What do you get when you cross an amateur football team of English drunks, three French girls, a Kiwi and one hot feisty lesbian? A pub quiz of epic carnage and one crazy night.
I’ve been tasked with putting together some trivia for the evening’s entertainment. I’m slightly disappointed in this, as I regard myself as a bit of a useless knowledge guru if I may blow my own trumpet for a while. My finest hour came during one of the nine times my ex-girlfriend dumped me. I left my flat in a fit of depression to drink myself to breaking point in a local bar, whereupon I discovered they were running a pub quiz. Being a billy-no-mates, I had no option but to enter on my own. Much to both mine and everyone else’s surprise at the popular and well attended weekly event, I won the whole thing solo. I then took the winning case of beer back to my apartment and cried.
I digress. 6 gorgeous (and I mean gorgeous) Canadian girls have arrived, but as we’ve not finished their room yet, we have to send them to an apartment next door. They promise they’ll be back for the quiz, and with a decent ratio already in the hostel, I’m thinking this could be my chance to shine. As acting quiz master, surely I can put together an entertaining show and maybe break my horrible losing streak? I use a tried and trusted fun quiz format with some solid questions, a jokes round, a quick fire round and a dance off if there’s a draw. Money in the bank. Start at 8.30pm sharp.
It’s 9.10. No show from the gorgeous Canadians. In their stead comes an entire football team (including substitutes), of a lads-on-tour shit show of messiness.
“Are you going out? It’s a great night out in Zadar.” I helpfully persuade.
“NOWEWANNADOTHEQUIZ!” Is what I think I hear. My heart sinks.
A few hours later and we’re having a blast. It’s going down a storm in spite of a few louty attempts to disrupt from a small minority. A can of beer is spilled on the floor and chants of “SLURP! SLURP!” ring round the patio. A middle aged balding man with his arse hanging out drops to the floor and sucks up all the drink on the tiles. He looks like he should know better, but he’s already been mooning the French girls for much of round two. Wearing shorts for these boys is a dangerous thing as they have a habit of dropping them easily. Nobody knows the hot lesbian is a lesbian and it’s hilarious. I’m slightly concerned there’s going to be a riot. We finish with a dance off and I even manage to raise about £30 for my charity. Hearty congratulations all round for a job well done, and even though I sit up alone as I write, three sheets to the wind and rueing a distinct lack of Canadians, I really can’t complain at all.
I re-read my drunken facebook status update the next day. Apparently I called the night a “symphony of epicness.” Hemmingway eat your heart out.
Hooligan quiz
What do you get when you cross an amateur football team of English drunks, three French girls, a Kiwi and one hot feisty lesbian? A pub quiz of epic carnage and one crazy night.
I’ve been tasked with putting together some trivia for the evening’s entertainment. I’m slightly disappointed in this, as I regard myself as a bit of a useless knowledge guru if I may blow my own trumpet for a while. My finest hour came during one of the nine times my ex-girlfriend dumped me. I left my flat in a fit of depression to drink myself to breaking point in a local bar, whereupon I discovered they were running a pub quiz. Being a billy-no-mates, I had no option but to enter on my own. Much to both mine and everyone else’s surprise at the popular and well attended weekly event, I won the whole thing solo. I then took the winning case of beer back to my apartment and cried.
I digress. 6 gorgeous (and I mean gorgeous) Canadian girls have arrived, but as we’ve not finished their room yet, we have to send them to an apartment next door. They promise they’ll be back for the quiz, and with a decent ratio already in the hostel, I’m thinking this could be my chance to shine. As acting quiz master, surely I can put together an entertaining show and maybe break my horrible losing streak? I use a tried and trusted fun quiz format with some solid questions, a jokes round, a quick fire round and a dance off if there’s a draw. Money in the bank. Start at 8.30pm sharp.
It’s 9.10. No show from the gorgeous Canadians. In their stead comes an entire football team (including substitutes), of a lads-on-tour shit show of messiness.
“Are you going out? It’s a great night out in Zadar.” I helpfully persuade.
“NOWEWANNADOTHEQUIZ!” Is what I think I hear. My heart sinks.
A few hours later and we’re having a blast. It’s going down a storm in spite of a few louty attempts to disrupt from a small minority. A can of beer is spilled on the floor and chants of “SLURP! SLURP!” ring round the patio. A middle aged balding man with his arse hanging out drops to the floor and sucks up all the drink on the tiles. He looks like he should know better, but he’s already been mooning the French girls for much of round two. Wearing shorts for these boys is a dangerous thing as they have a habit of dropping them easily. Nobody knows the hot lesbian is a lesbian and it’s hilarious. I’m slightly concerned there’s going to be a riot. We finish with a dance off and I even manage to raise about £30 for my charity. Hearty congratulations all round for a job well done, and even though I sit up alone as I write, three sheets to the wind and rueing a distinct lack of Canadians, I really can’t complain at all.
I re-read my drunken facebook status update the next day. Apparently I called the night a “symphony of epicness.” Hemmingway eat your heart out.