The Existential Pub Quiz

Yesterday was strange, and it started badly.

I bent down, and my trousers ripped, like I was in a seventies sitcom. Luckily the Vicar wasn’t behind me sniffing a posey, but the tearing noise was really loud, and stupidly comical. I may have even made a face like Terry Medford. I certainly made a noise like him.

After that, there was nothing else for it, so I went to the pub, alone, and miserable, albeit in trousers without a buttock tear in them, and sat down to nurse a Coke. That’s when the pub quiz started.

I should have known something was wrong when I was handed the picture round, and it was just a blank piece of paper.

And when the questions began, there were only three of them.

  1. Who am I?
  2. What am I doing here?
  3. What’s the point?

For question 1, I answered Geoff Hurst, because that’s always the answer.

Question 2 was even easier, what with me doing the pub quiz at the time.

But I was a little stumped by question 3.

Eventually I wrote ‘the end of this pen’.

We swapped answer sheets, and I had to mark the answers for a man called Neil Isum. I don’t know why I bothered really, because he hadn’t bothered himself, and left all the answers blank.

With the scores added up, we handed the papers back in, and the quiz master put them in the bin, claiming that was no point to any of it.

Then a guy called Neecher jumped to his feet, started doing a jig, and singing about how great he was at everything.Then he got sad and shut up.


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