Pub trivia is the ultimate refuge for people who lack a personality

It’s 7.29pm on a warm Tuesday and I’m mid-anecdote at the pub, holding court for a – naturally – utterly gripped, wide-eyed friend.

We’ve blurred out the annoying live sports, scoffed a chicken parmy, and the effervescent bubbles from my second schooner make me race excitedly to the punchline, desperate to hit it before my friend loses interest.

“And I’m not one to gossip, but you’ll never guess what he said,” I say, inviting a response despite this question being rhetorical.

“He said…”

We’re interrupted by three dull thuds on an overly amped microphone. Our heads swivel in slow unison. The host, who hogs the mic all night with zero punchlines or gossip, mock-clears his throat: “Are we all ready for trivia?”

Unfortunately, this isn’t a rhetorical question; otherwise, I’d have answered in the negative. My animated tones are replaced by his monotone. I audibly groan.

Here’s the thing: I should love trivia nights. People sometimes tell me I should, and I usually agree with them.

“I thought you’d love trivia,” they’ll say. But I don’t. I really don’t. I almost feel like I’m letting them down by confessing it. I view pub quizzes with the same bewildered suspicion I reserve for Taylor Swift: I recognise the global phenomenon, I just don’t want it in my ears while I’m trying to drink.

Even worse, on the few, forlorn occasions I’ve been forced onto a team – sitting with an elbow propped on the table and a palm rested apathetically on my cheek, scrunching it until my left eyeball disappears – I’m always the LVP. The Least Valuable Player. This, too, disappoints.

“I thought you’d be good at this,” they’ll say, the backhanded compliment a brutal burn. “You’re a journalist!”

Admittedly, I work in a profession where, if you’re any good, the expectation is that you’ll absorb a vast amount of information across a broad range of subjects and become reasonably erudite. Perfect for my ADHD brain: hyperfocus, absorb, report, thank you, next.

The implication, then, is that I’m a bad quiz team member and not even particularly good at my job – and that I should basically book a one-way flight to Dignitas.

So you’ll understand why I tend to stay away.

If you’ve planned a fun night chinwagging with a mate, there’s little worse than a trivia night starting around you. It transforms a place of connection and social interaction into a library. You get shushed if you try continuing the chat. It’s not a polite shush, either. It’s a full-on pass-ag hiss.

A pub trivia night is a joyless place. People take it so seriously. They’re the same people who dobbed on me at school for cheating on tests. Now they’re policing my behaviour in pubs.

Pubs! Of all places. Pubs are for dancing and flirting and wit and fiery debate on the topics of the day. Not for how many runs some cricketer scored in a game 17 years ago. The pub test? Yes. The pub quiz? Please, no.

A pub trivia night is a joyless place. People take it so seriously. They’re the same people who dobbed on me at school for cheating on tests. Now they’re policing my behaviour in pubs.

By the time my ADHD kicks in, I’m ready to either host the night myself immediately – or leave. They’re the only options my brain finds acceptable.

My biggest problem with trivia nights is that they do exactly what they say on the tin: they’re far too trivial. The knowledge stakes feel lower than a worm’s belly.

Rather than genuinely interesting info that’s actually handy to know (What are three dots called in punctuation? An ellipsis! How long are federal parliamentary terms in Australia? Three years!), it’s all useless, pointless filler (What song was number 17 in Switzerland for the second half of April 1993?).

Even worse, that same Sydney pub was hosting a themed trivia night the following Tuesday: True Crime. A trivia quiz on serial killers! Nothing like glorifying a mass murderer by immortalising them in an otherwise insufferably dull test over a Cinzano and lemonade.

On the few times I’ve been dragged along to one, I end up feeling stupid. I always leave the bar feeling worse than when I entered – quite a feat for a place where spirits are usually both served and lifted.

Trivia nights take forever, there’s often an unnecessarily heated argument, and if you’re placed with strangers, you feel awkward saying anything lest it be wrong.

In my case, it always is. One round involved identifying a national flag. “I’m pretty sure it’s the Colombian flag,” I said. “I lived there for four months last year.” I do love a question that allows me to tenuously shoehorn in life experience. Alas, the illusion was brief. As the questions grew increasingly inane, I bid them adieu. “Colombian,” I whispered into my friend’s ear as I slung my backpack over my shoulder.

It was not the Colombian flag. It was the Romanian flag. Same colours; different configurations. I felt like a right dunce when he messaged later with the correction. At least, I guess, I learnt something. The team, naturally, lost.

One thing I’m marginally better at is team names. During London’s endless winters, I’d occasionally attend a night called Myra’s Marvellous Musicals, hosted by the drag queen Myra DuBois in a cosy gay bar. We’d get hilarious prizes for the best team names, with the most risque musical puns rewarded. I won with Sunday in the Park with George Michael, and Sondheim’s A Little Shite Music.

The prizemoney at your more standard pub quizzes is also no incentive to sit through them. If it’s cash, I’d gladly pay the same amount just to skip the ordeal.

If I wanted a quiz night, I’d stay in with my nan and watch her favourite show, or do one from the newspaper. Mind you, I yap all through those as well.

OK, maybe the problem is me.

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