'Now they'd taken five of our questions. Enough was enough': The great quiz rebellion of 2020

Trivia buff Ben Dillon on the 2020 scandal that rocked the quiz world - when the Weekend Quiz reduced its number of questions from twenty to fifteen

That Saturday it was my turn to take the photo. Well, any of the thirty-five of us could have done it. I just took it upon myself that day. I ventured out while Stef was in the kitchen, toasting sourdough and smashing avocado, making un petit-déjeuner de millenial prétentieux pour deux. The previous night, Leo had officially announced Ireland's plan to leave lockdown. On Monday we'd be allowed to interact with outside beings. However, on that Saturday, getting The Irish Examiner would be the height of my social exploits.

Stef was plating breakfast when I got back. I made coffees and pulled out the weekend supplement.

The next part had become automatic - spread the magazine on the table, flick to the back page, point the camera at the top corner and share the photo with the group. As I looked through the lens and focused the image, I realised what they'd done. In the past few months, they had shut our pubs, taken our sport, made us wear masks and take up walking as a pastime. Now they'd taken five of our questions. Enough was enough.

I first heard of the Irish Examiner quiz on the last night of 2018. While sipping gin and tonics, Tom told us about the group he created. Tom had started the WhatsApp group in May of 2017. Every Saturday since, one member shares a photo of the quiz. Scoring is entirely based on an honour code and the chain of messages follows a similar pattern each week. A photo of the quiz comes in, followed by members inputting their name and scores - Frank 10, Eimear 4, Arlen 6. Tom called it "the perfect quiz". Over time, I've grown to agree with him.

At that party, my girlfriend and I entered the ranks. Since then, I've become something of a quiz connoisseur. When I see a quiz, I breathe it in, looking for hints of question difficulty and oaky aromas. I swirl it, smell it and then let it wash around my mouth. Over the years I've found that the perfect quiz follows the Goldilocks rule - not too difficult, not too easy. You might need to go deep into the attic of your mind, but most answers are up there somewhere. Some are just hidden under tattered, old boxes labelled ‘Maths Theorems’, 'Sylvia Plath Poems’ and 'Sound Financial Advice'.

When discussing quizzes, people cite different topics as their favourites. My preferred category of questions has nothing to do with genre. My favourites are the ones located at the intersection of a carefully considered Venn diagram. They occupy both rings of 'things I know' and 'things most people don't'. What's the point in knowing something if you can't be smug about it? But often that's not even important. A true sommelier knows that the greatest dopamine rushes come from answering questions based on nothing but an educated guess and lateral thinking.

As a quiz connoisseur, I could call a 2019 Noel Welch by scent alone. The Irish Examiner quizmaster has a distinct style. His quizzes are 20 questions thick with 19 general knowledge and a "who is pictured below?" to finish. Noel rarely throws a softball. He peppers questions with little clues about the answers. He has a penchant for 70s music, Emmerdale trivia and phobias. He asks us what county some obscure Irish town belongs to. He lures me into guessing Wicklow almost every time. If I was to teach a crash course on the Noel Welch vintage, I'd have my students learn the values of snooker balls, the capitals of the world and read Henry VIII's Wikipedia page.

Pre-2019, if someone casually asked about pub quiz credentials, I'd have considered myself an asset.

"Yeah, I'm pretty good," I'd have said sheepishly, feigning modesty. Post-2019, I know my exact worth. I'm a 9 out of 20 average. I can say it in a cold, unbiased manner, like an American stating their SAT scores. 9 out of 20 isn't overly impressive. It doesn't put me at the bottom of the food chain. But I'd be eaten alive at Scór na nÓg.

In the past year, the group has experienced a social media equivalent of urban sprawl. The original group is slowly growing. But, in 2020 speak, it's the subdivisions that have caused the R number to soar. I have a family group with 14 members. This type of community transmission has been rife among Tom and other members also. I get the sense that all of Munster can now be connected via two degrees of Examiner group separation. 

As I walk through Cork City, I often wonder if there is an imaginary line that connects me to thousands of others. We all live vastly different lives. But, on Saturdays, we each say a little prayer to Noel Welch, thanking him for the 20 questions he has bestowed upon us. That is why, when the editors of the Irish Examiner redesigned the magazine, removing five questions in the reshuffle, it meant something more.

I pride myself on being a reasonably pragmatic person. When I have a problem I either fix it myself or lean on close friends and family. I would never consider sharing my qualms with some back page agony aunt, Twitter followers or Joe Duffy. Screaming blue murder to a faceless entity doesn't appeal to me in the slightest. However, in this one instance, I was left with no choice. Lockdown had made me desperate. I could understand the hand sanitizer, the pubs and why we'd been tethered to our homes via an invisible 2 km lead. But why take five of our questions? I wrote to the editor, Tom Fitzpatrick, searching for answers.

During the lockdown, Leo made famous the quote that "not all heroes wear capes". Some wear scrubs and carry stethoscopes. Some buy restaurant vouchers during a national shutdown. Some check in on elderly neighbours. Some heroes listen to the pleas of an unhinged quiz enthusiast and make things right.

That Friday Tom Fitzpatrick shared an open letter on Twitter. He announced the news and finished by saying that he hoped his actions would "allow readers to sleep easy". I shared the update with my family WhatsApp while feeling like Mel Gibson on horseback. The first response was from my brother-in-law. "We are the people and we have the power." I was glad my melodramatics were reciprocated.

The fallout and subsequent redress played out digitally, far from the glares of the media. But I imagined an alternate universe where things went differently. A podium stands twenty feet in front of a white door. The editor of the Irish Examiner walks out in an understated fashion and reads from a script. Voice recorders are clicked and silence falls upon the small flock of journalists. The editor announces the release of the Examiner 5 amidst rallying cries. At once, the Examiner quiz community breathes a collective sigh of relief.

That Saturday, I opened the back page to see the full complement restored. I didn't shed any tears but I did have a new appreciation for how JFK must have felt after the Cuban Missile Crisis. The first question read, "The TV series M*A*S*H was an acronym for what?". My mind went blank. I would go on to have that same feeling of cluelessness fifteen more times.

It was good to be back.