The hottest places in Hell are reserved for those who use their phones in pub quizzes

Something must be done

The capital city of Azerbaijan is Baku.

The 1941 Academy Award for Best Picture went to Rebecca.

Boron’s atomic number is five.

All of those are facts I know off the top of my head – the kind of things where people look at you like you’re Rain Man for knowing them.

The type of people who know those facts are traditionally people who clean up at pub quizzes.

They know the answers to all of these without looking

They know the answers to all of these without looking

They aren’t very good at football. Their girlfriend is a rag tucked down the side of their mattress. If they play a musical instrument, it’s probably the trombone.

At uni, they probably aren’t seen as life’s winners, but that’s OK. They’ve got the pub quiz.

They get the pride of taking home a pint glass full of pound coins, or a crate of Fosters which will go out of date before they finish it.

In a few years’ time, when they’re working as an actuary or a sub-editor, they’ll still have those little pub quiz victories which ascribe their lives meaning, which keep pushing the inevitable hose and exhaust pipe moment at least one week into the future.

Or at least they would have. Until you came along with your iPhone. You bastard.

I see you

I see you

We were told smartphones would change our lives for the better.

All the knowledge in the world at your fingertips. A tantalising prospect for most. A big red button for the pub quizmasters.

Over the last ten years, trivia has plummeted in value faster than the Zimbabwean dollar.

Is that the fault of the quiz champions of auld?

Or is it you, the scum-sucking bottom feeder with the temerity to Google Marie Curie’s birthday under the table, that is tearing our pub culture to shreds one sneaky finger stroke at a time?

You have nothing to be proud of

You have nothing to be proud of

These guys are never going to stand up for themselves on this. They might see you doing it and look quickly away.

The braver ones might go slightly red in the face and whisper something to their team-mates. But they’ll never actually do anything about it.

They’ll cower in the corner and finish second or third as you claim the prize, coasting to victory on artificial intelligence and a small side serving of guilt.

You’re the Lance Armstrongs of general knowledge – and even he has more balls.

Stop being a cunt and put your phone away.

Let them have this one – they need it more than you do.

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