THE TUESDAY NIGHT GALLON OF ALE FACT AND FABLE QUIZ

Question one. What happened to the fly when he flew into the honey jar? Question two. Who just stumbled into the bar and is being served Guinness with a treble Jameson chaser and can’t quite read the exchange of looks between the barmaid and at least three tables of regulars? Question three. Why is the wolf confused by the ideology of who is allowed to eat the lamb? Question four. What the fuck are you looking at? Question five. When the donkey ingested nothing but dew because he thought it would make him sing like a grasshopper, did he a) sing a beautiful song that made the buttercups cry, or b) die a slow and painful death with the whole meadow laughing at him? Question six. Brian and Des of the local pub-quiz team The Pit Props deem the puff at the bar to be unable to handle his ale. Is this view of masculine measure endemic to working-class patriarchal hegemony, or is it just in here? Question seven. What happened to the hungry mouse when he slipped through a small hole in the grain basket to eat his fill? Question eight. Don’t you think you’ve had enough? Question nine. When the crazy old maid kept her nose pressed to the empty wine bottle exclaiming Sweet creature! Was she extolling the delicious scent left by the wine, or did she have a certain mutation of the DRD2 gene? Or a lack of the HTR1B gene? Or a defective PER2 gene? Or an inherent low-level of the brain-emitted chemical Neuropeptide Y? Question ten. Can you just leave, please? Tie breaker. Who saw beauty in a cloud slicing the moon, then poked a number into his phone from the half-lit doorway, gleaned from the pub before this, a half-doubt of acting now fired by another slammed door, a Sure I’ll sort yer, the night now moving like a slow riverboat to a branch-draped midnight bend, and then the other number poked, the Yeh ten minutes mate, the fag smoked under an orange arc of streetlamp, watching the headlights hum up the hill like wild-eyed dogs, not this one, not this one, then the tapering engine below a boxed bump bump bump, a window rolled down to the treble of music exotic... Taxi for a Mr Billy?... Yeh.