So after recording GrodsThink last night (to be broadcast later this arvo — beer and work have got in the way, although sadly not at the same time) we headed to a nearby pub that was advertising trivia and $11 pot-and-parmas. During our meal the other trivia punters started to trickle in and it became increasingly clear that we were the odd demographic out. Us GrodsThinkers were all men in our early thirties wearing jean/t-shirt combos surrounded by couples in their fifties and sixties wearing ties and frocks.
The old dude running the trivia looked like he crawled out from under a shelf at the nearby university library and he announced three rounds of fifteen questions. By question five of the first round we knew that we were going to be totally pwned. This wasn’t your “name the title of Britney’s latest single” kind of pop trivia. This was all about European battles of the seventeenth century and obscure references to obscure literature. As Jeremy said at one point: “At least when I’m hopeless at pop trivia I can dismiss the questions as being irrelevant. When I’m hopeless at this trivia I feel dumb because I should know the answers.”
At the end of the first round MC Gerald announced that The; Fleshlight’s (sic) were actually coming second on six points! Problem was, the team coming first were nine points ahead on fifteen. While we weren’t being humiliated we were clearly not going to win. It was this moment that the pub chose to send a representative around the tables to collect the $5 participation fee from each punter.
What. The. Fuck? Who charges for trivia? And if you’re going to charge for trivia at least advertise the charge. And if you’re not going to advertise the charge collect the money before the trivia starts so we can choose not to take part.
“Is this money going towards the prizes?” Jeremy asked.
“Yes,” answered the money chick.
“Is there a second and third prize?” Jeremy asked.
“No,” answered the money chick.
“So what you’re saying,” we all noted in unison, “is that we’re essentially giving this money directly to that table that’s slaughtering us.”
“Um, yeah,” money chick conceded.
I won’t repeat the avalanche of swearing that followed, although I’m sure you can imagine it. I’ll simply note that Jeremy started preparing a law suit, Ant smashed a beer bottle on the table and looked menacingly around the room, Craig played Tetris on his iPhone with renewed frustration, The Happy Revolutionary started singing The Internationale, and I began preparing this angry blog post in my mind.
But we played on, taking satisfaction from the way that MC Gerald looked uncomfortable every time he had to say The; Fleshlight’s out loud when he called the scores, and alternating between writing “John Surname” (who’d pissed off early) and “;;;; ;;;;” every time we didn’t know the answer.
ps/- Here’s Jeremy’s take on the incident. What? Us groupthink?
