'I think I should like to go home now . . .'

'. . . You shall go soon,' said Miss Havisham, aloud. 'Play the game out . . .'

Charles d.i.c.kens, Great Expectations I.

1.39.QUESTION 'Once there were four children named Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy ' So begins the most famous work of a scholar, novelist and Christian apologist But what is the name of the book7 ANSWER The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe The cliche about meeting famous people in the flesh, of course, is that they're often disappointingly a lot smaller than they appear on the screen. But in real life Bamber Gascoigne is actually a lot bigger than I'd imagined; very slim, and smiley, and surprisingly good-looking, like a benevolent character from C.S. Lewis who's about to take you on an amazing adventure, but with s.e.x appeal. The four of us are stood in a line in the TV studios, waiting nervously, and he's working his way down the line, a little like a Royal Variety Performance.

Alice is avoiding me, and is first in the line, so I can't hear what she's saying to him but presume that she's attempting to seduce him. Then Patrick, who's practically doubled over with humility, and is making a big show of having met him before, this time last year, and is acting as if they're big, big pals, like they've been on holiday together or whatever. Bamber's very charming, smiling a lot, and saying, 'Yes, yes of course I remember you!' when he's probably thinking 'who the h.e.l.l is this idiot?'

Then Lucy, who is incredibly quiet and nice as usual, and then it's my turn. The question is do I call him Bamber, or 333.

Mr Gascoigne? He approaches, shakes my hand, and 1 say: 'Pleased to meet you, Mr Gascoigne.'

'Oh, please, call me Bamber,' he says, grinning broadly, taking my hand in his two hands. 'And your name is?'

'Brian, Brian Jackson,' I mumble.

'. . . reading?'

'Eng. Lit.' I say.

'Beg your pardon?' he says, and leans in.

'Eng-lish Lit-erature,' I say loudly, over-enunciating this time, and I notice Bamber recoiling, almost imperceptibly, and guess that it's because he can smell the alcohol on my breath, and has realised that I'm pretty much p.i.s.sed out of my head.

Despite the best efforts of the licensing authorities, the fact remains that no matter how late it is, you can always get a drink if you need it badly enough.

After I run from Alice's room at Kenwood Manor, I walk the streets for a while, trying to calm down, trying to stop shaking, until I find myself outside The Taste of The Raj, a curry house that doubles as a sort of Indian speak-easy; you can drink pretty much all night, as long as you're always within ten feet of an onion bhaji.

Tonight, at just gone midnight, the place is empty. 'Table for one?' asks the solitary waiter.

'Yes, please,' and he shows me to a booth at the very back of the restaurant, near the kitchen. I open the menu, and notice that The Taste of The Raj is offering an extra-special, bitterly ironic Valentine's Day Menu for couples out on a romantic date, but decide that even though the menu represents good value for money, I doubt if I'd be able to swallow anything. Besides, I'm not here for the food. I order a pint of lager, two poppadoms, an onion bhaji, and a gin and tonic.

'No main course, sir?'

'Maybe later,' I say. And the waiter nods mournfully, as if 334.

lie unclei stands the sometimes brutal workings of the human heart, and goes to get my booze. I've finished both the pint of lager and the gin and tonic before I even hear the ping of the microwave from the kitchen behind me. The waiter slides the warmed-through onion bhaji in between my elbows on the table, and I offer up the empty gla.s.ses.

'Another pint of lager, and a gin please. No tonic this time,' and the sad-eyed waiter nods wisely, and sighs, and heads off to get my order.

'And, excuse me?' - I shout after him - 'could you make the gin a double?' Half-heartedly, I pick the crust off the onion bhaji and dip it into the sweet, watery mint yoghurt, and when the waiter returns with my drinks, I sip the top inch off the pint and pour in the gin, stir it with the handle of my fork, and think about all the things that I know.

I know the difference between a pterosaur, a pteranadon, a pterodactyl and a ramphorhynchus. I know the Latin name for most of the common domestic British birds. I know the capital cities of nearly every country in the world, and most of the flags too. I know that Magdalen College is p.r.o.nounced Maudlin College. I know the complete plays of Shakespeare except Timon of Athens, and the complete novels of Charles d.i.c.kens except Barnaby Rudge, and all the Narnia books, and the order in which they were all written, approximate in the case of Shakespeare. I know every lyric of every song Kate Bush has ever recorded, including B-sides, as well as the highest chart position of every single she's released. I know all the French irregular verbs, and where the phrase 'toe the line' comes from, and what the gall bladder's for, and how oxbow lakes are formed, and all the British monarchs in order, and the wives of Henry VIII and their fate, the difference between igneous, sedimentary and metamorphic rocks, and the dates of the major battles of the War of the Roses, the meanings of the words 'albedo', 'peripatetic' and 'litotes', and the average number of hairs on a human head, and how to crochet, and 335.

the difference between nuclear fission and fusion and how to spell deoxyribonucleic and the constellations of the stars and the population of the earth and the ma.s.s of the moon and the workings of the human heart. And yet the important and most basic things, like friendship, or getting over Dad dying, or loving someone, or just simply being happy, just being good and decent and dignified and happy, seem to be utterly and completely beyond my comprehension. And it occurs to me that I'm not clever at all, that in fact I am without a doubt the most ignorant, the most profoundly and hopelessly stupid person in the whole world.

I start to feel a bit blue, so to cheer myself up I order another pint of lager and another double gin, pour the gin into the lager, stir it with my fork, dip a shard of poppadom into the mango chutney, and the next thing I remember is waking up in my clothes at 6.30 in the morning.

'Brian! Brian, wake up . . .'

'Leave me alone . . .' I say, and pull the duvet up over my head.

'Brian, come on, we're late . . .' Someone's shaking me by the shoulder. I push their hand away.

'It's still night-time - go away.'

'It's 6.30 in the morning, Brian, we're due at the studio at 9.30, and we're not going to make it. Come on, get up . . .' and Patrick yanks the duvet back. 'You've been sleeping in your clothes?'

'No . . . I' I say indignantly, but pretty unconvincingly, since I clearly am asleep, and wearing clothes. 'I got cold in the night, that's all . . .'

Patrick yanks the duvet off completely.

'You've still got your shoes on!'

'My feet got cold!'

'Brian - have you been drinking?'

'No ... I'

336.

'Brian, I thought we had an agreement - an early night and no drinking before the match . . .'

'I have not been drinking!' I slur, hauling myself upright, hearing the gin and lager and the onion bhaji settling in my stomach.

'Brian, I can smell it on your breath! What's your mattress doing on the floor, anyway?'

'He says it's a futon,' says Josh from the doorway, shivering in his underpants. Marcus peers, blinking over his shoulder.

'I had to wake your flatmates up to get in,' explains Patrick.

'Ooooops. Sorry Josh, sorry Marcush . . .'

'I don't believe it - you're still drunk!'

'I'm not drunk! Five minutes - just give me five more minutes!'

'You've got three minutes. I'll be waiting downstairs in the car,' snarls Patrick, and flounces out, followed by Josh and Marcus. I sigh, rub my face with my hands, sit on the edge of the futon.

I remember Alice.

I go to my wardrobe, and take out Dad's brown corduroy jacket.

The journey to Manchester is pretty grim. We're travelling in Alice's 2CV, and she gives me a patronising little no-hard feelings smile, which I pretend not to see as I clamber in the back, the crisp packets and shattered ca.s.sette cases crunching underfoot. I tug the door shut by means of the length of washing-line that pa.s.ses for a door-handle, and the exertion causes me to belch a little, the air hissing through clenched teeth. Dr Lucy Chang detects this, makes her diagnosis, and gives me the hospital smile that they teach her to use as part of her training. I pull my coat up under my chin like a blanket as we set off, and try to ignore the lurching of the 2CV, which apparently seems to have no suspension at all, and feels like the Waltzers at a fun fair.

337.

Needless to say good old Patrick has prepared several hundred questions for the journey as a fun, fun warmup, all meticulously typed on 6 by 4 index cards, and he insists on bellowing them out very loudly over the noise of the 2CV's lawnmower engine as we judder along the motorway at a steady 55 miles per hour. I resolve not to answer any of them, just to teach them all a lesson. The trick about getting through today is to remain dignified. Pride and Dignity, that's the key. That, and not throwing up on myself.

'Three bonus questions on battles. What year was the Battle of Blenheim fought? Anyone? No one? Lucy?'

'Seventeen . . . twelve?' suggests Lucy.

'Nope. Seventeen-oh-four.'

'Where is the Bulge, as in the Battle of the Bulge? Anyone? The Bulge? Anyone have any idea at all? The Bulge. Come on, think about it, the Bulge, the Battle of the Bulge . . .'

'Holland!' I mutter from under my coat, partly just to stop him saying 'Bulge'.

'The Ardennes in Belgium,' says Patrick, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. 'Question number 3. Also known as the Battle of the Three Emperors, the Battle of Austerlitz was fought between which . . .'

'Patrick, can I just ask, what is the actual point of all this?' I say, leaning forward in my seat. The mean, do you honestly think that, by some miracle, any of these questions is going to come up in the actual quiz? Because if not, it's a bit of a pointless waste of everyone's time, isn't it?' 'Brian . . .' says Lucy, a hand on my arm.

'It's a warm-up, Brian!' screeches Patrick, leaning round in his seat so we're face to face. 'A warm-up for those of us who aren't quite as fresh this morning as we maybe ought to be?'

The don't know why you're getting at me!' I say, shouting now. 'What time did you get to sleep last night, Alice?' and she glares at me in the rear-view mirror, her cool, contemptuous head-girl glare.

338.

'Brian, we'll talk about it later, alright . . . ?'

'Talk about what later?' asks Patrick.

'Nothing,' says Alice, 'nothing at all . . .'

'So is it just the four of us today then, Alice, or have you got someone hiding in the boot?'

'What?' says Patrick.

'Brian, not here, alright . . . ?' hisses Alice.

'Will someone please tell me what's going on . . . ?' barks Patrick.

'Okay, everyone! Okay! Let's all ... just listen to some music shall we?' says Lucy, the peace-maker. One hand is holding on to my arm, kindly but firmly, and I almost expect to see a hypodermic syringe in the other hand, so I slump back into my seat, pull my coat up high over my head again to try to get some sleep, and we listen to a warped, warbling ca.s.sette of 'The Look of Love' by ABC over and over and over again, all the way to Manchester, until I think I'm going to start screaming.

Shortly after I accidentally breathe booze in Bamber Gascoigne's face, he disappears off to his office to look through the questions and it's left to our old friend Julian, the nice young researcher, to unveil the opposition for the first time. It's just as we feared. One word. Oxbridge. Patrick forces a great big smile, and the sound of his teeth grinding together echoes round the studio.

The four of them amble casually across the studio floor towards us in a long line, like gunslingers. They've all gone for the matching blazer-and-tie look, and are all wearing college scarves and spectacles in a further attempt to intimidate us. Theirs is an all-white, all-male team, so I suppose we can at least congratulate ourselves on striking a blow for s.e.xual equality by having two women on our team, even if one of them is a vicious, deceitful, scheming, two-faced witch.

Of course, our rivals have yet to discover Alice's true 339.

nature, so they all make straight for her, and cl.u.s.ter round as if they're asking for her autograph, while Patrick bobs uselessly at the edge of the circle, desperately trying to shake someone's hand, anyone's hand. Their captain, Norton reading Cla.s.sics - a complacently handsome broad-shouldered, floppy-haired type, the kind of good-looking b.a.s.t.a.r.d who looks as if he rows everywhere - is shaking Alice by the hand and refusing to let go. 'So - you must be the mascot!' he drawls lecherously, which strikes me as a pretty obnoxious and chauvinistic thing to say, and I have a moment of feminist indignation on Alice's behalf, but then I remember last night, the wardrobe. Besides, Alice doesn't seem to mind, because she's laughing too, and biting her lip, all doe-eyed, and tossing her freshly washed hair, and Norton tosses his lovely, glossy hair back, and she tosses her hair in return, and he tosses his, and she tosses hers, and it's like some mating ritual on a wildlife programme. I'm ashamed to say that the words 'p.r.i.c.k-tease' enter my head, but because the phrase is both gender-specific and misogynist, I suppress it, and instead stand just outside the group, with no one to shake hands with, and watch. Lucy Chang spots me, comes over, takes me by the elbow and introduces me to Partridge, a peachy skinned, balding nineteen-year-old from Saffron Walden, reading Modern History, and I smile, and smile, and chat, and smile and wonder if there's somewhere I can go and have a little lie-down.

But there's no time, because Julian is jollying us over to our seats for a quick rehearsal, just for fun, with him standing in for Bamber. Needless to say, Patrick has fixed the seating plan, so that I'm at the very, very end, as far away from him and Lucy as possible, more or less in the next studio, in fact. Alice sits between us, which would have been fun twenty-four hours ago, but now is just pure misery, and we sit there, staring blankly and silently ahead, as Julian reminds us that it's only a bit of fun, only a game, the 34O.

important thing is to enjoy ourselves. The desk and buzzers all feel surprisingly shoddy and make-shift, as if someone's knocked them up in a woodwork cla.s.s, and I can actually see the bare light bulbs that are illuminating my name on the front of the panel. I could unscrew one if I wanted to, maybe steal it after the show and keep it as a souvenir, as a kind of studenty, undergraduate lark. I think about pointing this out to Alice, then remember that we're not meant to be talking to each other, and feel sad again. Julian, meanwhile, is inviting us to try out our buzzers, just to get the feel of them. We all do so, and I lean forward over the front of the plywood desk, to see my name flashing on and off. Jackson. Jackson. Jackson . . .

'At last! My name's in lights!' says Alice. I don't look at her of course, but can tell by her voice that she's smiling desperately. 'You know, I always thought the only way I'd get my name in lights is if I changed it to Fire Exit!' she says, but I don't smile, I just tap out some Morse code on the buzzer; dot dot dot, dash dash dash . . .

'Strange, isn't it? Finding ourselves here! After all this time . . . I'

But I still don't reply, so she reaches across and takes my hand, pulls it off the buzzer.

'Brian, talk to me, please,' says Alice, unsmiling this time, then in a whisper, 'Look, I'm sorry about last night, and I'm sorry if you feel I've led you on, but I never made any promises, Brian. I was always honest with you, always very, very clear about how I felt. Speak to me, Brian, please? I can't bear you not speaking to me . . .'

I turn to her, and she looks sad and beautiful and tired around the eyes. 'I'm sorry, Alice, but I don't think I can.' She nods, as if she understands, and then before we can say anything else Julian is clearing his throat and the rehearsal is beginning.

'The final separation between the Eastern and Western 341.

mi Christian churches, sometimes known as the East-West Schism, happened in which year?'

I think I know this one, so I buzz.

'Fifteen-seventeen?'

'No, I'm sorry, I think you may be thinking of The Reformation. I'm afraid that's a five-point penalty.'

'Ten fifty-four?' says Norton, with the floppy hair, reading Cla.s.sics.

'Correct,' says Julian, and Norton smiles and gives his lovely hair a victory toss. 'So Norton, that's ten points, and your team now get the chance to answer three bonus questions on the Roman G.o.ds . . .'

And ironically, of course, I actually know all the answers.

At the end of the fifteen-minute rehearsal, which is just for fun, just to get us all relaxed, remember it's only a game, we've lost by 115 points to 15. Standing in the scenery dock behind the set, Patrick is so angry that he can barely speak. He just walks in tight little circles, clenching and unclenching his fists, and squeaking. Actually squeaking.

'Good, aren't they?' says Alice.

'They're okay,' says Lucy, 'they got lucky, that's all. Partridge is the one to watch . . .'

'. . . three years I've been waiting for this, three years . . .' mutters Patrick, walking in his tight little circle.

'. . . we're just a little on edge, that's all,' says Lucy, 'we just need to lighten up a little! Start to have fun, relax!'

I suddenly need a drink. Is there a bar in the building, I wonder? 'Maybe we should all just go to the bar, have a pint or two, just get loosened up a bit?' I suggest.

Patrick stops walking. 'What?' he hisses.

'You don't think it's a good idea, then?'

'Brian, you answered eight starter questions during that rehearsal and got six of them wrong. That's minus thirty points . . .'

342.

'That's not true . . .' I insist. 'Is it?1 and 1 look to Lucy for some support, but she's just staring at her shoes. Patrick turns on her.

'Lucia, dimmi, parli Italiano?' and, embarra.s.sed, Lucy says, lSi, un pochino.''