Calls my bluff

8:34am Monday 12th May 2008

The Scribbler stood for long moments observing the sign above the bar in the Boilermaker's Arms. "Can't make it to our pub quiz night?" he read aloud. "Then play by phone!"

Though he knew it was folly to even ask, he felt a resigned need. "What's all this, Boris?"

The landlord spat in a glass and buffed it with his apron, which caused much affront to Doris "The Happy Medium" Thrope, who was sitting at the bar, mainly because she was still drinking a port and lemon out of it.

"Phone-in competitions, you see," he said. "They're all the rage. Always in the news at the moment."

"Er, yes," said The Scribbler, taking a sip of his usual. "But you do realise why they're in the news, don't you? You have read beyond the headlines?"

Boris shrugged. "Who has time for that? I get all I need to know from the headlines. No-one hurt as poppadom scorched, Cat climbs Everest, Giant rats with what looked a bit like rolled-up blueprints spotted on Hall Ings. What more do you require?"

The Scribbler supposed he had a point, especially given those three headlines plucked from the T&A in recent days. "The point is, though," he said, "there's been a lot of trouble over phone-in competitions on the TV. With the way they're run and all that. People have been getting ripped off."

Boris waved his tea-towel at The Scribbler and made a poo-pooing motion. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by a poo-pooing sound from below the bar level, and as Doris Thrope had just started on a bowl of Daphne the Venerable Barmaid's Warmed Up Last Week's Curry (as advertised on the specials board), it did not go down to well. Or up too well, rather.

"That does it," snapped Doris, taking her meal. "I'm going into the lounge."

"The Boilermaker's doesn't have a lounge," whispered The Scribbler.

"Not the pub's lounge, my lounge," she sniffed, and walked out of the hostelry with her coat, hat, bag and curry.

"Mind you bring the bowl back!" shouted Boris as the door slammed. Then he continued: "Anyway, the idea is, when we have our quiz nights on Thursdays not many people come to it. So I've cooked up this idea that they can ring the pub and I'll leave the phone on the bar, so they can listen to the questions and give their scores over the end."

The hare-brained scheme was so riddled with problems that The Scribbler didn't know where to begin.

"But you'll only have one person able to connect at a time," he said.

Boris shook his head. "Not at all. We've got a party line thing. Graham the Gasman installed it for us, on the QT. We can take a dozen calls at the same time."

"It'll cost the punters a fortune!" said The Scribbler.

"Only what they'd spend on booze if they were here," said Boris, tapping his nose.

"But wouldn't they rather have a drink in the pub and do the quiz if they were going to spend that much money?"

"That's the point!" said Boris, exasperated. "Now they don't have to."

The Scribbler turned back to his pint. "Boris," he said, as kindly as possible. "I love you like a brother but sometimes you're as daft as a brush. It'll never work, Boris."

"You come in on Thursday and see," said Boris.

"But," said The Scribbler, playing his ace. "How are you going to stop them cheating? They could have a pile of encyclopedias, or be connected to the internet!"

Boris paused. He hadn't thought of that. "Um," he said, struggling to find the answer. "Can I phone a friend?"

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