Knobheads on Quiz Shows

Lex phoned with the bad news. "I was out on the lash  last night, I won't be able to drive I'm still over the limit. If I get caught doing that again I'll lose me license."

"If you're too drunk to drive won't you be too drunk to play baseball?"

"Ha, you make me crack up. I'll be better, alcohol's muscle-lubricant."

There weren't enough drivers on the team. Steve always took Matt and their respective girlfriends, who played the key roles of cheerleaders and picnickers, there was no room for any other players in his car, not once you'd taken into account the kit, spare bats and picnic hamper.

Slim picked up the coach and three players, he drove fast hence he got the outliers, whizzing round the villages gathering the remnants of a baseball team together, ready for the long (though with Slim driving quick) journey to Bushey.

Baz had written his car off again (on the day before the season started no less) which meant that there were six of us sharing Not-Gary's van. 

Baz sat up front with Not-Gary, assumedly to share his sage driving advice, which meant that the rest of us were in the back of the van, crammed together like battery hens - battery hens being transported in a very small van, sitting on crates and with zero protection from hard metal sides as we were flung about.

"Been on the lash, Lex?" Gary asked.

"Yeah, must've had 13 pints altogether. Started at the Alma, then went on to the Birdie, Dickies, the Pleasant Meadow Feature, had some of that Belgian stuff down at the Cow, then went on to Grooverama."

"Much going on?"

"Na, nothing doing. Just had a few beers there like."

"D'you see Pointless last night?" Gary said, addressing all of us this time. "That bloke in the cardigan, what a knobhead."

"Yeah, couldn't name a single Queen song. What was his answer, God Save the Queen."

"That bloke on Eggheads was a bigger knobhead," I said, "The gardener, thought George Best was in the 2012 World Cup."

"The biggest knobhead was that Asian guy on Mastermind," said Sid.

"He was nice," I said, "He was taking the piss out of John Humphreys."

"Yeah, but he was showing off about Saxon poetry. Bloody knobhead."

"Showing off! He was answering the questions on his specialist topic. That's the point of the show."

"Yeah, but I hate his type, coming over here trying to make everyone else look idiots.

"Coming over here! He had a brummie accent."

Lex had his phone out. "Says here he's training to be a vicar."

"Being born over here, with a detailed knowledge of British history and culture and a key member of our Christian community - is that what you meant by knobhead."

Sid said nothing. Sid's racism was tolerated in the back of van on the basis that it was always easily outwitted, outvoted and generally outclassed. Who knew then that in just a couple of years the Sids of this world would gain their revenge with Brexit.

"What about the team of trainspotters on Only Connect," said Gary.

"Doesn't count," said Lex, "Everyone on Only Connect's a knobhead, it wouldn't be fair on the other quizzes."

"Did you see Celebrity Pointless on Saturday?" I ventured.

"Oh, celebrity knobheads," said Lex, "That's a different game entirely. Did you see Christopher Biggins on Have I got News for you?"

"That's not even a quiz. It's a gameshow."

"They ask questions, don't they?"

"It's not the same thing Lex. Besides, The Biggins isn't a knobhead."

The gameshow knobhead discussion lasted the rest of the journey, straying into such diverse sub-topics as political knobheads (Tim Farron), historical knobheads (it's gotta be Hitler hasn't it), knobheads in literature, knobhead hobbies, knobhead fashion, knobhead words (quinoa), knobheads in rival baseball teams and knobhead legislation (The Misuse of Drugs Act).

We arrived in one piece, slightly bumped and bruised by being flung around the van. We were playing Bushey, our rivals for bottom of the table. Matt, our pitcher, was on form. Steve, himself and their respective girlfriends had just returned from a fortnight in Corfu and he was relaxed, rested and threw fast and straight, which meant he threw his way through the Bushey side in every innings, they barely managed a walk to first base all match. However, our batsman still contrived to make a match of it, not managing a run through a mix of poor hitting, appalling running and the general inability of anyone to hit the ball past the in-field.

However, on the final header we were set up for a win, a batter on third and another on second, just one run needed to win.  Sid walked out to bat. Bushey changed their pitcher, as their main guy was finally getting hit. His replacement was an American guy, six foot six and blacker than death. His first pitch was fast, Sid swung, but swung late. The second pitch was, if anything, faster, and Sid's swing was as light as a night out with Lex. The third pitch seemed likely to go the same way, but for some inexplicable reason Bushey's backstop signaled for a curved ball, which duly came, curving in from the right, but crucially, at a pace slow enough for Sid to hit. The ball echoed against the metal bat with an ugly clang, but the ball flew into right field, falling short of the fielder. The runners on second and third strolled home, Sid swaggered to first, dancing a victory dance all the way.

Lex was over the moon, even though he'd contributed nothing all game.  "Two nil, our biggest win of the season. We could finish mid-table if we continue like this."

We shook hands with the losing Bushey side and left for the school's girls toilets, which were serving as the away dressing room. "Glad I got him," said Sid, once we in the dressing room."

"Got who?" I asked. I thought I'd missed something.

"That Negro, the one who thought he was such a good pitcher. Bam, straight into right field."

"Negro?" said Lex. "Are you serious? Jesus, you're such a knobhead you should be on quizshows."