(This rendition may strike some of you as very familiar but hey ho, it was good the first time, why not use it again!)
On
a balmy May evening that held the promise of warmer days to come, a veritable
horde of folk descended upon Davy’s Wine Bar in Crown Passage. They came in
their tens, pouring into the depths of the drinking den for one reason and for
one reason alone: to pit their wits against each other in a series of gruelling
quiz questions (well also to quaff pints, scoff sandwiches and glug wine but
that’s beside the point).
Deep
in the candlelit cellar smart phones were rendered useless by impenetrable
stone as Quizmaster Norfolk and his glamorous assistant Clue stood up to
welcome their guests.
Then,
at the slosh of the first (well third most likely) pint, battle commenced.
The
room was filled with the din of intellectual combat – the bellow of questions,
the plea for answers, the hushed chatter of teams conferring. Pens were unsheathed,
brains racked and paper scrawled with the epitaphs of dying intellects.
In
the ensuing carnage it became clear that one team alone bore the favour of the
gods. A rabble of miscreants, known only as ‘Crack4Kidz’ was ploughing ahead,
leaving those remaining to brawl amongst themselves for the remaining spoils.
And
after the turmoil, when mental skirmish had wreaked its havoc and failed
guesses lay strewn about the sorry pain, the scores proclaimed them conquerors
of all that they surveyed. By this point in the evening that wasn’t very much
and it was very blurry anyway.
Still,
giddy with the thrill of being know-it-alls, they raised to heaven their sweet
reward – Champagne from the hallowed halls of Harrods.
For
the rest there was only the heartless lottery of the raffle to soften the agony
of defeat. Fine cigars from Davidoff, pearls from the South China Sea, rugby
shirts from ancient Blackheath, lemon drizzle cake from Clio’s kitchen – all were
given to those blessed by the gods of Fate.
For some the agony of defeat was too
much. Tears were shed, breasts beaten, cheeks torn, and we were curtly informed
that last orders was five minutes ago.
And so they stepped out into the velvet
night, brave warriors all, some clutching the spoils of war, some gulping down
the last drops of alcohol left to them, some still arguing that it was surely
obvious that the last flag had been Colombia’s.
The future holds many chances of
redemption though. Norfolk and Clue will return to preside over two more epic
battles of wit. Stay with us for more details, oh faithful reader.
