Ivan ‘Plank’ Polancec

A fellow reject from the abortive 2002 effort, Ivan’s surname became his nickname via a confused spell-checker. Ivan’s specialist subjects were cricket and popes, on both of which his knowledge was supreme. But take away this man’s tobacco and Rizlas and it only takes about 20 minutes for him to collapse into a gibbering dribbling nicotine-deprived wreck of a human being.

Pete ‘Captain Haddock’ Hinstridge

Pete had a habit of turning up to selection rounds wearing a suit, which initially led me to mark him down as a bit of a ponce, although he claimed it was because he was working. Pete was the medical specialist, what with him studying medicine and all. By nefarious means, Pete ended up being the captain of the side.

Me

With a dress sense inspired substantially by Tom Baker as Doctor Who, I provided all the stripiness a well-balanced quiz side could need. Specialising in geography and astronomy questions, my knowledge of which was supreme – but take away my freshly-ground coffee from a Latin American communist farmer’s collective on a rain-soaked mountainside and it only takes about 20 minutes for me to collapse into a gibbering dribbling caffeine-deprived wreck of a human being.

Oli ‘Gordon Brown’ Usher

A classic dour Scotsman and masochist. Oli must be a masochist, because he is attracted to union politics like a moth to a flame. Perhaps it’s just his misguided faith in human nature that means he doesn’t realise until too late that anyone who runs a student union is a petty squabbling paranoid venom machine. Or perhaps he knows that and just enjoys hating them.

Stu ‘supersub’ Cullen

Our reserve. Through some accident of history, Stu ended up as our reserve instead of on the team. Where a lesser man would have been bitter and resentful, Stu carved out a unique and vital role as substitute, which involved motivating the team, psyching us up and ensuring we reached our full mental potential, and also drinking more Granada cheap hospitality wine than the rest of us put together. Take away this man’s soft porn and tabloids and it only takes about 20 minutes for him to collapse into a gibbering dribbling nipple-deprived wreck of a human being.

So one beautiful May day, we all trooped off to see Granada on the South Bank, to see if we were good-looking and intelligent enough to get on TV. 40 questions and a bit of banter later, we trooped out of the building feeling confident, and about a week after that, we got a call saying yes, we were clever and beautiful and were going to be on television. Excellent!