I sat on the bar stool, notebook covered in scraps of poetry.  One empty pint glass and another one on the way.  I hadn’t eaten all day – this was my food money, but I can’t sleep on a full stomach so I drink cheap lager and try to make sense of the white spaces between the lines and the words I’ve put between some of them.  I stare at my feet hanging over the tiled floor, and imagine myself sitting on the edge of a skyscraper, looking down at blocks of streets.  The barkeep asks me if I want to take part in the quiz.

I’m alone.  Fuck it.  Nine teams, general knowledge, where’s the harm?  He hands me a sheet with a smile and under team name I put Billy No-Mates.  Might get a laugh.  Might get a cheer.

I know nothing pre-1992 and very little post-2002. …