PUB QUIZ!
I went to a pub quiz for the first time in years the other day.
It reminded me of my first year at university in the lovely Stoke on Trent.
Those of you lucky enough to have visited the ‘Knightsbridge of the Midlands’ will no doubt know what an utter utter hole it is!
When I was 18 and didn’t know any better it didn’t seem so bad. After all I had just escaped Scunthorpe. What is it they say? Out of the frying pan, into the fire…
Some one should certainly have burnt down my first student house share. To call it a shit hole would be insulting to Grimsby. Luckily I was sharing with a good bunch of lads. But what with lads being lads, we never cleaned up. Especially those who had been looked after by their mummies for eighteen years and didn’t even know what a toilet brush was! A visitor to the house could have easily mistaken us for a load of French exchange students.
So, to The Bell And Bear! Every Tuesday with out fail. 7:30pm on the dot.
Looking back it’s amazing I/we had the balls to venture to such a pub, let alone drink in it.
It was situated in an area called Snow Hill. Snow Hill, as I was to come to learn in future years, was the bad lands of a bad city (technically not a city. Five towns, as any good Stokie will never bore of bending your ear over) To say it was a little bit dodgy is a fair analogy. For some reason this never put us off. We merrily skipped all the way there, as we knew what was waiting at the end of the evening…
Most people who have been to Stoke will tell you that the native’s males all look the same. Begby from trainspotting crossed with Ben Kingsly in Sexy Beast.
The Bell And Bear was like a rat nest. Full of them. The quiz master/ landlord paradoxically didn’t fall into this sweeping highly accurate generalization. He was the spitting image of Roy Walker from Catchphrase. The spitting image.
We didn’t go for the quiz, or the knock off lager behind the bar, or the poisonous Rothmans air, or the surly locals itching for a scrap, we didn’t even go for the out-of-date oat cakes (Stokie pubs don’t serve pork scratchings. Just the local delicacy of the Oat Cake. To heinous to describe...). Oh no, the real reason we went was because Roy.
Every week with out fail he would read out the scores at the end of the evening on his more than adequate stolen PA system. Every week from the minute the quiz ended we schemed and racked our immature brains for a more insulting and shocking pub quiz name.
A few that I remember are: ‘OAP Jizz Lobber’, ‘I Love Cocks Up My Arse’, ‘Aunti Norma’s Gang Bang’ and my personal favourite ‘Full Rectal Prolapse’.
The funny thing was Roy used to read them out with out fail. What was funnier was his disgust as he realized what he had said. He never cottoned on and read the names properly before bellowing them over the PA.
We used to go for weeks and weeks. Well, at least until we had reached‘Full Rectal Prolapse 5’
It reminded me of my first year at university in the lovely Stoke on Trent.
Those of you lucky enough to have visited the ‘Knightsbridge of the Midlands’ will no doubt know what an utter utter hole it is!
When I was 18 and didn’t know any better it didn’t seem so bad. After all I had just escaped Scunthorpe. What is it they say? Out of the frying pan, into the fire…
Some one should certainly have burnt down my first student house share. To call it a shit hole would be insulting to Grimsby. Luckily I was sharing with a good bunch of lads. But what with lads being lads, we never cleaned up. Especially those who had been looked after by their mummies for eighteen years and didn’t even know what a toilet brush was! A visitor to the house could have easily mistaken us for a load of French exchange students.
So, to The Bell And Bear! Every Tuesday with out fail. 7:30pm on the dot.
Looking back it’s amazing I/we had the balls to venture to such a pub, let alone drink in it.
It was situated in an area called Snow Hill. Snow Hill, as I was to come to learn in future years, was the bad lands of a bad city (technically not a city. Five towns, as any good Stokie will never bore of bending your ear over) To say it was a little bit dodgy is a fair analogy. For some reason this never put us off. We merrily skipped all the way there, as we knew what was waiting at the end of the evening…
Most people who have been to Stoke will tell you that the native’s males all look the same. Begby from trainspotting crossed with Ben Kingsly in Sexy Beast.
The Bell And Bear was like a rat nest. Full of them. The quiz master/ landlord paradoxically didn’t fall into this sweeping highly accurate generalization. He was the spitting image of Roy Walker from Catchphrase. The spitting image.
We didn’t go for the quiz, or the knock off lager behind the bar, or the poisonous Rothmans air, or the surly locals itching for a scrap, we didn’t even go for the out-of-date oat cakes (Stokie pubs don’t serve pork scratchings. Just the local delicacy of the Oat Cake. To heinous to describe...). Oh no, the real reason we went was because Roy.
Every week with out fail he would read out the scores at the end of the evening on his more than adequate stolen PA system. Every week from the minute the quiz ended we schemed and racked our immature brains for a more insulting and shocking pub quiz name.
A few that I remember are: ‘OAP Jizz Lobber’, ‘I Love Cocks Up My Arse’, ‘Aunti Norma’s Gang Bang’ and my personal favourite ‘Full Rectal Prolapse’.
The funny thing was Roy used to read them out with out fail. What was funnier was his disgust as he realized what he had said. He never cottoned on and read the names properly before bellowing them over the PA.
We used to go for weeks and weeks. Well, at least until we had reached‘Full Rectal Prolapse 5’
posted by neildeal1 at 1:15 PM
2 Comments:
Did you ever win a meat tray?
do you mean a tray made out of meat? Or a tray full of meat?
Sadly i have never won either...
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