The paper this week was set by The Charabancs of Fire.

By universal consent this was a cracking paper - good aggregate scores and plenty to chat about with the occasional LOL moments.

Anne-Marie was certainly a fan...

"Another great quiz from the Charas.  QotW for us was the one linking Otman Bakkal,  Branislav Ivanovic and Giorgio Chielini."

Both teams at the Albert Club were fans of the evening's fare.  The Opsies romped it on Round One (I got all 6 non-Islay island malts on the first question of the night) whilst the Dunkers were equally as dominant in Round 7 unerringly choosing the shoo-in Blockbuster questions.

Finally Ivor gives the verdict on the paper from The Turnpike match....

"Quiz itself was given the thumbs up by both sides tonight.  Embarrassingly the Historymen scored rather badly on the Welsh and Irish questions and my usual excuse 'they're all about Enemy Ireland not British Ireland' could not be used on this occasion!  Question of the week was the one about the unfortunates who have all been spectacularly fouled by the only (former) Liverpudlian with a full set of teeth.  By chance this question also produced the wrong answer of the week 'they all had single word noms-de-guerre and were founding fathers of their nations' (but I had had a couple of pints by then)."

Fr Megson is unwell.  The rash first appeared around Eastertime shortly after the decorous deacon had given up celibacy for Lent.  Other less socially acceptable symptoms soon raised their ugly head and eventually, after many anguished nights of tossing and turning and not a little scratching, Fr Megson was forced to seek medical advice.

The  atmosphere in the Red Lion surgery was even more boisterous than usual on the afternoon of his appointment, and as he sidled in he was subjected to some very uncharitable chants of "Sidewards Christian Soldier".  After a cursory inspection Dr Ivor told him to put to put his clothes back on with due diligence and never ever take them off in a crowded pub again.  He got his stethoscope out, read the instructions and told the patient to breathe in and  blurt out three times.  He tapped him on the kneecaps with his biro and asked some pertinent questions: Was he a smoker?  Had he seen Holby City last night?  What was the collective term for a group of hermits?   He then told a relieved Fr Megson that he was as fit as a butcher's dog apart from his ailment. Unfortunately he couldn't really help him with that as he had never been able to get his head around "them parts of the body down there" as they were known in the trade.  On the positive side though, it was fortunate that Dr Tim was feeling a bit paralytic at the moment.  When sober, he could be a bit on the cavalier side and had a reputation for gleefully amputating anything that dangled.  He advised the patient to go home and keep scratching.  He should drink  plenty of Sanatogen and cod-liver oil and, with any luck, he would be as right as rain in good time for the next London Olympics.  And above all he shouldn't worry.  After all, we all had to go sometime and, sure, wouldn't it be great to be remembered as the priest who went out with a bang and not a wimple?

Fr Megson will be so busy scratching over the next few months that he has been forced to appoint an amanuensis to fill his column.  He says he can't afford to pay much so his turf accountant has advised him (at the special rate of only 75 guineas per half an hour) to give the job to a woman...."A woman who is priest-ridden and who has had the backchat beaten out of her would be your only man" he advised.  "And don't be giving it to a good looking one, either,  because you don't want her to be looking in mirrors and running home pregnant every minute of the working day".
So Fr Megson placed a small ad in the personal column of the Church of the Hidden Ovarie parish magazine and, after careful consideration, he has decided to give the job to the only applicant.  He has told Dusty that she has everything a priest could want in a woman writer: two  sharp pencils and a rubber.  He told her not to worry about the grammar as that was sure to come later.  He counselled her to relax and write about what she knew.  And if she didn't know about it, well, bejasus, write about it anyway as the half dozen or so fcekin' eejits that bother to read it will know even less.  It worked for Joyce and Beckett, and it nearly worked for Richard Littlejohn, so why the fcek would it not work for her?

An excited Dusty raced home, peeled the spuds and told Mr Dusty the good news.  Mr Dusty was silent until he had eaten his spuds.  Then he said the extra half crown a week would come in very handy and where the fcek was his custard and jelly?  He admitted that nobody on his side of the family had ever had much joy at dipping the quill but he could at least sharpen her pencils and supply her with jotters from the Pound shop.  Or, if he could fire up that oul hoor of a Sinclair computer that was out in the henhouse, she could even do one of them thingamajigs on the internet....you know like what that wee girl Belle de Jour did about her secret life as a protestant.
"A Blob" cried Dusty triumphantly.  "I'll do a Blob..............."