The History Men lost to The Prodigals as Ivor admits....

"The return from Japan of Young Dave (42) did not save us from a third consecutive defeat (our worst run since, well, last season).  Dave Rainford was on great form tonight and his run of seven 2s was only brought to an end by Joan Sanderson.  As with all of our meetings with the Prodigals there was humour, banter and craic of the first magnitude so we never really mind who wins or loses."

The Opsimaths beat The Men They Couldn't Hang at the Albert Club.  The result was much more decisive than was warranted by the apparent slight gap between the teams on the night.  Graham on the gee gees and Dave on any football questions featuring teams that have never been bothered by the need to find out how to get around Europe, were imperious.  Opsimath Nick, however, was similarly inspired (apart from the time he allowed me to talk him out of the Virgin Mary and into John, the Baptist).  Gary Donely was an excellent QM - clear and patient and never needing to make excuses for the Pigs paper (which was excellent).  Indeed the only complaint over the paper came from an aggrieved football fan (from Wearside via New Mills) who claimed that David Speedie learned all he needed to know about football at the beloved Darlo, never mind Chelsea, Coventry, Liverpool, etc.

...whilst a somewhat cheerier James tells the tale from the winner's enclosure....

...and Damian from the Turnpike....

"The Piggies Paper clearly suited us more than it did our opponents as we led in every round but one and surged steadily ahead from Round 4 onwards. The profusion of football and cricket questions completely bypassed Yours Truly but fortunately our Irish and Yorkshire correspondents were well capable of taking up the slack on those particular subjects. We found the level of difficulty fluctuated widely throughout and, contrary to what clearly went on with some teams, there were not as many 2s scored (10 altogether breaking at 7-3 to us) which mostly came towards the end of the paper.  We didn't get many of the themes but, like most other people, kicked ourselves black and blue for not getting the sound-alike countries which we promptly voted as Best Theme of The Evening!

QotW: The Shrimpers concurred with us in selecting the one about Benjamin Franklin's disapproval of the character selected to represent his country.

SIotW (Surprising Information of The Week):  On being informed that there was a 1971 film called Fried Green Tomatoes. That stumped everybody. We  were led to suppose that the more familiar 1991 version may have been a sequel starring the same cast?  Then again, maybe it was just a typo?"
 

This week The Men They Couldn't Hang select Round 6 Question 3:

Raising his glass, he gave thanks to his Maker for making him healthy and wise and then threw in an extra Hail Mary to make up for the mass he would not be saying later on.  He was sorry to disappoint God and his congregation at such short notice for the third Sunday running but it would be disrespectful to both parties to celebrate the miracle of the Transubstantiation in his darned socks.  And getting brogues on over that toe was out of the question.  The fourth toe in from the right on his left foot - his kicking foot, to boot - was now a cauldron of red hot pain.  He muttered a quick Glory Be to thank the baby Jesus for the Bells without which he doubted he could stay in this vale of tears a moment longer. 

Too agitated to sleep, Father Megson reached for his texter machine.  A dozen overnight messages from Dusty, seven of them foul, four abusive and one informing him that she was a martyr to her bunions.  "Martyr, my erse", he muttered to himself, everybody's a fcekin martyr these days.  Some people would do anything for the promise of a quick shag in the next life.  Like most women Dusty spent too much time reading religious pamphlets and not enough time peeling the spuds.  Not her fault of course; the real blame lay with them puffed up Redemptorists and yuppie Jesuits who churned out such drivel and sold it for a tanner a sheet in the porch every Sunday.  Young bucks with degrees in creative writing and friggin' comparative theology who raked in a fortune flogging their fictions to a captive congregation still intoxicated by religion and stunned by sobriety in that fatal half hour between the end of mass and the opening of the pubs.  Young bucks who would probably succumb to a fainting fit if they witnessed some poor wretch having his privy parts lopped off or having his toe brutally stubbed in real life.  No, such people should not speak of martyrdom.  When he was strong enough to wield a pen he would show them how it should be done.  He would  tell the world about his toe and his chastened parishioners would weep and wring their hands and say "Oh Father, you are a true martyr to your toe.  If only you had not been so brave, if only you had shared your pain.  And how can you ever forgive us for thinking that you were nothing but a lazy, sozzled lard arse, a stinking carcass, more dunghill than priest?"

Yep, there was good money to be made in the world of misery memoirs.  Get his pamphlet out in time for the Christmas rush and he might yet be pouring Lagavulin over his Coco Pops.

He was feeling better now.  He would have a little sleep and then hobble down to the off-licence to get some more medicine.  He might even pop into the training ground to motivate the quiz team.  Never an easy task at the best of times and practically impossible when you had lost the use of your kicking foot.  Traditionally the Charabancs were slow starters, sometimes not knowing anything until well into the Lenten period.  He bitterly recalled one crapulent, vendetta-ridden bloodbath of a season when their first two-pointer did not arrive until St Swithin's Day when all the other teams were already on the beach.  That left a lot of catching up to do especially when some of the other teams (he would try not to conjure up images of them hoors in the Griffin as it would only make his kicking foot throb even more) were up and out of the traps in October like fcekin beagles in search of a damp groin.