Story With Hair and a Quiz In It

The Ninth of October Two Thousand and Eleven. Sunday.

Hmm. That talk about Bruce Willis’ hair the other day has sent me in a strange direction as I reflect (reflect? Is it that shiny?) on the top of my head as it emerges through my own thinning thatch. Ah, what it is to be a real man with so much testosterone running through your veins that your hair migrates from where it’s most attractive to interesting new places like your ears and shoulders. I affect a beard, peppered with grey when at its shaggiest, both to compensate and to remove the problem of catching a couple of facial moles when I shave. I have made my peace with the fact that age and dignity demand I keep my locks shorn but it wasn’t always so. Not that many summers ago I had a beautiful dark Niagra of hair that would have greened Rapunzel’s eye. But that is only an incidental detail in the tale I like to call ‘The Night of That Pub Quiz’…

It all took place nearly twenty years ago when I was taking my Theatre Studies A level at Leigh College as a not-so-mature student. Now, Leigh was a good 30 minute-or-so bus ride from where I lived with a fair walk at either end. A good bit of exercise normally, but this day I was getting home later than usual after a rehearsal for one of our marked performances. I was a bit tired and headachy when I got back and ready to call it a night.

I got a phone call from the friend who became my Best Man the following century:

‘Quiz night, Hend.’

‘Tired. Headache. Bed.’

‘First prize: ten pints.’

‘I’m on my way…’

We were a team of three – my Best Man’s dad was there too. We got in with time to spare for the quiz. It was all very pleasant – I don’t remember the details and couldn’t tell you any of the questions we faced. But when the scores were added up we were tied with another team for first place.

The quiz was being run by the dj and he announced that there was to be a tie-breaker – could a representative of each team come forward. I was nominated by my team-mates and with some trepidation got up from my seat.

‘Nico!’

As I got up, somebody shouted this out to me, receiving cheers and laughs from the other pubgoers. I had no idea what they were on about so I simply gave one of those ‘I’m in on the joke’ laughs and prepared for quiz combat.

The dj explained the tie-breaker format. The intro of a song was to be played and the first person to shout out where you would be most likely to hear this tune would be the winner. In my mind’s eye I see the dj putting a needle on a record – I can even see its blue label. Is that right? Did pub djs still use decks in the early 90s? Nevertheless, for the dramatic purposes of this story that’s exactly what happened. The familiar but not-quite-recognisable intro began with both teams poised. Then the lyric began:

‘Something old, something new…’

‘Engagement!’ cried out my opponent.

‘Wedding!’ shouted I, a split second later. My friends, in this case it was better to be right than be quick. I turned in triumph to my fellows. Ah, one of those brief moments in your life when you are man of the hour.

Rather ridiculously, though, we had to get through all the beer that night – no prize tokens or the like. I was already three sheets to the wind (as I said here, not much of a drinker…) so I don’t think I got through all my prize. But despite my lack of expertise upon matters alcoholic I can tell you this: free beer tastes great.

Later, I pondered with my Best Man the question that I didn’t have the answer to – who was Nico?

He pointed to my long, slicked back hair.

‘You look like Steven Seagal in the film Nico’ he explained.

This was my reward for not letting a headache best me – I was both quiz champ and action hero. Ah, hair. It was nice knowing you.

More soonliest.