What is it with the Brits and pub quizzes? Why do they love it so much? I have been dragged to a few of them and I must say that well, it looks like fun.
Except that I don’t really get the fun. Maybe I have become an old bore.
For starters, I don’t know the responses to all the historical questions. And to the other ones, if I am completely honest.
Which Hollywood sex symbol has the middle name Tiffany?
How would I know? You see, that’s a side effect of having been brought up in France… We don’t do quizzes. And to make matters even worse, I didn’t study Shakespeare, which seems to be mandatory this side of the Channel. I will get there with my daughters. Maybe. Eventually.
It’s Richard Gere
Clap clap . Shy guy with glasses knew the answer. Am I allowed to say that I don’t feel anything now that I know? Nothing at all. And to make matters even worse I can’t order a drink. You can’t buy a glass of wine or even a pint between 8.15 and 9 pm on a Thursday night here – it’s considered a gross act of insensitivity even to ask. And don’t you dare be late: any visitor who blunders through the door is hushed. They are concentrating. Correction: we are concentrating. I need to make more of effort here. After all, I am supposed to be British.
Vodka, Galliano and orange juice are used to make which classic cocktail?
I can’t even have a glass of wine and we are talking of a cocktail now? This is mental torture.
Harvey Wallbanger of course!
Of course. I don’t even know what it looks like.
Maybe I don’t really like quizzes because I don’t know the responses. And frankly, it feels like Britain has turned into a nation of compulsive and extrovert competitors tonight. I feel a bit left out. And I am completely useless. Nope. I don’t know how long the small intestine is. And frankly, I don’t really care. I told you, there is something wrong with me.
The shy guy at the office is having 15 minutes of fame. Good for him. Yawn.
What is a four-letter word ending in “k”, which means to have intercourse?
It can’t be what I think it is, right? You know, the f-word. Shut up, Muriel, shut up.
They all giggle. There must be something going on here, and once again I am missing it.
It’s to talk of course.
Of course. It is probably another British joke that I will get when I am home.
Good thing I didn’t say a word. I am finally more mature.
Which US state is closest to Russia?
I can’t believe I know the answer to this one. I am starting to be proud of myself. To be fair, the whole pub knows the answer.
When does this thing finish?
I am feeling more French by the minute. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. I will make my excuses and leave.
Phew. I am out. Finally. The fresh air feels good. Seriously, who needs pub quizzes?