer and I got down to business to be confronted by questions that seemed markedly harder than years gone by. But though I may let out a plaintive moan at such a turn in events, I knew everyone else would be running into similar obstacles and I do love a good question that I don't know. In the end, we only want to chip away at the gigantic rockface of our ignorance, and such a set helped us do so.
But what is incredibly frustrating is when my brain ceases to function and the easy questions seem to metamorphosise in my brain and become a jumble of words that my cerebral cortex is unable to process properly. The result is me scribbling illogical cack in the answer boxes. I mean, of course that was Camilla Parker-Bowles, of course a scalene triangle has no equal sides and, of course, Algeria is bordered by all those countries. Then there were the ones where I knew, but not well enough to spell them: writing "Petracova" when I meant Petra Nemcova. The same going for "Bradley Whitter" and Bradley Whitford. Darn it twice and thrice. I was lacking clarity in the morning and it cost me little by little, until all the littles combined to create an avalanche of "WHAT WAS I DOING?" during the marking process.
Sure, I got a lot of tricky ones, but it is the straightforward ones that banjaxed on the day. That's great when you have a sentient and alert team working as your safety net, not when you're on your lonesome. I think my SHK count added up to a miserable 27 lost points. Anything more than 15 for me now is a disaster. I have excuses ready, but one rises above all else: January, miserable January when I retreat into a television and internet-encased cocoon and begin to experiment with my sleep patterns in ways that do me no good. My susceptibility to irritability is never as strong as it is during this cursed month of darkness and wet. Please come sweet spring, and at least bring me more sun rays (not that I am enjoying the amount of daylight as it is; I always seem to miss it by a few hours, which means I probably entering full vampire mode).
You're lucky I seem to have misplaced my question paper because if it was lying by my side right now I would list every appalling error and cataclysmic omission right here, right now and rub them in each of our faces as if they were the ashes of oppurtunities well and truly incinerated and gone. So consider yourself spared from an even more detailed and pointless post-mortem (which I secretly love in a way).
However - typical loss of the sense of perspective there - fifth ain't bad at all and there was one victorious crumb of comfort: I was the only person in the entire competition to correctly identify Rodolphe Topffer, the Swiss comics pioneer. Okay, make that an infintesimal crumb that will be taken by the wind in swift fashion. But still, I got me a crumb. Look at my crumb; my singular crumb. I'll stop using the word "crumb" now (brilliant documentary btw: watch it and be both disturbed and delighted).
Results are here
Audition: Not the Piano Wire Kind
I have my Mastermind audition at the Doughnut today (they rejected my wanting to do the original Star Wars trilogy for one of my specialised subjects straight away. Oh well. It just means actual work in learning stuff in detail comes more into play) Do you think they'll let me on?
NB: Bayley has informed me that he too is going for the black chair this series. Game on, I say. Prepare for months of idiotic digs, hugely gamesmanship and total silliness as we hope and pray that we aren't drawn together in the very first round. May we both get fair and balanced general knowledge rounds.
posted by That Quiz Guy at 6:22 PM
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