Albert Park lost at home to the resurgent Electric Pigs

Opsimaths cruised to a comfortable victory over the X-Pats (who featured the welcome, but now rarely seen, John Brennan)

Snoopy's Friends lost at home to the History Men who nevertheless couldn't quite secure second spot, ending third in the table

and from Kieran:

Sir Peter Teazle did it in 1787; Cardinal Beaufort did it in 1805; and Captain Cuttle did it in 1922.  It usually takes about 2.5 minutes to accomplish.  What is it?

2 points worthy of note that the Opsimaths mulled over in our post-match debrief this week:

• we have beaten every other team once - and lost to every other team once (apart from our Albert Park colleagues who we have beaten twice)

• only 2 teams have beaten the Napier Girls - the Opsimaths and Albert Park - and both have done it at Fortress Griffin

All in all, a pretty satisfactory season.  Just let's try a little harder to "frappez les filles" next time round.

And so to the Cup with the welcome prospect of a new team.  Hello and good luck to The Men They Couldn't Hang - and do be careful.  You'll come up against Tony and his bench one day and he loves a challenge.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I received this email over the weekend.  What do you think?

"As webmaster for a neighbouring local Quiz League I have a proposal for you.  In a recent (admittedly alcohol-fuelled) post-quiz discussion our team came up with the idea of a pre-season, inter quiz league 'All Star' game; as our nearest neighbours you are the obvious opponents.  We thought of something along the lines of a six-a-side match combining both your individual question, and our team-answered, format, with teams containing the 'best' player from each of six teams within each league.  Hopefully we could get a few other team members watching and maybe hold a raffle or similar with proceeds to charity.  The date would probably be early/mid September.  Before we worry too much about the logistics we thought we would see if you are receptive to the idea in principle; please let me know your thoughts."

Fr. Megson was in the shower last night, fingering his beads and rapturously contemplating his favourite Joyful Mystery when a brick sailed through his window.  Attached to the brick was an e-mail from Dusty.  It read:

"Bless me Father and forgive me for breaking another of your windows.  Only I'm a desperate woman and the fcekin' Social are refusing to pay to have me put on the broadband.  What else is a girl to do when she needs to get her hands on her preacher man? Sure you could be all night dialling up!

"Anyway, Father, enough about your fcekin' window.  Get over it.  How are ye ,Father?  How's your bits and bobs?  Doctor Tim was blind drunk in the Red again the other evening and he had us in stitches telling us all about your embarrassing discharge.  He was sayin' that the smell of it would make a pig sick.  He's a great man with the words is Dr. Tim.  I was awful sorry to hear about your trouble, Father, and I hope it clears up soon.  Isn't it a good job you're celibate or you would be out on your bike every evening infectin' half the county?  You're a terrible man altogether, Father.

"I'm fine and dandy meself.  As you know I've been a martyr to my corns and the quiz team these last few months.  It's friggin' hard to get out to the bingo when you're a full time carer for a poorly quiz team.  They were awful low at the beginning of the season but they're sailin' along as high as mountain goats on syrup of figs at the moment.  Not as high as them shower of fcekers in the Griffin, mind you.  Wouldn't they sicken you, that lot with their winnin' every fcekin' week?  Do you think Father that it's natural to be winnin' every week?  Sure, you'd have no time for a sex life at all with all them books to memorise.  You'd wonder betimes if maybe that Kieran wasn't a secret Jesuit parachuted in by the Inquisition and embedded in our midst.  I wouldn't put it past him, meself.  Or maybe Father, they're in league with the Divil.  I've seen them mind-improvin' documentaries on Channel 5 about hoors like that. Wouldn't it be awful Father to sell your soul for an aul' tin cup that you could pick up on Longsight market for less than a fiver?  Much good a tin cup will do them when they're meltin' away in the fires of Hell in a few years time without so much as a drop of water to put to their blackened lips never mind the ten or eleven pints of fcekin' Holts they normally be guzzlin' every time they get a friggin' question right.

"Far better to be a perpetual and righteous loser is what I was just sayin' to the team - and I'm sure a lifelong loser like yourself would agree, Father.

"Anyway, Father, don't mind me.  That's enough eschatology for one evening and me without even a glass of sherry taken.  Would you have a drop in the house at all, at all, Father?  It'll be in the cupboard, behind the bleach......

"......that's better, Father, now where were we?  Ah yes, in Hell.  Do you ever get the angst, Father?  I'm a martyr to the angst, meself.   I be lying in me bed of a morning, listening to Wogan and the rain and the wind pelting the bejasus out of the corrugated tin roof on my wee cottage and I get to thinking about the poor people who die of a Wednesday night before you get back from the quiz.  My guess is that they'd die unshriven and end up in the fiery pit, bad cess to their pockmarked souls.  Is that how it works, Father?  Do you have any figures on it?  I mean, what percentage of your parishioners who pop their clogs of a Wednesday would go to Hell as opposed to them that can hold on till the Thursday morning, or maybe even the Friday morning if they can afford to go private?  Do you think God is good, Father and He gives them some leeway and says,

"Ah go on then, just this once, mind and don't go tellin' Peter or there'll be hell to pay.  Sure that Megson hoor is never at home these days.  He's a fcekin' liability.  Slip on into Limbo with the dead babies and the protestants who never drank or swore or kicked dogs or threw stones at Catholics."

"Mind you, Father, you wouldn't catch me dead in a godforsaken place like Limbo with all them squawking babbies and tee-total protestants with their noses stuck in a bible all day long.  No Father, I've been to Ballymena of a wet Sunday and there's no way I could endure that for friggin' eternity.....

"This is turning very morbid altogether.  You should be ashamed of yourself, Father.  Frightening a poor defenceless woman with all your aul' guff about dead people and the Hounds of Hell.  Is it any wonder that people can't stand the sight of ye.  Cromwell was right, Father.  Hangin' all the priests is the only answer...

"Keep up the good work ,Father.  I'll be round straight after mass on Sunday to cheer you up and collect me brick.  And don't forget to buy some decent sherry, Father.  Kisses and cuddles, Dusty"

Slan,