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[Continuing the theme of ‘different’ quiz reports, I was asked to do one with a Scottish theme, in honour of our follower, Sheila Munro. What follows is my attempt. She may never forgive me.]

“Hae ye had yer tea?” quoth Hamish, swiftly closin’ the door tae trap the heat, as Dougal stepped intae his wee crofter’s cot.

“Aye, that I hae. I ken after a’ these years yer middle name isnae Hospitality,” replied Dougal, hangin’ his drippin’ coat ahint the door.

“That may be sae, but I ken ye weel eneuch tae expect ye’ll be druthy for a wee dram o’ ma whisky while we blether. Is that no sae?”

“Aye, Hamish, ’tis sae.”

“Ye’d better settle afore the fire, then,” sighed Hamish, as he poured oot the wee drams—a generous yin for himsel’; a rather mair meagre yin for his guest.

The twa men huddled by the teeny fire.

“So, whit hae ye tae tell me, Dougal? How did ye get on at that quiz last evenin’?”

“Oh aye. We had a verra successful evenin’, ye ken. The guid news is that we tied the drinks roond, sae I didnae hae tae pay oot for a drink. Ma coins stayed firmly in ma sporran. Ah couldnae hae hoped fur a better result.”

“Ah can see that that was a most rewardin’ result, but whit aboot the main quiz? How did ye fare in that?”

“That unimportant thing? Oh weel, if ye maun ken, we lost by a narrow margin o’ three points, havin’ been ahead for maist o’ the evenin’. Ah, those tricky rounds on War Planes and International Diallin’ Codes proved tae be oor downfall. But dinnae fash yersel’, Hamish. Sometimes the wee details dinnae matter as much as the fact that I didnae hae to pay for a drink for someone else. Wunnersome.”

“Ah’m glad ye liked it, laddie! Noo, if ye hae ony mair boring tales dinnae hesitate tae keep them to yoursel’. Ah’ll no be keepin’ ye. Ah’ll fetch yer coat.”

Doctor Watson, clearly preparing for a lengthy discourse, settled himself back in his armchair, and fixed his listener with a meaningful look which plainly indicated that no interruption would be brooked.

“One of the strangest cases,” he started, “must be that of the disappearing quiz team.

“It was dark and horrendously rain-lashed evening in February, and, at the hostelry that was their home venue, the members of the ‘Crown Jewels’ team dismounted in good time from their motorised carriages. Once inside, they purchased drinks, and the team settled into its accustomed corner. All seemed well, apart from a mysteriously intermittent light fixture. The Question Master was in his place, and the sealed envelope (which contained the highly secret enquiries designed to challenge the mental agility of the participants) lay yet unopened upon his table.

“Come the time designated for the commencement of the trial of wits, there was no indication of the arrival of the rival team. This unusual lack of punctuality was, at first, attributed to the difficulties of travel in such inclement weather, but, slowly and by degrees, came the dawning realisation that there was not to be a contest that evening, given the absence of an opposing team.

“Where were they? Had the ravenous Beast of Whiteparish Moor swallowed them? Were they at that moment sinking into one of the fearsome bogs around Fordingbridge which had claimed so many lives of the unwary? Could it be that they had all been victims of a mass poisoning perpetrated by Moriarty?

“Clearly, this was a mystery worthy of Sherlock himself.

“However, just as the dilemma of ‘what to do next’ was being pondered by the team, a missive arrived, borne by the trusty yeoman who ran the hostelry. It seemed that, by the wonders of telephonic communication, he had established the fact that all the missing were safe and well, but their arrival was not to be anticipated. Messages, cloaked in some shadowy format called ‘email,’ had been dispatched, but sadly had not reached the intended recipients. Subsequent investigation revealed that, owing to the auspices of a covert, unfathomable instrument of misinformation, the vital communiqués had reached an addressee known by the unlikely name of Spam Folder.

“The reason for the team’s non-arrival was, alas, much more prosaic. Unable to muster a team of four, they had decided to forfeit the match, although, as I previously mentioned, it had proved impossible to impart this knowledge to the host team.

“And so it was that the ‘Crown Jewels’ team returned to their homes after a somewhat unsatisfactory evening. They had won by default, it is true, but such victories seem empty… like this story upon which I now wish I had not embarked.”

Watson reached for his sherry, and sighed softly to himself, his audience quietly snoring away in the chair across the fireplace.

Bong, bing, bing, bong

Good mornin’, Campahs. Hi-de-hi! Gladys Pugh ‘ere. I’m delighted to introduce today’s programme of excitin’ activities put on for your entertainment by Joe Maplin ‘imself.

‘Owever, before I do, I ‘ave to tell you all about last night’s quiz ‘eld in the Maplin’s Ballroom last evenin’. Oh! Excitement or what, Campahs? It was an amazin’ battle o’ wits with both teams matchin’ each other pretty much blow for blow all the way through. (Peggy got so excited, I ‘ad to send ‘er to clean chalets. She wasn’t very ‘appy about that.) By the last round, either team could have won and the tension rose with a lot of breath-‘olding going on. In the end, turnin’ on the very last question, the teams drew the competition, 50 points all.

See what you miss, Campahs, if you don’t come to the Ballroom of an evenin’?

The teams went on to the much-loved ‘Who’s round is it anyway?’ debacle, where the Crown Jewels maintained their losin’ streak and ended up out o’ pocket. Suffice to say, Ted Bovis was not too keen to stump up his share.

What an exciting evenin’ that was, Campahs!

An’ now to today’s programme: At two o’clock by the swimming pool, the knobbly-knees will be judged by none other than the entertainments manager hisself, Mr Fairbrother, an’ then, at three o’clock…

I received plenty of rods/rulers to the palm of the hand from the psychotic nuns I have talked about elsewhere in this group, but I was only on the receiving end of the cane on the bottom once. Flipping heck! (That’s as far as I’m prepared to go on this forum, but please feel free to substitute stronger expletives of your own. You can’t over-egg this particular pudding.) The pain was incredible. My ‘sentence’ was three strokes, but, after the first, the pain was all-consuming anyway.

Why was I caned? The Headmaster had made what I felt to be an unjust decision, and I told him so. Children have a keen sense of what is fair or not, but, let us say, we were not encouraged to make our feelings known.

Did it make me mend my ways? No, actually. What it did do was a) make me determined never to suffer that pain again, and b) be much sneakier in making sure any indiscretions I committed were well concealed.

Result: I became less of a champion of justice and much more duplicitous in my dealings with others. Not a great outcome, methinks.

I later became a schoolmaster myself, and, early in my career, was called on to witness a few canings. It was a hateful ritual and I was so pleased when it was banned.

First Holy Communion picture.

I was probably 6/7. It was taken in Mansfield, Nottinghamshire. We’d moved there from Kent in 1959 while I was still aged 5.

I was inordinately proud of that belt which had been given to me as a souvenir from Holland. It had clogs, windmills, and ladies in traditional Dutch clothing on it.

I apologise for the knobbly knees…shorts were de rigeur in those days. I was never as angelic as this photo may suggest! I was also very short-sighted, but no one had yet discovered that. It may explain the glazed expression. The ferocious nuns at my RC school forced us to adopt these sickly poses.

Indeed, their ferocity and liberal use of a cane, inter alia, eventually led to my parents falling out with the RC church in general. When we first went to a CE church, I thought I was going to be struck down immediately, such was the propaganda that had been drilled into us children. If God was keen to demonstrate his displeasure, he’s left it rather late as I am now happily worshipping as an Anglo-Catholic and have been for many years.

Oops! I’ve rambled on, but hopefully some memories may have been stirred in some of you. Keep well, everyone.

I recently joined a FB group for people born in the 50s. It has been a good experience and I thought I’d share some of my contributions here.

Grunty Pig begs to introduce himself.

Bought for me in the early 60s, during a family holiday in Mablethorpe, Grunty has lived with me ever since. He has survived many spring cleans by my mother and my wife who were both anxious to treat him as clutter. I have managed to rescue him on every occasion, thankfully.

Yes, he’s much repaired and a shadow of his former self. Originally he had a hat and a simple lever mechanism which meant he’d lift his hat whenever a coin was deposited.

Why’s he on this FB group? He comes from that period when plastic toys were beginning to take over from the metal ones, and I thought others on here might have similar items or even one of his cousins that, despite being made of brittle plastic, have somehow survived.

Despite his originally pink bow, Grunty has always been assumed to be male.

Like Emily and her saggy old cloth cat, he’s not much to look at, but I love him dearly.

Yes, I regret to say I am a Facebook fiend. In my retirement, I spend far too much time on FB. I play Quiz Planet with a couple of friends, and I get to see the life progress of many of those I have taught in the past. Time was you sent your pupils out into the world, and only very rarely heard anything about what had become of them. Now, happily, those who wish to remain in touch can do so, and I find that a major source of delight.

If you are careful to avoid all the harmful stuff…the click-bait, the frauds, the advertising for things you’ve just bought (Why do they do that? I’ve just bought one. Why would I want to buy another?) …Facebook can be an interesting and informative place, as long as you use your brain as an appropriate filter.

I use it for our regular quiz reports, and I also like to make my occasional sidelong comments about the topics of the day. To this end, I have introduced a Facebook Posts page where I can put some of my latest observations for those who don’t get to see them on FB.

I hope you enjoy them.

We have a team mascot whom we rather unimaginatively call Pingu. He accompanies us to most quizzes. Whether he brings us luck or not is very much open to debate, but he is now a permanent fixture in the team.

Why a penguin? At one of our early forays into quizzing, a team member (who, to share her blushes, will remain nameless) didn’t hear the question fully, and so proffered the answer, ‘A Penguin’. To those who had heard the full question, this was a completely ludicrous answer, and, therefore, the cause of much hilarity (and even, dare I say, some uncalled-for mockery).

The next day, to commemorate the blunder, another team member crafted a felt penguin, and delivered it to the now-much-embarrassed victim. Thus began the reign of Pingu.

Recently, when it was our turn to set the questions, I contrived a whole round of questions about Penguins in Pingu’s honour. Sadly, random facts about penguins are not regular quiz fodder, and most teams were completely foxed by them.

The upshot was that it became the most discussed set of questions Keith (who, co-runs the league) had ever encountered. Penguins have been mentioned in our presence many times since, and, the following week, our opposing team arrived for our home match all bearing origami penguins.

Pingu, however, remains stalwartly aloof from the whole business.