I love quizzes. Any type really, but the mixture of booze, trivia and a neighbouring table surrounded by moronic Australians always makes for an exquisite night out.
My local quizmaster is a pro, clearly in love with his job. The comical quips, the witty assides and the X Factor-esque heartbeat sound effect when reading out the results produce a lively and truly competitive atmosphere.
I generally shy away from public competitiveness (I tend to stand back and pour silent scorn on my fellow citizens/subjects) but in a pub quiz situation, I'm in my element. I'm socially allowed to show off (by demonstrating my knowlegde of African flags, Winter Paralympic host cities and the back-catalogue of Whigfield), to chortle at the idiocy of Antipodean opponents and, most importantly, to go head-to-head with the Harry, Ollie and Barnaby types of this world.
The joy - the utter joy - of getting the the right answer to a tricky question that the over-privileged douche on the next table is convinced he's got the right answer to and hasn't, and he knows that I know he's made a complete tit of himself in front of his 'chums'... Oh! it's bliss.
Don't get me wrong, I have been known to heartily congratulate someone who's pulled a great answer to a stinging question out of the bag.
Just not very often.
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