Posts Tagged ‘quiz night’

I think it’s safe to say that I was the only person at the recent school Quiz Night to have made my own team t-shirt.

Most certainly, if anyone else *had* made their own team t-shirt, they probably hadn’t made it for team with a name quite like ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ – a name born of a drunken conversation with my friend The White Lady some weeks beforehand (all I can say is thank god I didn’t name my children while under the influence).

And they wouldn’t have left making the t-shirt until the last minute and ended up using masking tape to write the words  ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ on a black t-shirt.

And then they wouldn’t have had to reinforce the masking tape with sticky tape in the fear that the some of the letters might fall off and they’d be left wearing a ‘TEAM PEE’ t-shirt, which would just remind everyone about that time they pissed their pants on school grounds.

So yes,  I made this t-shirt:

It’s fair to say that what I lack in brain power and ability to focus, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm. For weeks in the lead-up to the Quiz Night, I’d been pumping up my fellow team members by punctuating most sentences I uttered with “TEAMSPEEDZ!” (you have to say it as if it were one word, otherwise it just sounds stupid. Okay, so more stupid).

And then I drank just a little too much and it all fell apart. In my defence, this was the same day of my daughter’s birthday party and my husband’s rather ill-timed hangover. Let’s just say I had me some tension to release. And I was still recovering from the stress of organising two Quiz Night tables, which was not unlike doing a seating plan for a goddamn wedding with all the ‘who won’t sit with whos’ and ‘who doesn’t know anyone elses’.

By about the fifth round, I had completely taken my eye off the Quiz Night prize and set my sights on the people on the next table.

“Look at FatherOfCrankyPants looking at me. He’s soo hot for me right now,” I said to my friend The White Lady. FatherOfCrankyPants – it should be noted – was not looking at me. Not at all. In fact, I think he might have been trying to scrape something off the bottom of his shoe.

“Yes, yes,” said The White Lady, patting me on my arm like one might pat a small child on the head. “You’re a little bit bored now, aren’t you?”

Indeed I was. The other end of the table pretty much had the answering the questions bit of the Quiz Night under control. All that was left for our end of the table was to drink piss and talk shit.

“Look at that dad over there!” I continued, looking over at a table of people I didn’t know. “He’s checking me and my masking-tape t-shirt out. Again: Hot. For. Me. And that guy in the nylon tracksuit? Sohotformerightnow. ”

Yes, I had contracted a case of the ‘sohotrightnows’. This is when I make myself ‘sohotrightnow’ by telling everyone I see how hot I am at that very moment. It’s called “creating a buzz” by some PR types. By others, it might just be known as “being annoying and drunk”.

Sure enough, soon everybody was talking about how hot I was right then. By “everybody”, I mean ‘me’. Oh, and one other friend who went on to twitter to specifically mention that I was “sohotrightnow”- although he threw in the word “apparently”, which I thought showed how jealous he was that he wasn’t quite as hot as I was at that particular moment.

Anyway, the evening ended with a crushing third place defeat for ‘TEAM SPEEEDZ’ but with me being as hot as I ever was.

As we packed up, I made a point of going over to my friend McFee’s husband, whom I had discovered that evening was a complete hoot when playing lame-arse Quiz Night games.

“You are soooooo going to be my facebook friend,” I told him.

Indeed, I managed to befriend him on my iPhone while holding a full (plastic) glass of champagne as I walked home. My friend MM was witness to this amazing feat, although he had some reservations about it.

“Um, don’t you think it might be a bit ‘overwhelming’ to your new friend,” MM said to me. “I mean, we haven’t even left the school grounds yet.”

“He knows I’m sohotrightnow,” I told him, loftily. “He’ll be sohot for the friendship request.”

You have to understand that I’d manually converted my t-shirt to say ‘TEAM PEE’ by that stage and was spilling champagne on myself as I walked.

So hot right then.

And still right now.



The NDM: available for hire as entertainment at quiz nights, bar mitzvahs and ute musters.

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Last Saturday, my friend Uncle B lost his Quiz Night virginity. In the lead up, he was understandably very excited.

“Obviously, film is my strongest category,” he told one of his work mates the day beforehand. “But I like to think I have a broad grasp of general knowledge… except for maybe history, politics… sport… oh, and literature.”

“So, just films then?” his work friend remarked.

“Yes, just films,” he admitted.

Still, Uncle B was lucky on the night that there was a whole section devoted to films – which our table got a perfect score for. That’s ten-out-of-ten, people!

However, on reflection, there was not a single literary question – which is my personal quiz night superpower. Most certainly, there was not a single question on feminist performance theory in the 1980s – the topic of my honours dissertation. Sheesh! (That sheesh was directed at the lack of 80s feminist performance theory questions but could equally be applied to the fact I once wrote twelve thousand words on the topic.)

And since at least three of our party were self-professed experts in the area of Politics and World Events, it was disappointing that the only vaguely related question was a close-up of [Australian Opposition Leader] Tony Abbott’s lycra-clad cock in a ‘Guess the famous person’ section. (For our sins, we got the question right).

Anyway, no wonder our team came second. It’s clear they just asked us the wrong questions. Yeah, that must be it.

Of course, the Mild-Mannered Lawyer tried to blame our loss on my “slow writing”, which, quite frankly, I found discriminatory. For reasons unknown, the person designated to write down the answers in the ‘Speed Round’ was the one person at the table with osteoarthritis. OSTEOARTHRITIS, PEOPLE! And the fact that I wrote down ‘Flemington’ instead of ‘Lamington’ was neither here nor there and most certainly not alcohol-related. Anyone – even the most sober person in the world – could make that mistake. Anyone. I dare the MML to go up to ten random people on the street and ask them to write ‘Lamington’ and I’ll guarantee that at least half will write ‘Flemington’. And by ‘half’, I mean ‘one’. And by ‘one’, I mean ‘me’. Especially if I’m completely rat-arsed.

In any case, it should be stated for the record that I wrote down 12 answers while the MML, who, having commandeered someone else’s pen so she could compile an alternate list, wrote down a grand total of ZERO. That’s possibly because she was too busy shouting “Flemington!” at me.

Anyway, there was a point when someone looked around our table and realised, of our nine team mates, only Uncle B and KT actually had a child at the kindergarten which the quiz night was raising funds for. And even then, they were both eleventh hour additions to our table.

“Uh, so why are we here?” someone asked the MML, who had arranged the whole evening.

I think her (drunken) reply was something along the lines of “QUIZZZZZZZZZZ NIGGGHHHHHHHHHHT!” which, to be quite honest, still sounded a lot like “Flemington” to me.

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Let it be known that I love a good quiz night as much as the next person. As long as that next person is not my husband, of course, who doesn’t like them much at all.

But I have to admit I was just a little bit worried when I bought ten tickets for the Teeny Tots Jazz Ballet Fundraiser for a Mothers Group Night Out. As I handed over my money, one of the organisers rushed forward to hug me and, with tears in her eyes, told me she loved me. 

My train of thought went something like this: Oh shit…We might be the only table there… But then at least we’ll win… Unless, of course, we begin competing with each other… In which case it will get pretty damn nasty… And will probably end in some spontaneous naked jelly wrestling. 

Actually that last thought was my husband’s. Stupid husband thoughts. 

On the morning of the quiz night, I confessed my fears of a Dud Night to the Mild-Mannered Lawyer.

“Whatever happens, we’ll have good food and cheap fizz,” I philosophised. “It will be what it will be…”

“… and that is rowdy,” the MML concluded and I agreed. And we may even have then both punched the air and shouted “QUIIIZZZZZZZZ NIIIIGGGGGGHHHHHHHTTT!!!” in a spontaneous expression of our sheer excitement.

But when the MML and I first arrived at the quiz night that evening, our rowdy excitement was somewhat quelled. Something about the flourescent lighting in the cold Scouts hall and the family groups sitting around eating bowls of Cheesels and drinking soft drinks that made us both nervous.

“Do you think we can open our champagne?” the MML whispered, ever-so-slightly panicked. “Nobody else looks like they’re drinking…”

“Oh god, there are small children present!” I whispered back.

Luckily the rest of our table arrived, as did other people, and soon the hall was buzzing with conversation and our (numerous) bottles of wine weren’t quite so conspicuous.

“Of course, it will be a different story at the end of the night when we have to sneak out all the empties,” I observed quietly to the MML. “But by then, we will probably be too drunk to care.”

And sure enough, that “Beyond Care” moment came, but quite possibly a little sooner than I would have liked. I knew it was upon me the moment I accidentally tripped over something and, so that people didn’t think I was drunk, I just kept on walking. Of course a sober person might turn around to look at what they’ve tripped over. Or, arguably, not have tripped over at all.

But listen, in my defence, it was The Night After The Day Before (see “A Normal Person“) and I had just a little bit of unwinding to do.

And no, I’m not proud of my behaviour. I’m not proud that I tried to bribe the quiz night judges by giving them cupcakes. Nor that I manually altered the results on the whiteboard by adding a digit to my team’s score. Nor that I ended up screaming “Luscious Lushes!” repeatedly in the Quiz Master’s face while my stockings fell down. Nor am I proud that I texted the lyrics of The Beach Boys’ “Kokomo” to my husband – although, admittedly, that was the MML who did that and I’m actually proud of her for doing it and quite possibly would have done it myself had I not been so bloody drunk.

The next day, my husband looked at me nursing my aching head and asked: “Do you think they’ll ever let you attend one of those quiz nights again?”

“Why of course they will! Everyone in that room would have regarded me as a bon vivant of the best kind…” I replied confidently, before adding: “As long as they were as drunk as me.”


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