The Confederation of the Rhine

This morning I am a bit squiffy around the edges.

Last night was the quiz league finals night, and on account of having had a crappy league season, our aggregate scores and final points tally/position meant that our team, the humble Accrington Cylindricals were awarded a 22 point handicap with which we proceeded to plough our way to the final. In better performing years our season has ground to a halt far earlier in the year as we are ejected unceremoniously from the cup regardless of handicap. But this year, despite a couple of scares along the way, we made it.

And last night we faced off the reigning champions with a 22 point head start. Not surprisingly, we won. What was a surprise, was the manner of our victory. We won with a score of 62 - 38, which you will notice is a win even without the 22 point bonus. Most satisfying - a real win, not just a handicap-assisted win. So now we have a nice, shiny silver cup to display. With the various team members holding it in rotation, we each get to keep it for about 8 weeks before pasing it on.

On Friday we are planning an open-top bus tour around our local pub to celebrate the first time in 15 years of quizzing that we have ever won anything!

In other news:


All hail the Panzer Pope!

The Confederation of the Rhine

This morning I am a bit squiffy around the edges.

Last night was the quiz league finals night, and on account of having had a crappy league season, our aggregate scores and final points tally/position meant that our team, the humble Accrington Cylindricals were awarded a 22 point handicap with which we proceeded to plough our way to the final. In better performing years our season has ground to a halt far earlier in the year as we are ejected unceremoniously from the cup regardless of handicap. But this year, despite a couple of scares along the way, we made it.

And last night we faced off the reigning champions with a 22 point head start. Not surprisingly, we won. What was a surprise, was the manner of our victory. We won with a score of 62 - 38, which you will notice is a win even without the 22 point bonus. Most satisfying - a real win, not just a handicap-assisted win. So now we have a nice, shiny silver cup to display. With the various team members holding it in rotation, we each get to keep it for about 8 weeks before pasing it on.

On Friday we are planning an open-top bus tour around our local pub to celebrate the first time in 15 years of quizzing that we have ever won anything!

In other news:


All hail the Panzer Pope!

Conclave

I think that now the Papal election is now over, with its Kremlinesque secrecy, the time is right to explain to the world how the selection is made. It's a theory that fits the known facts:

Having been locked into the Vatican, for this comparatively rare junket, the cardinals form into sixteen or so groups and break out the cards, havanas and whisky. This is a test of mental dexterity and endurance; what better way than to take a bunch of elderly men and make them play poker whilst smoking and drinking?

At the end of each session, when the winner takes all at each table, the remainder drop out. The fans are turned on and the dark Havana smoke is expelled through the chimney. The world sees that there is no pope, and the cardinals form up into fewer card schools and deal again.

The process is repeated until the cardinals are whittled down by drink, nicotine and poker, until there is only one left (there can be only one, as it were). At each stage, as the numbers are reduced, the cigar smoke is let out to clear the air.

Once the last cardinal is left standing - the one who can drink the rest under the table, chain smoke havanas for at least a day and a half, and still win at poker - we have a pope.

Of course, they have to burn his clothes and all the card decks because they would stink of smoke, vomit and alcohol and give the game away. Up goes the white smoke. It then takes a half hour to get the pissed old bugger showered, dressed and plied with enough coffee so that he can stand on the balcony and read the big print version of the bible in Latin to the crowd of faithful in the square.

This also explains why there is a cluster of cardinals and monseigneurs etc clustering round any new pope; he needs propping up, being tired, emotional and as refreshed as a newt.

Conclave

I think that now the Papal election is now over, with its Kremlinesque secrecy, the time is right to explain to the world how the selection is made. It's a theory that fits the known facts:

Having been locked into the Vatican, for this comparatively rare junket, the cardinals form into sixteen or so groups and break out the cards, havanas and whisky. This is a test of mental dexterity and endurance; what better way than to take a bunch of elderly men and make them play poker whilst smoking and drinking?

At the end of each session, when the winner takes all at each table, the remainder drop out. The fans are turned on and the dark Havana smoke is expelled through the chimney. The world sees that there is no pope, and the cardinals form up into fewer card schools and deal again.

The process is repeated until the cardinals are whittled down by drink, nicotine and poker, until there is only one left (there can be only one, as it were). At each stage, as the numbers are reduced, the cigar smoke is let out to clear the air.

Once the last cardinal is left standing - the one who can drink the rest under the table, chain smoke havanas for at least a day and a half, and still win at poker - we have a pope.

Of course, they have to burn his clothes and all the card decks because they would stink of smoke, vomit and alcohol and give the game away. Up goes the white smoke. It then takes a half hour to get the pissed old bugger showered, dressed and plied with enough coffee so that he can stand on the balcony and read the big print version of the bible in Latin to the crowd of faithful in the square.

This also explains why there is a cluster of cardinals and monseigneurs etc clustering round any new pope; he needs propping up, being tired, emotional and as refreshed as a newt.