I don't know why I do it, but I keep getting inveigled into writing the blessed things. One hundred well-mixed questions to be asked in front of up to two dozen tables of resentful, seething, heartless animals. Try it some time. Some people know the maternal name and blood group of everyone who ever played for Brighton and Hove Albion, and are angrily disappointed when none of my 99 questions on soccer includes their beloved heroes. Others specialise in which countries came third in each of the World Cups to date.
Poetry is out too.
Once you give them options, it's largely down to guesswork, and concentration is gone. I remember that a horse called The Trouper won an inconsequential race at Dingle some quarter of a century ago. That solitary fact comprises the totality of my knowledge of horse-racing. It also represents the last time I placed a bet at a racecourse, and the second-last time I ever visited one. And yet, even though my quiz audience know my limitations, they expect me to reel off questions about horses.