A CHUMP AT OXFORD
or
HOW I LEARNT TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BUZZER
Of course, I blame Tony Gold.
I was sitting, enjoying watching C.S.I. and the telephone rang. “Mr. Taylor, it’s Mr. Gold.” What did Britain’s premier quiz setter want now?
“I’ve seen that there is a quiz in Durham next Sunday and Steve Kidd has contacted me to see if some of the North East’s finest quizzers can attend. Naturally, I’ve put you down to play, although I’ll just sit in the audience.”
That’s Tony for you – makes you a commitment you can’t refuse.
Anyhow, we turn up at the Dun Cow in Durham, possibly the quaintest pub you could imagine.
I must explain that I had no idea of the quiz format and was flabbergasted further when I saw two chums from the rose counties of Lancashire and Yorkshire sitting together quizzing.
Mark Kerr and Barry Simmons I’ve known from Estonia two years ago and consider them to be in the country’s top twenty quizzers.
Four more familiar faces appear. Mike, Peter, Barry and Keith from Gosforth make up a third of what will become “The Dirty Dozen”.
After an hour of what might be called politely “fannying about”, Steve Kidd has his studio set up. The only advice is “whatever you do, don’t disturb the wiring!” Easier said than done when you consider that Alan Turing used fewer wires in the design of Colossus at Bletchley Park.
So we are now imprisoned and the “Wunder Kidd” explains the quiz format. The dreaded word buzzer is used and my heart sinks. Buzzers in quizzes are a good thing but they shouldn’t be used while the old people are still alive. I look along the row of players and pick out a couple of age fellows and think “Well, we’ll be out after the first round with its halve your cumulative score penalty”.
Little did I realise that so many players would have been born with a quiz suicide gene and I made it through to round two.
This is my type of round. I wait for the science/maths question to which the answer is “pi” and get six points. That will be enough, I judge, and, lo and behold, round three beckons with me still “hanging in”.
Round three is brutal for its speed. Mark, Mike and Barry go off like Ferraris while I plod like Genevieve. But here’s the rub, they start to lose lives (well not Mark) and suddenly it’s Mark and I left. When Mark pegs out (in the cribbage sense rather than death!), I still have two lives left but am soundly beaten.
Well that was great and we all enjoyed the hour after, swapping tales, having an impromptu quiz and Kerr and Taylor bursting into “Fugue for Tinhorns” from Guys and Dolls.
I must say I enjoyed the day and Mark was a worthy winner.
Fast forward six weeks or so and there were Tony and I in Newcastle for yet another Kidd extravaganza. This time Mr. Gold takes part. The Gosforth mob is there and we are joined by the charming Christine and Jed – canis sapiens. Jed, unfortunately, is eliminated at an early stage – there were no questions on Bach!
In the final round all the money, hush, chocolate and smart is on Mike Foden. Oh the impetuousness of youth, for Tony and I are left to battle it out for the place in the final. I manage to have that run of luck of which dreams are made and reach the magical twelve points to become champion of Newcastle; Roy Keane would be so proud!
Now the rub, Steve Kidd says that the grand final is in a fortnight’s time in Kidlington, near Oxford and that I am there.
Being the worrying kind, I think “how the hell am I going to get to Oxford?” Mike comes to the rescue by saying that three of the Gosforth lads (lads?) want to go to Kidlington as there is a last preliminary round prior to the Grand Final and they fancy trying to reach the last twelve. Not only that, I’m offered a lift to the venue and spot on 7.45 a.m. Sunday, we’re off to Oxford. The accommodation has been pre-booked, we arrive in good time and the venue (Thames Valley Police Sports Club) is five minutes walk from our digs.
The club is excellent and I spy someone who can only be described as a benevolent Mr. Toad with Larry Grayson glasses and am reliably informed that this is our Torquemada, the one and only Jeremy Beadle.
As usual Mr. Kidd is flitting all over the place getting his electronic gizmos in position and working while Jeremy goes out of his way to put everyone at ease. I am much taken by his definition of a good quiz question namely one that when you hear the answer you are interested enough to want to find out more about the subject. This is what I’ve preached on Wearside for the last thirty-five years.
The superstars start to arrive – Kevin Ashman and Pat Gibson. Of course, Mark Kerr is there with many other quiz “professionals”.
The entrée is the twelfth heat to determine the last finalist. The first round of this quiz is remarkable for the fact that the person who got the most correct answers (Keith) is eliminated. Mike Foden battles on with his encyclopaedic knowledge of popular music which has hardened quizzers sitting in awe but he is unable to clinch that final place.
We now are ready to begin the “Big One” and I look round and think that I ought not to be here as I won a curtailed heat, that is until my European Quiz partner Rob Hannah tells me he won through in the South West heat by getting one question right – lucky b******!
As I expected, I fall by the wayside at the end of round one – I did have a working buzzer, didn’t I? So the North East is represented vicariously by a Liverpudlian.
As far as round two is concerned, I am really vexed that I failed to win through as (and I have witnesses m’lud) I beat the buzzer on four questions (speed of light, astrolabe, Neil Hamilton and canoe – take note Kevin) and would have strolled through to annihilation in the final round. I urge anyone who has not seen this display of mental fireworks to take whatever steps are necessary to view it as soon as possible. Suffice it to say that Mark eclipsed the two more fancied contestants, Kevin and Pat who proved that Homer does sometimes nod (I think this is the epic poet rather than Mr. Simpson).
So my heartiest congratulations to Mark Kerr on his victory and it seems appropriate that he got through to the final at a venue within half a mile of the tomb of the man “whose soaring spirit burned alone in Europe’s dungeon of decay”, the Venerable Bede.
I can only finish with a few words in my second language:
In memoriam Jeremy Beadle, ave atque vale.