“Would you like to keep your answers?” asks the quizmaster, handing me over the sheet of paper. “No,” I snarl. I have no wish to be reminded of this latest humiliation.
Yes, I have yet again succumbed to the unholy allure of the pub quiz. This one is held on Mondays at the Battle of Trafalgar in Brighton, featuring eight rounds in which to expose one’s ignorance to the world, or rather to oneself and everyone else in the pub.
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