I LOVE trivia nights.
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But trivia nights don’t seem to like me.
I have amassed a wealth of knowledge over my lifetime, particularly in my 20-plus years of being a journalist.
So you would expect a decent, if not winning, performance by me at trivia nights.
But in most cases, the opposite is true.
Why?
Because the so-called ‘‘general knowledge’’ questions asked are hardly ‘‘common knowledge’’.
They are useless titbits or superfluous garbage you would likely never learn at school, university or even in a book, let alone have any use for.
Questions like:
1: What is the most common colour of toilet paper in France?
2: If you dug a hole through the centre of the earth starting from Wellington in New Zealand, which European country would you end up in?
3. Who entered a contest to find his own lookalike and came third?
4: What is the world record for number of hot dogs eaten in one sitting?
5: What is the fear of long words known as?
I mean, seriously?
Trivia nights are more about luck than intelligence.
Despite this, I am crazy about them and can’t stay away.
My competitive streak always wins out and while my team has never taken the top spot (even a close second is as good as last place), come the next trivia night and I am utterly convinced we are the ones to beat.
I’m not sure who said: ‘‘The enthusiasm and confidence you bring to our table on trivia nights is rivalled only by the impressive consistency with which you are always wrong’’ but I’m certain they were describing me.
Many years ago at a fancy dress fundraiser I would rather forget, I was so sure I had the right answer, I confronted the quiz master with my argument much to the humiliation of my team and bemusement of the rest of the crowd.
Fortuitously, I was dressed in a cow onesie, complete with an udder and gun, so there was a good chance I wasn’t recognised.
But I wasn’t invited to many trivia nights after that.
Which was fine with me. If they didn’t want a winning attitude on their team, I was better off without them.
I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.
Anyhoo, my luck changed the other weekend when I attended a fundraising dinner for the Full Stop Foundation at Moama Bowling Club.
A classy event, so the cow onesie stayed at home.
One of the first activities of the night was a Who Am I quiz, so naturally I almost hit the ceiling with vigorous enthusiasm before reminding myself to be on my best behaviour.
Clue number one: I was born in 1945.
‘‘Come on guys. That should narrow it down!’’ I vehemently whispered to those at my table.
Clue number two: I started my career in Warrnambool.
‘‘So I guess you don’t want to win then?’’ I grumble, hoping this will motivate my teammates.
Clue number three: my media career spans from the 1960s.
My fingernails are almost non-existent by this stage, before a small voice at the table utters ‘‘Is it Mal Waldon?’’.
I have no idea who he is, but it’s good enough for me.
I instantly bolt upright and almost snap my elbow as my hand jolts skyward.
MC John Moyle points at me and I declare ‘‘Mal Walden’’.
Leaving me guessing, he demands I come down to the stage and explain how I came to that answer.
That’s when the panic sets in. I don’t even know who the hell this Waldo guy is. What the hell am I going to say?
Yet I confidently stride to the stage, certain something witty will come to mind at the opportune moment.
It doesn’t.
Instead, I splutter ‘‘my neighbour told me’’ when John quizzes me.
‘‘And who is your neighbour?’’ a confused John probes.
‘‘Natalie Durrant’’ I blurt out, resulting in my friend and former colleague being marched down next to me.
Which was just as well, because we ended up winning a garden trolley full of wine (which I was more than happy to keep) and enough cans of tinned tomatoes, pasta sauce and tomato paste to make spaghetti every week for the rest of the year.
So we split those.
Oh and if you wanted the answers to those absurd questions, here they are:
1: Pink
2: Spain
3: Charlie Chaplin
4: 74
5: Hippopotomostrosesquippedaliophobia
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