"we're never going to win this fucking quiz" - sofie

Where to start?

Don't be fooled by the picture. You're looking at six of the most dejected people in west London. We may look young and carefree but we've lived our lives. And it hasn't always been easy. Those bright, shining eyes have witnessed some terrible things. Like continuous, soul-destroying, never ending defeat. Sob.

It had all started so promisingly. The one person with the potential to be unemployed for even longer than Rai had put his long, empty days to good use and provided us with a fine selection of athletic prowess in the form of the world's premier darts and snooker players. What Michaelangelo would have made of Andy 'The Viking' Fordham is anyone's guess but judging by his virile beard I'm guessing he's packing somewhat more than David was. Sorry for that image.

Before facing what might just be may favourite round yet we had to deal with our bread and butter - the identify-the-voices-what-Dave-has-recorded-off-the-radio round. Largely thanks to Samin, we usually ace this round. For that very reason, I'm holding him totally, and legally, responsible for our failings yesterday. I knew it was Clint Eastwood but I was too weak to speak up. Samin's fault again. Don't ask why; it just is. And why do all struggling, bottom-of-the-league football managers sound the same? Why Samin, why?

Incapable as I am of recalling which round came next, I'm going to guess it was current affairs. I can't really remember how well we did at this. Nor can I enliven this paragraph with wit. So I'll move on. How the fuck did we do?! I honestly can't remember. Answers on a post card please.

It must be music next. I hate that round and what I do remember is that I deemed it a perfect opportunity to go to the loo without endangering the team's success. Normally they can't do without me but when it comes to the music round I'm about as much use as that kid who has to wear a helmet to school and has the awesome velcro shoes. I miss velcro shoes.

I don't know what we'd done to appease the universe yesterday but somehow we did fucking amazingly in the music round. We barely dropped a point. Could have something to do with the food and drink theme... Food: good. Drink: good. Food and drink: gooood. Probably a good time to mention that Sofie's macaroni cheese wasn't nearly cheesy enough. Could explain the dejection:














At this point we were in second place, with darts, snooker and WAGs to finish. How could we fail? We'd fucking invented this round. We'd spent the week nerding up on it. We were ready.

Dave though, not happy with the perfect picture round, had decided to throw in three of the most random boxers in the history of, well, boxing. The shitbag. That reminds me; Dave was hammered last night, but for a very good reason. This post is dedicated to the memory of Johno.

Anyway, we nailed the dart-chuckers, missed one old school snookerer, came all over the WAGs (figuratively speaking) but were thrown by the fucking boxers! They were never part of our plan!

It was going to be close but we could be confident of at least second place.

After a nailbiting points roundup we were presented with our prize. Third?! We were destroyed. I think this best sums it up:














I, for one, couldn't believe it. Fucking third?! We may have clawed our way up to the lowest tier on the podium but we all felt we deserved better. I will, however, give props to the winners, Quizbollah, who have an awesome name so I really can't hate them. Much.

I guess to go from fourth to third in a week would mean that we're going to win the thing in a fortnight, and we should be pleased with ourselves. Not so. I'm fucking fed up of not being the best in the room (I have issues I'm not even going to get into) and it's about time for us to hit the top.

We will. Honest Sofie, we will.