Quiz

It was a whopper. I claim no skill at estimating the weight of turkeys, but if I had to guess I would have said twenty-six to twenty-eight pounds. Streaky bacon was draped decorously over its chest in the interest of modesty. The cavity at one end was filled with sage and onion, the other with hazelnut stuffing. Surrounding it, like a clutch of newly hatched chicks around a broody hen, were a very sufficient number of pigs in blankets, dabbling happily in the remains of the juice, with the rest of which Mum had made a huge jug of her famous gravy; brown, thick and gloopy. In dishes were all the usual trimmings: sprouts, roast potatoes, parsnips dusted with orange zest, red cabbage, carrots, cauliflower, sweet potatoes, a cheesy tomato and courgette dish. Not to mention swede and turnip, to which it was predicable that people would help themselves very modestly. And cranberry and bread sauces.

Dad had just committed his usual carnage with the carving knife, layering our plates with ungainly chunks of meat; the prosecco had just been poured; a very large white van had been observed to have drawn up outside the window; when my brother Charles proposed a toast. “To victory of the Samson family” he declaimed raising his glass. “Victory?” I queried, “do you mean success or good fortune?” – so he explained. Without consulting use he had entered us into the draw for “The Great Christmas Quiz” and by magnificent chance we had come out top equal. The van outside would be the production team; that ring on the doorbell would be them. And he rose and left to let them in.

We were introduced to Dick and Derk, two bearded young men in grubby jeans and tee shirts whom we were told were the camera team, and Charlie, a well upholstered older woman with a mop of untidy orange-red hair and chunky purple beads around her neck, apparently the producer for our end of the program. Dick and Derk erected impressive looking cameras on heavy tripods, plugged in a lot of complex gear with a tangle of interconnecting cable, and set up a large flat screen television at the end of the table so that we could follow proceedings. Charlie told us that the program was due to start in fifteen minutes, and that it would be perfectly OK for us to continue our meal during the proceedings but please would we try to eat decorously. Best advice: if we happened to drop a sprout, just ignore it. Do not, repeat do not, attempt retrieval from under the table.

The television fired up. We could see ourselves, at lunch, on the left of the screen, another family of five on the right, also tucking into a lavish Christmas dinner, and sitting in what I can best call a throne between us, a small man. He introduced himself as Björn Erlingsson, our host as it were even if we were in our own homes, and quiz-master. Dick and Derk manned the cameras, smoking weedy cigarettes without permission. Then Mr Erlingsson let us know that we were about to go on air nationally. A red light above the TV started blinking. We were, live, demolished turkey, half eaten lunch and all.

Mr Erlingsson proceeded to wish the audience a very Happy Christmas and introduce us all. First us, the Samson family Mum, Dad, me (John), my brother Charles and sister Janet. Then our opponents, theDahlia family: the parents, Joseph, and sisters Chloe and Alex. He went on to assert with a tongue clearly in, and intended to be seen to be in, his cheek that it was purest coincidence that this was a Samson and Delilah competition. He then moved on to the rules. There would be two rounds of general knowledge questions, one to each family member, the families being asked in turn. No conferring would be permitted, and any appearance of it would void the question. He tossed a coin and, without showing us or the audience how it has landed declared that the Dahlias would go first. As advertised, a fully expenses-paid holiday in Hamilton, the capital of Bermuda would be provided for the lucky winner.

The first question to the paterfamilias of our opponents was “What are two things you can never eat for breakfast?” Mr Dahlia floundered and tried “custard and bricks”. His face when he was told that the ‘right’ answer was “Lunch and Dinner” was a sight to behold. We breathed a brief sigh of relief that the score was still love-all, then realised that Dad was about to receive service. It was an ace. “What is always coming but never arrives?” I will not have a word said against my dear father’s intellect, but cannot claim great surprise when his response was “Pass”. He teetered on the brink of apoplexy on being told that he should have replied “tomorrow”. And so it went on. “What gets wetter the more it dries?” (expected: a towel). “What word is spelled incorrectly in every single dictionary” (expected: i.n.c.o.r.r.e.c.t.l.y), “What is it that lives if it is fed, and dies if you give it a drink?”, “What never asks a question but invariably gets answered?” I tried to protest that these were trick questions not general knowledge ones – I failed – Björn Erlingsson proved to be a master of evasion. Avoiding all semblance rudeness he managed to imply that the asker of such a question must be a pedant of limited acumen, and pressed on with the next questions. “A girl fell off a 50-foot ladder but didn’t get hurt. Why not?”, “If you have one, you want to share it. But once you share it, you do not have it. What is it?”, “What starts with “e” and ends with “e” but only has one letter in it?”. All sneakily unanswerable. The only and scant consolation was that, like ours, the Dahlias score remained stuck at null points.

Mercifully the last question came – and went, unanswered. Erlingsson expressed bitter regret that, although a single right answer would have created a winner, neither side had outscored the other so sadly the Bermuda holiday would have to be held over until next year. He did, however, express a hope that we had enjoyed our complimentary Christmas dinner. At this point Mum confessed to puzzlement when a large hamper had arrived, that the delivery men had refused to explain let alone take it back, and that rather than let it go to waste she had cooked is contents – except of course for the prosecco. She had told Charles about it, who did not seem in the slightest bit puzzled but said nothing.

The television company refused to give us the Dahlias’ address for some bogus sounding legal reason. HoweverErlingsson’sintroduction had said that the were in an adjacent town and consulting the electoral register located them easily and we agreed to meet and lick ourseveral wounds in the restaurant of a local garden centre. Boy, did we hit it off. The dads had both been railway engineers and there was no separating them as they exchanges tales of engines, signals, points and bogies. The mums swapped Women’s Institute tales and recipes. I was instantly smitten with Chloe, who is petite with a turned up nose and a very smiley face. Charles fell for Alex, and Janet and Joseph seemed somehow to form an instant bond. The triple wedding is set for the month after next.

We suspect that radio stations keep an eye upon churches’ activity calenders. That eye might have lighted upon our multiple wedding as the hook for a twee little paragraph or two about a three related couple nuptialthat would be a bit out of the ordinary. The wet‑behind‑the-ears young reporter who called to garner background details could not contain his delight that he had stumbled upon a tale that would make the opening headlines and set his journalistic career alight, maybe even make it into the national news under his by‑line. We surmise that there is enmity between television and radio companies, despite the overlap between their audiences and the difference of product. The ability to splash the devious deceptiveness of a rival in another medium seemed to be just too appealing to miss out on. We had been done a grievous wrong that could be presented to arouse ire and indignation in the listener’s hearts, and it is ire and indignation that sells newspapers and more importantly glues audiences to their radio sets.

That a radio station had clattered up on a white charger to make a righteous clamour about the injurious wrong done to us to the world was great. The unexpected bonus was that, to enhance their tale, get tongues wagging and, importantly, to get folk tuning in for more, they decided not only to raise hue and cry but to put matters right and big up their big story even bigger by correcting the injustice done to us and publicising the fact.To gain credit and audience by the making of third party amends.

The expectation management was gently and carefully done. It would be a budget airline. The hotel would have several fewer stars than the TV gang could have afforded. Not Hamilton, which we were informed was an overdeveloped dump, but Warwick, which was quieter, secluded, and would suit us far better. They would want photos, ideally of us swimming, and the right to publish them in the listings of programs. But it would be Bermuda, in the sun, and for all ten of us. That beat Scarborough, our initially planned joint honeymoon location,into a cocked hat, and was offered for free. The parents had already proven in our first meeting a capability for distracting themselves from any chaperonage duties. One does not look a gift mouse in the hoof. Chloe, Alex and even Janet will look even better in bikinis and with a tan.