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. …
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