I arrive strangely early at the pub this evening. Stu and Oli are already there but still, it’s not even 9pm. Is it because I sense good things in the offing tonight, or is it just an accident? Who knows? Either way, the quiz starts well and we’re in second place after round one. We hold on to the spot in round two, rise to joint first in round three, and remarkably we take an outright victory with a sterling performance in round four. We also come very close to winning the beer round, only narrowly missing out with a poor tiebreak guess. We share out 24 pounds between us and we’re very satisfied with our second win of 2010.

But for reasons which are about to become clear, I can hardly remember the actual quiz. The reasons are snowball tickets number 45 and 46, which I bought way back in round two. It’s been almost six years since we started coming here, I’ve bought one or two tickets every single time, and my number comes up about once a year on average. Every time it does, I get some stupidly hard joke of a question about cricket, fail to even guess, and go home humiliated. Then the following week some other bastard normally gets a laughably easy question about physics or geography and takes home wads of cash. Actually winning the snowball has become a distant, impossible dream. I hardly know why I buy tickets any more – it only means that every Tuesday ends in bitterness. But I do. We all do.

Tonight, the prize fund stands at £1000, as it has done for a long time. Remarkably my number comes up, for only the sixth time. I sidle up to the front, already wondering what nightmare question might be. If it’s about cricket, I think I might punch Marcus to the ground and run out of the pub, never to return. I feel horribly certain that even if it’s not cricket, it will be ridiculously obscure. In times past I’ve been actually shaking with nerves when my number came up, even when I was facing a maximum win of £67, but tonight I feel quite relaxed.

Which African country has a lowest point that is higher than any other country’s lowest point?

Wow. Did Marcus really just say that? Forget punching him to the ground – I almost have to stop myself kissing him. I hear myself saying “Lesotho”, before I’ve even had time to consciously realise that I know the answer. Then I have a second or two of horrific, crushing doubt. Did I mishear the question? Is Lesotho actually right? Have I just made an idiot of myself in front of the whole pub, again?

“…is the right answer!”, says Marcus, and I almost collapse to the floor in shock. I can hardly believe even that my number came up, let alone that I could answer the question, still less that it’s just made me £1000 richer.

The rest of the evening passes in a haze of geeky happiness that knowing obscure trivia can bring such rewards. Now I know what winning the snowball feels like, I might up my stake to a fiver each week. Pretty soon, I’m sure, my numbers will start coming up as often as Evil Patrick’s and Annoying Dave’s do, and I’ll have to call myself Shitty Roger or something.

Actually, it’s much more likely that I won’t win anything else until 2016, so I will enjoy this moment of triumph for quite some time. I laugh loudly to myself all the way home.

Postscript

I’ve decided to finish on a high note, and this is my last dispatch from the Prince of Wales. Thanks for reading – see you in the pub any Tuesday you care to drop by.