It was like re-living your first day at "big school". We gathered nervously and stayed close to the door, chatting amongst ourselves and casting evaluative glances at the existing customers. Mostly we remained standing, not wanting to impinge on protocol : after all, the chairs we coveted might be the established territory of One-armed Doug, Leggy Lisa, or - even worse - Big Bert. We whispered amongst ourselves, shared our fears. It wouldn't work, it was far too noisy, there was nowhere to sit, they didn't have any malt .... that kind of thing. As the noise from the established clientele (the average age of which mist have been at least 23) grew we each individually plotted the quickest route to an exit. We cursed Cousin Dave.
It was Dave who had planned this Exodus (I am sure he will claim it was me but as the writer of this post I have the right to interpret history as I want). Once the news of the Rock's closure had been announced, he had been allocated the task of finding an alternative location for our Friday night quiz. Considerable research was undertaken and the choice was eventually made. The New Spitfire achieved an Obama-like victory because it had recently re-opened and had no existing quiz and nobody else would have us. Having identified a potential new home for the lost tribe, Dave and Jen jumped on a plane for three weeks in the sun in Spain. Thus the leaderless tribe congregated near the pub door and prayed for snow on the Costa Brava.
But then things began to change. Many of the existing customers left to join a raiding party on nearby Brighouse. Some seats in the far corner became available. A couple of Spitfire customers decided that they would give the quiz a try. A scout discovered that the draught Theakstones was cheap and surprisingly good. So we started our quiz. And when we finished the Landlady brought out a big plate of sandwiches to make the new first-formers feel at home. Smiles all around. We will be back next week.