Several days later – although in the grip of Armadillo Fever you lose all track of time – and I can move my hands and eyes well enough to type out my long-promised entry on Jeremy Beadle. Long-promised I say, not long-awaited. Anyway, apparently inhuman beardy prankster, televisual tightarse and general waxer of human misery J.Beadle has the respect of his fellow comedians because he is the trivia boss at a certain quiz night they all go to.

This confirms my suspicions that some secret law of pub quizzes obtains whereby they are only won by fuckers. (Let the record show I’ve been in noble second-place teams on many occasions, how British of me)*. Usually said fuckers are girthsome mates of the publican, who rigs the questions to their known specialist subjects. How else could they have got so much – for instance – travel knowledge when they can barely leave their stool, let alone the pub? Grr-rrr-rrr. A subtle ageism also pervades when it comes to the ‘pop music round’, which is in fact the Shadows Round, for that is who all the questions are about.

Anyway, I propose a Pumpkin Posse to go out and buck this natural law at a local quiz, not that any quizzes are going to be local to me soon as I go into exile in Zone Seven. But it’s a good idea anyhow.

*Actually, wait a minute, the last quiz I was in I won. But it was a work quiz, not a real pub quiz, and we only won by guessing the quiz compere’s bra size in a tie-breaker. Not a memory I hold with pride, that.