A Chairde,

Those of you who subscribe to Schopenhauer's viewpoint that the only way to get through this irrational world is to foster a complete and utter indifference to it and strive always to attain the highest ideal, which is of course, Nothingness, will be delighted to hear that yet another Withquiz season is up and running. Rarely will you get a better chance to grasp the true meaning of Nothingness. What better way to while away the few remaining autumns and winters of your careworn existence than to sit in a pub drinking yourself into a stupor whilst being slapped about the head by three psychotic team mates for daring to voice your long held if marginally erroneous belief that Ulrikastan is the world's largest doubly landlocked country?  And then, when finally you fall into bed, laid low by drink and ignorance, you have still the consolation of  the night sweats and the blurting nightmares to look forward to, nightmares that are guaranteed to make you wake up screaming at least twice nightly over the course of the season.  Sometimes for longer; Ivor was telling me that one of his, arising from a blurt he made on a wet evening in 1998, is not scheduled for decommission until January 22nd 2037.

Still, I suppose if we weren't doing this we would only be stuck at home doing something more enjoyable.  And where would be the pathos in that?  Better to travel in hope than with Ryanair.  Happily the Charabancs of Fire, traditionally hopeless, are more hopeful than most this season.  They have settled into their impressive new purpose-built stadium ("The Turnpike", by the way, is a clever anagram of the Charabanc's ancient motto "Think, Rut, Pee").  Their youth policy, in place for some decades now, is slowly coming to  fruition with the imminent arrival of  at least two second childhoods  and, given the reputation of their venue, it can surely only be a matter of time before a gang of youthful players ask permission to join the quiz team, at least until the police and sniffer dogs  have finished conducting their enquiries on the premises.

Most dramatically, they have deserted their traditional "boot the question up in the air and hope for a long shot" style of play in favour of a more attractive and cerebral approach based on the Iberian  model of "tippy-tappy" quizzing.  On one memorable occasion last night the crowd was on its feet as Roisin and Damo passed the question to each other an amazing 47 times before rifling it across the table to John who cleverly feigned sleep before lobbing an exquisite answer which sailed majestically over the QM's head.  OK, so the answer had little  to do with the question on this occasion but Barcelona was not  built in a day and it would be harsh to expect perfection so early in the season - especially when the unruly opposition keep making  obscene gestures and baying "get a fcekin move on, some of us have to be up early for community service tomorrow afternoon".

Finally and inevitably, we must acknowledge the pachyderm in the room.  Many of you continue to accost me in the chemist's whenever I'm in there asking if the male assistant is back from his lunch yet and if not, can I have another packet of corn plasters please, yes that's right, the small ones.  This harassment must cease with immediate effect and once and for all I can tell you that I have no fcekin' idea where Fr. Megson is or if he's still getting his 15 a day.  All I can say is that the body found last season in the burnt out cubicle in the Gents at the Stadium of Murk was naturally presumed to have been his because of the dog-collar.  Significant advances in the field of forensic science have now however led the coroner to the equally plausible theory that the collar may in fact have belonged to somebody called "Fido".

Rumoured sightings of the turbulent priest still persist.  Only last week Gary from the Electric Pigs claimed to have seen him fronting the heavy-dub skiffle combo "The Chicksie Dicks" at the annual Sodor and Man Ladyboy rock festival on the Calf of Man.  Such reports need of course to be treated with caution - Gary and his team are notoriously auto-suggestive whenever they come into close contact with waccy-baccy and thousands of  screaming, half naked ladyboys - but we must continue to be on our guard.  He might still be out there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for one of you to drop your guard and leave a pint unattended on the bar.  One blood-curdling slurp and suddenly your life could be bereft of meaning.

No need to panic but just remember to lock up your daughters and other small household pets before you go to bed at night.  Then you can relax and enjoy your blurting nightmares.