An Irishman's Diary

SMARTING from yet another narrow defeat in a table quiz, I am seriously thinking of emulating the athlete Paula Radcliffe and wearing a red ribbon at future events, to protest at the damage being done to our sport by illegal performance enhancers.

Radcliffe’s campaign was in support of the introduction of blood testing, which I fear would be of limited use in quizzes. Nor would urine tests help much any more; though in the context of events that typically happen in pubs, this would be closer to the nub of the problem.

It’s a fact, however regrettable, that table quizzes involve copious beer consumption: a circumstance that allows unscrupulous competitors the perfect excuse to leave the room at short notice, protesting that they cannot possibly postpone emergency relief missions until the team’s answer sheets have been handed in.

I used to favour random urine testing, during competition: not of the urine, of course, but of the urinators. This would have involved body-searches (external only, except for recidivist offenders) aimed at finding mobile phones or other devices. Guilt would be cut and dried. There were be no need for B-Samples.

But toilets are not where the action is any more. A new, younger breed of quiz-kid has emerged who doesn’t need to leave the table to engage in illicit intelligence gathering. Thanks to years of non-stop texting and twittering, some of them have thumbs the size of Paula Radcliffe’s upper arms.

It follows that they’re much quicker at it than their elders and they have superior technique too. Where I grew up, it used to be said of a particularly canny individual that “he could peel an orange in his pocket without anybody noticing”. Now there are people who could Google the history of oranges in their pockets, with similar anonymity.

I can’t prove my team’s latest defeat was due to anything irregular. One possibility is that we’re just getting old and that our memories are not what they used to be. Another possibility is that our memories are not what they used to be, because we’re just getting old. But, as Lord Denning used to say, accepting either of these premises would open up an appalling vista; so they can’t be true. It’s obvious the teams that beat us were on something.

If the ancient sport of memorising useless information and retrieving it while simultaneously damaging your brain with beer is to be saved, I believe drastic action is now needed. My proposal is that, in future quizzes, all communications devices should be handed in beforehand; the subsequent discovery of one on a competitor’s person should mean instant disqualification.

If nothing else, this would prevent the unfortunate situation in which a colleague of mine – we’ll call him “Conor” – found himself last night, while competing for a rival team. A highly respected journalist in the consumer affairs area, “Conor” made the simple mistake of having a third-generation mobile phone on the table in front of him, which just happened to have a pre-set Google search facility.

The organisers – who may or may not have been acting on information – spotted this, added two and two together, and made five. “Conor” loudly protested his innocence; and I for one believed him, notwithstanding the fact that he’s younger than me, twitters regularly, and has unusually well developed thumbs.

His punishment was €50 fine, which he paid in good spirits because, like the night’s proceeds, it went to a good cause (www.alastairramsay.net). But the poor guy was mortified, and in retrospect I feel quite bad for my anonymous tip-off to the authorities.

Our prize for third place, incidentally, was a set of Guinness rugby jerseys. In keeping with the sort of prize one wins when running-up in a quiz, they were clearly embroidered with the year 2006, lest anyone mistake them for this season’s fashions.

On the way home, I reflected that I could add mine to an ensemble of other such prizes won over the years, including a GAA anorak and pair of sailing boots (from the 2003 Dubarry marine catalogue). I only have to win a pair of trousers now, and I’ll have a complete outfit. It’s thoughts like this that make you wonder if you could be doing better things with your life.

ON FOOT of Wednesday’s diary, which noted the dramatically contrasting fortunes of bookmakers and bankers and suggested the former would soon be taking over premises formerly occupied by the latter, I thank several alert readers for examples of where this has already happened.

Gerry Quinn tells me the erstwhile Bank of Ireland in Edgeworthstown is now a bookies’ shop. Siobhan Cassidy cites a similar situation in Park Street, Dundalk. And John Delaney refers me to Clontarf, where another BOI has been usurped by the booming turf accountancy sector.

But a fourth reader, Brian Fitzgerald, suggests this trend could have been foreseen years ago. “You only need to look at the name we gave to our currency between 1979 and 1999 to have been alerted to the investment strategies of our bankers and economists,” he says.

Indeed. I see from my dictionary that not only is “punt” a verb meaning to “to gamble” and a noun describing the act of gambling, it also means “the indentation in the bottom of a champagne or wine bottle“; which is interesting.

I must try to remember that, because it’s the sort of thing that could come up in a quiz. But I take Brian Fitzgerald’s point, and it explains a lot.