Thursday night saw the second CompSoc pub quiz of the year (following on from the last one). To those of you reading who came along, thanks for taking part, and I hope you had a great night. And, of course, massive thanks must go to Neil and Stephen, to Dr. Peter Dickman for his round of pain, and to Virtual Stevie for phoning in the music round in his own inimitable style. The inevitable record of the evening, of which the highlights have to be the two surprisingly-offensive videos, is up in the gallery. (Steve's photos are up as well.)
For me, the best part of the evening had to be after the quiz, when I had free rein to drop some fat beats in the DJ box. Despite an initial barrage from skeptical indiephobes, I soon got settled into educating the CompSci masses in the way of quality music.
And then it got silly.
Come eleven o'clock, there was an influx of customers in search of a place for a convivial drink, but, having found none, settling on Curlers instead. It was at this point that I played my most controversial of choices—I Predict A Riot by the on-the-cusp-of-fame Kaiser Chiefs. Would it go down well at all? It seemed not, as Chris wrestled me for the crossfader. But then I accrued a groupie. Let's be honest, my groupie was male, ginger and Australian, but one has to start somewhere.
"G'day mate, what's this song called?" asked my new friend.
"Why, it's the Kaiser Chiefs: I Predict A Riot," I informed him, coolly.
"It's excellent. Where have I heard it before?"
Taking a blind stab at his personal history, I proffered the Franz gig in December, the NME Awards tour in January, and sitting behind me listening to my iPod on the 44 bus, but none was the case. He wrote the song name down on a stray quiz sheet, and reckoned he'd be back later.
I was still reeling from the peculiarity, when a random girl sauntered up to request Mr. Brightside. Conscious of the fact that I'd played it much earlier in the evening, but overridingly conscious of the suggestive motion she made with her tongue, I told her I'd put it on after the Stone Roses. "Treat 'em mean…," as I never say in anything other than jest.
A few more requests followed, as well as one random asking, "Is this some sort of rock night?" and a woman at the quiz machine asking me to watch nobody stole her 50p credit whilst she nipped to the toilet. This was truly the rock-and-roll lifestyle, and I was becoming addicted. Which was all very well for me, but my remaining friends were becoming anxious to head on somewhere else. Despite my protestations that I was now answering a higher call, they forced me to relinquish the DJ box, after one last song (Heroes, by David Bowie).
As I packed up my paraphernalia, Ms. Suggestive made her way back over to my box.
"I'm sorry love," I didn't say, before actually continuing, "I'm afraid this is the last one for tonight. No more requests."
"But," she looked at her watch, "this can't be the last song."
"Well, it is, and I'm away after this. Perhaps they'll put someone on later."
She pondered a retort, decided not to thank me for an hour's worth of prime guitar-centric entertainment, and instead informed me, "You're shit."
Fame can be fickle, I concluded. But, for that one night, I had been a king amongst men.