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By Dennis Rookard We all have our regular local pubs, Somewhere were we're welcome and feel at home in. Mines the Travellers Rest. Now to be fair, for the first timer it's rather hard to find. being off the beaten track in one of the quieter parts of town., being hidden behind the as yet to be fully occupied sixties style shopping mall. But should you venture down New Road, you'll find the Traveler's Rest just tucked in between the United Reform church and the old Court house, just across the road from the Library. True it's not much to look at from the outside, a bit down at heel in fact, and sadly both inside and out, in need of a lick of paint. Now don't get me wrong, I like the odd quiz show on the old goggle box, really I do. I can shout the answers before the poor sucker under the spot light comes up with them, with the best of them. But to be honest I'd never been over keen on pub quizzes. As far as I was concerned, it was just another way for a bunch of thicko footie yobbos to show off their knowledge of, who won what where and when, or so I thought. Now I'm not so sure. You see, our favourite pub down in New Road has just gained a new cup for its trophy cabinet. All right so for trophy cabinet in the Traveler's Rest, read Jacks dusty shelf behind the bar. but what ever you call it, there it sits all bright and silver, the great Brentwood inter pub quiz trophy. How we got it however is a somewhat interesting story. It all started a few months back after Jack, that's our bachelor landlord handed the bar and the safe keeping of the pub over to Sue for the evening, before vanishing into the night on his way to his monthly meeting of the towns Liceed Victuallers Association. Which traditionally is always held in a different local boozer, the location of which is again by tradition kept a dark secret till the last moment. Now this is for a very good reason, for if there is one thing the towns local landlords and managers are scared of , it's not the late night banging on the door by the local law keen to catch any after hours drinkers or a raid by the local drugs squad but an even more terrifying threat. Their wives, who not only view their proceedings with dread, but suspect that it's the free spirit of Jack who leads their menfolk into temptation. Now those of us who are regulars of the 'Traveler's' have long held, along with their collective wives, that this is a private boozing club for local landlords and managers, Jacks presence mealy a coincidence. Their meetings start well enough. Usual reading of the minutes, words of wisdom from the chairman and half an hours worth of sitting round bitching about how little money they can make out of us customers, bringing up to date their collective black lists of those amongst us who have dared complain about the quality of their watered down beer or who have been banned for trashing their hostelries before, most importantly passing on their favourite tips of the trade, all aimed at maximizing their profits. But that's the boring bit, and it's not long before the meetings host landlord opens up the private bar and yells the traditional LVA cry of "it's on the house lads, Help yourself." It's not long before these upstanding members of the pub trade get down to their real business of the evening be becoming roaring drunk together, until the fleets of taxis, pre-booked by wives who know the outcome of these meetings better then their husbands, convey their by now comatosed menfolk back to their beds usually in the very early hours of the morning. Various salesmen and pub inspectors and brewery officials, know better then to try and talk business with LVA members the day after a meeting. Indeed they have a special list they circulate among each other of the Counties various LVA meeting days. So it was not surprising, that with his massive hangover, we did not see Jack for a couple of days. When we did, it was to hear him announce to the pub at large that that he had entered the pub in the great Brentwood pub quiz. "What the hell for Jack" cried Pete from his usual perch at the end of the bar. "Because he got conned into it," muttered Brian. "I heard that," said Jack leaning over the bar, "and it's not true," "So how come we've got lumbered then," asked Chris the Vicar. "It was a suggestion at my LVA meeting," said Jack, slowly polishing a glass, "and I reckoned it would help raise the tone of the place," A comment that was greeted by silence, until Russell piped up with, "and who pray is going to be in this team Jack," "You lot are," shot back Jack," the pride of the pub is at stake." he said. "Since when has this dump ever had any pride Jack' cried out Pete. "Since I took a side bet on the outcome," shot back Jack revealing that he had indeed been conned into entering us into this quiz. Twenty-four other pub landlords had also entered teams of surprised regulars, who found themselves journeying around the area for the various heats arrange of a knock out basis. Now the more cunning of these teams worked on the basis of acting stupid, the quicker to get out of the contest. But not for us. For try as we might our team kept coming first. The basic problem you see is that our team of Pete, Brian, Fred our tame Journalist and Chris the Vicar could not help themselves showing off to the drinking classes their superior knowledge, and despite orders to give as many wrong answers as possible, kept coming up with the required correct answers. Even our secret weapon in the shape of Chris, complete with dog collar, and yes before you ask, he really is a vicar to frighten the opposition failed. Normally it's amazing how Chris sitting there in dog collar can kill any happy mood in a strange pub. On the other hand he has his uses, gathering in the free booze for us, (well he can't drink it all can he,) from the embarrassed bar residents. Chris put's it down to their shame in not coming to church on a Sunday, but we reckon that it has more to do with them trying to store up points in their favour when they hit the pearly gates. So by ill luck and the basic problem of our team showing off under stress brought us to the grand final of the contest. Our enemy was we found out to be the quiz team raised by the Dreaded King George round in North Road. A pub notorious for the conduct of it's regular hard drinking inhabitants. Fights were common in the bar of a Friday night and nearby residents were always on the phone to the local sheriff complaining about the late night drinking, sounds of the disco and the happy habit of late night regulars throwing up into their gardens. "Quite like home really," said Brian of hearing we were to hold the finals in the King George. The other little problem with the pub was that they regarded their team as being professionals and anything less then an outright win was not to be considered. "So unless you want a broken arm or at the very least a black eye," said Pete at the pre-final council of war, "bloody well give the wrong answers." Do we take Chris with us," asked Russell who had elected himself as team manager. "Er sorry chaps, I've got a meeting of the young wives group, can't make it." mumbled Chris. "you're lying Chris," cried out Brian, "look your blushing, and you always do that when your lying." I'd rather face my Bishop then that lot," he shot back. "anyway think of my reputation if I end up in intensive care at the hands of that lot," Well yes said a thoughtful Russell, "I see what you mean. Ok folks what we need s somebody to act as Chris's stand-in. somebody unlike you lot, who wont under stress be tempted to give a right answer " It was at that moment that through the door ambled Charles our trainee Village idiot. "just the man we need," cried Russell in welcome, as he guided the bemused Charles towards our Council of war. "You have just been elected to membership of the Traveler's Rest quiz team," he beamed. "Oh goody," said Charles, "I won't let you down chaps." "Er that's just the point dear boy," said Brian putting a fatherly arm around his shoulder, "He were rather hopping you will" By now Charles was getting confused, "I thought the idea was to win" Brian sensing the truth was the best method of getting his point home, "Look sunshine, what we haven't as yet told you is that we up against the King George in the final, so unless you fancy eating via a straw for a few weeks, I suggest you help them win." At last Charles had the picture, or so we thought. Come the night of the final, and the team, plus supporters assembled mob handed in the bar of the King George. The place was packed with their ugly looking supporters and groupies, all wearing team sweat shirts baring the legend- "KG 4 US surrounded us on all sides. For the first rounds all seemed to be going well, we scored 10 with a few wrong answers and the odd right one to keep the score up, and on the other hand also scored 10. In the second round, we were beginning to worry, despite the lads giving a few more wrong answers, to keep the round score down. They were more then matched by the other side, who we now discovered were not drawn from the brightest of the towns residents. By the time the final round started we were getting rather desperate, for whilst we were riding high with 89, they were still trailing at 75. As that final round went on, the King George mob, managed to drag themselves up level with us, and the contest all hinged on the last question, lose this one and we were safe we thought. "Who invented." called the question master dramatically pausing, "the first workable Gyroscope," he asked the King George team Came there a great deal of head scratching and inter team muttering until finally their leader, looked up and uttered the immortal words, sorry don't know. all right said the question master, looking at Charles directly, "the turn of the Traveler's Rest, so who invented the Gyroscope," Knowing what was expected of him, Charles gazed behind the bar, his eyes meeting one of those holiday bottles of wine labeled Foucault. Thinking he was on safe ground, he looked the question master straight in the eye to reply. "er is it Foucault," "Correct," cried the question master to a by now silent and menacing crowd, "the Traveler's rest wins the contest." Handing over the cup as he made his way quickly towards the door, only to be followed seconds latter by ourselves and a band of savage King George regulars out for vengeance and the skin of Charles in particular. So there it sits, our one and only quiz trophy behind the bar. We can't blame Charles. After all he thought he was safe in giving the name of the wine bottle as an answer, after all how was he to know that it was a chap called Foucault who back in 1852 really did invent the thing. So if anybody ask's, we tell them that Charles has gained a new found respect for his lucky guess END |
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