While searching for a second home in a city I didn’t know, I discovered my competitive side at the pub quiz.
When I moved to London in September, there was one thing I was determined to do – go to a pub quiz every week. As a keen pub quizzer back home in Manchester, I was craving familiarity in an unknown place.
Some 23 weeks later, I’ve participated in 25 quizzes, drank 46 pints and spent £57.50 on entry fees. I’ve seen teams come and go, but every Tuesday, you’ll find my housemate and me sitting on the same table in the Belle Vue in Clapham, with pints of Aspall in hand, ready to dust off the cobwebs on the niche knowledge we’ve collected over the years.
A pub quiz is a great excuse to get out of the house, have a mid-week pint and learn a thing or two, but six months on since my first one, I’ve also learnt a thing or two about myself.
Not only does a pub quiz boost my intellectual ego, but it also provides me with a bizarre sense of community.
“Pub quizzes have made me realise that I’m a lot smarter than I give myself credit for.”
In the 25 quizzes I’ve done, 23 being in the same pub, I’ve seen the same faces over and over. The American woman hosting the quiz is an aspiring actor who toured with Oliver! for a while. The Northern Irish tech nerd who wears the same red jumper every week always manages to beat me. The rowdy cockney lad who sits at the same table always eggs on the participants of the higher or lower jackpot round to go higher, no matter the card pulled.
Every week, I interact with people I would never take a second look at on a normal pub night. The young professionals who spend their time worshipping corporate gods like Stephen Bartlett drop the finance-bro facade when marking my answer sheet, fighting me over what my scrawled handwriting says. Obviously, the answer is always correct.
As a child, I wasn’t particularly bright. I distinctly remember a friend’s parent describing nine-year-old me as “always away with the fairies.” Why do I find long division so hard? What on earth is photosynthesis? Does the short hand or the long hand mean minutes on the clock?
This feeling stopped when I started doing my weekly quiz. Although I dread science and sports rounds, pub quizzes have made me realise that I’m a lot smarter than I give myself credit for.
Snoop Dogg’s real name? Got it. Niche song by a washed-up girl band from the 2000s? Pass me the pen.
On the 25th of November, I won my first quiz. Opting for a different pub from usual, my housemate and I, commonly referred to by our team name ‘Green Eggs and Clapham’, beat the 20 other groups by a landslide, getting only three answers wrong. For once, I’d proved myself to be a genius. Two days later, I won again and was rolling in £100 of bar tab prize funds.
“I am the quizmaster, and scribing is my job.”
I have become obsessed with winning. I won’t let my poor teammate even look in the direction of the pen; I am the quizmaster, and scribing is my job. I peaked after my two wins, and as a result, coming in second place has become the new weekly occurrence. Whenever I get a question wrong, I’ll stare into the pit of my pint glass until the frustration washes over.
Despite my petty behaviour, I’m not the only competitive one in the room. If I had a pound for every grown man I’ve seen slam the table in rage at a wrong answer, I’d have enough to buy the whole pub.
I’m no saint myself, and I’m sure a few groans have echoed around the room after I’ve walked in. Although I’m not competitive in any other environment, my reputation in the quiz precedes me. The exasperation of having an answer on the tip of my tongue is enough to drive me to madness.
We’re all trying to prove something to ourselves and our teammates, having fun and maybe a pint or two (or three) in the process. This magic is the reason I find myself competing every week. It has finally taught me to entertain the idea that I can be the smartest person in the room.
