The Eagle’s Nest Pub-Quiz
“I’m telling you now, it’s Mos Eisely Cantina.”
Fat John gets aggressive when we don’t accept his answers, which happens frequently enough. He sits back into his sulk and goes to work on his pint of Harp. It really is quite like a nightclub: the walls have a vintage aspect. Football jerseys pinned around film posters of Tarantino epics and 90s flicks. There is a constant hum of bleach and air freshener off the jacks. The lights strobe and every flat surface becomes an impromptu dance floor at sharp angles of the clock.
“Fat John gets aggressive when we don’t accept his answers, which happens frequently enough.”
Sunday, at low light. The height of summer. Temperatures pushing upwards and us just after the wettest February on record. The four of us and our backsides moulded into our chairs, huddled over the answer sheet. We were, in no particular order; Myself, Fat John, Barry and Linden.
“In all seriousness, men. It’s Mos Eisely fucking Cantina.”
None of us Star Wars enthusiasts but Fat John cost us a point in the last round when he insisted the Nile flows into the Indian Ocean.
“I’m not sure now, John.”
“I’m positive, Dec.”
Linden caught my eye. His eyes darted between Fat John and myself - not knowing what side of the fence to stand on. He addressed his confusion by offering to get the next round and jumped out of his chair nearly before anyone could argue - not that any of us would. Linden’s name arose from a trip to Galway in Transition Year. A weekend away during the Easter Holidays. At sixteen there is no such thing as a beer of choice - you take whatever is thrown at you. 36 cans of Linden Village between us and Linden managed to put eleven away before losing consciousness.
“36 cans of Linden Village between us and Linden managed to put eleven away before losing consciousness.”
The Eagle’s Nest is an ambitious, if ambiguous, establishment. The place itself seems confused as to what exactly it is trying to be. Tuesdays it hosts student nights. DJs and cheap shots. Not too far from student accommodation so it pulls well midweek. Location-wise it is far from ideal when the buses cease running but a taxi rank sits across the road and so the owner, Tony Monroe, has a working relationship with the night drivers of Dublin.
Thursdays is bingo for the pensioners. A bus-load arrives in from nursing homes on the outskirts of the region. A local T.D arranged for the collection and they are served toasted sandwiches and oven chips. The elderly men bother the younger female bar staff and the women tut-tut into their gins and their botanical-infused tonics.
Saturday afternoons are for football. Premier League Super Saturday and Jeff Stelling booms through the building as scores roll in from the day’s fixtures. This draws a wide-ranging crowd. Fathers escaping their unambitious spouses hunker down with sons and order pinted lager, pub-sized bottles of Coke and salt-&-vinegar crisps.
A somewhat indefinable establishment, indeed. The nest has become a home to many of a slow Sunday. Our business here, as it is every week, is the pub-quiz.
The quizmaster screeches that answer sheets must be handed up in the next sixty seconds. We have eight answers. The other absentee is the name of the gemstone of September. None of the men pertain to hold an interest in astrology, or at least none of us admit to it. Fat John is adamant.
“Luke Skywalker met Han Solo in Mos Eisely Cantina.”
“You’re absolutely certain, John?” Barry Collins is typically sceptical of Fat John’s answers and took near-pleasure in John’s collapse in the Indian Ocean debacle.
“Do I see anyone else throwing in an alternative?”
Thirty seconds.
“We’ll take a vote.”
“For the love of-”
“All in favour, raise your hand?”
Three palms show. Two remain down. A majority of one.
“Right so.”
Barry scribbled the words onto the only other blank space on the sheet and waddled towards the booth and handed it to the plump, mustachioed quizmaster.
❦ ❦ ❦
We initially happened upon The Eagle’s Nest as a change of scenery. We took it for a regular boozer. Eight-lagers-and-a-packet-of-crisps job was the idea. We arrived in on a wet Sunday in November. Our group down from five to four the week prior. Robbie Kiely. Thirty-one. His sister found him in the bathroom of his mother’s house with an envelope sellotaped to the door. “Call the Guards and don’t come in,” it said, “I’m sorry.”
Robbie opened his wrists at midday on a Wednesday afternoon. He said not one word about it to any of us. None of us said a word about it to one another.
We came to the Nest for the pints, but what kept us was the quiz. Every Sunday evening was set aside for the pub quiz. Two free pints for each member of the winning team. Free apple sours for the most creative team name. We held the record for the most creative name four weeks in a row, originally claiming the accolade with “Crouching Woman, Hidden Cucumber.” Fat John was our designated namer. John once had a definition go viral on Urban Dictionary so had the experience necessary for the position.
“We were by now well-versed in the quiz and understood it not as a mad dash towards the finish, but a methodical process.”
The Nest was a welcoming, warm spot at the top of the Hill: a row of shops that lined an ascending slip-road. A live band often played in the aftermath of the pub quiz. Sometimes a tribute act - Live Forever or Frankly Sinatra - otherwise circuiting public house performers to rattle out the classics while we negotiated our pints.
The pub-quiz held us through the winter with the warm fuzz of typically excessive beers - there were ales on tap approaching eight per cent to volume - and we spilled out of the small venue in its wake full of foggy enthusiasm towards the chip-shop around the corner.
We sipped our pints as the quizmaster relayed the results of a previous round through the microphone. After four rounds we rested firmly in third position, within touching distance of first but well beyond fourth. This was not a novel occurrence. Most weeks three teams emerged, as the rounds latened, as particularly strong. We were by now well-versed in the quiz and understood it not as a mad dash towards the finish, but a methodical process. Most teams fell away by the fifth, their attention captured by their drinks and by the women moving about the floor. Four months into our weekly assemblies, we were aware of the distractions and stood well-placed to avoid them.
Next up was the penultimate round: no room for error at this stage. I often wondered whether, if Robbie had not seen himself off, we would have happened upon the Nest at all. The gloom that hung over The Stag was too much for us in the week after, and that is what stirred us to fly from our regular. I no longer tasted the hoppy tang of the quirky ales on tap, nor the hug of the house stout in which I often dabbled. We didn’t talk about this. We simply came to the conclusion together, each in our own way, that it was time to look further ashore.
The quizmaster read the answers from the previous round aloud. I marked off our correct answers as Fat John listened closely for confirmation. We sipped quietly as the list proceeded.
“Question nine: Where did Luke Skywalker first meet Han Solo?”
Fat John puffed his inhaler.
“The answer is: Mos Eisely Cantina.”
John gave us a glance that said “pricks” and settled into his seat as he sipped contently. I ticked off the remainder of the answers. Nine of ten correct in that round. September’s gemstone the only missing answer in a near-perfect round. The leaderboard stood as such:
Beer Necessities - 31 points
Big Fact Hunt (Us) - 31 points
Universally Challenged - 28 points
Barring the collapse of a century, it was now a two-horse race.
A lounge-boy passed out answer sheets to each team. We had gone three weeks without a win and Fat John was beginning to rip up beer mats beside me. I looked over to the Beer Necessities table. Four young lads. Can’t have been older than twenty-two. All Dax wax and gym-muscles. Hopping with the enthusiasm of four pints and part-time jobs.
“They’re probably Googling the answers under the fuckin’ table.”
Linden looked over to the table in question and snorted into his pint as he drank.
“Cunts to a man.”
The disco lights shifted and fluctuated. It reminded me of the trip to Amsterdam when we were nineteen when the curtains danced. The door opened and a flock of women stood in from the July humidity. The sky outside grey with moisture. Here we go, I thought. The women are in and the younger lads will tail off in pursuit for the last two rounds. Like clockwork, and I settled into my fresh pint from Linden.
“Rebecca had worked in the reception of a firm I did some work for. I lifted my pint to sip it but spilled some down the front of my shirt. ”
“Dec, isn’t that your one you worked with? The receptionist?”
I looked again and saw her as they sat in a booth on the opposite side of the room. I nearly knocked over a glass as I raised my hand and ran my fingers through my hair. Rebecca had worked in the reception of a firm I did some work for. I lifted my pint to sip it but spilled some down the front of my shirt. I dabbed the wet patches with tissue.
“That’s a face I’ve not seen in a good while.”
This absence, I admit, had not been entirely by chance. While I worked with her, I had asked Rebecca out - three times. She had rejected me on each occasion and I had heard through the grapevine that a fourth attempt would prompt a complaint to HR.
The music seemed to be getting louder. Fat John had snapped out of his beermat-tampering and gazed at the latest arrival:
“Jesus, you’d do time for that.”
The quiz-master announced the beginning of the fifth round and people found their seats and their composure. The sports round. This was our big-hitting round. Barry spent many of his days on the Dole watching A Question of Sport and Premier League Years and so became acquainted with sports trivia. Fat John was a Darts man. Linden says he could have gone professional at the snooker if it wasn’t for the drink. I played Kennedy Cup as a young lad and went for trials with Rotherham United when I was sixteen. Each of us, in our own way, sporting men.
The summer light dimmed outside as ten o’clock came and went. That time of evening when pint glasses emptied quicker and I heard the pedestrian lights’ pacemaker-tick outside on the empty roads.
It was around the fourth question - “The Wall” is the nickname given to which cricket player? - that she noticed me sitting across from her.
“Declan?” I saw her mouth at me. She made to wave enthusiastically and looked to catch herself, then gave a wide smile. I raised my hand in return and gestured to the page in front of me so as to convey my busy-ness and she winked and I went back to the page.
I had lost the answer in my head in the distraction. I looked to Barry for a dig-out.
“Not a cricket man unfortunately, Dec.”
Fat John had gone back to ripping up beer mats. Linden put half a pint away in one go. It was all coming apart at the seams. I swear somebody had cranked up the volume on the speakers. I left the space blank. I would come back to it. The round progressed and we missed yet another answer for the final question—The Curragh is in which Irish county? We sat for a moment, quietly. Robbie Kiely had been a racing man and would have answered it with ease. There was no giving out on this occasion. There was only a wistful silence as the quizmaster repeated the question for clarity. We did not have an answer. The round wrapped up and Barry slid the answer sheet towards the quizmaster in his booth and I ordered a fresh round on the way to the bathroom. The barman did a double take and came back to me. I had poured my heart out to this man in recent times.
“You sure, Dec? How about a fizzy orange for now?”
I could hear him thinking “is your man gone bad again?”
“The lagers will do just nicely, Derek.”
When I returned the pints were waiting on me. So, too, was Rebecca.
“Declan!”
“Beck, fancy that.”
I glanced down at myself. An oversized t-shirt I had not bothered to iron and a grey pair of slim-fit jeans. Not too bad but I had not banked on this meeting.
“I didn’t take this for your scene?” she said.
“We came across it recently enough.” She poured an elderflower tonic into the gin goblet. “Just for a change of scenery, you know? The spice of life and all that,” she smiled and drank. I drank too. I saw Barman Derek eye me as he wiped the bar.
She clicked her tongue in the momentary silence. I had forgotten this habit. I hadn’t noticed the time sliding away since I had finished up with the firm.
“You’re in a new job?”
“Oh, I’m doing admin above in town with a law firm. Riveting stuff.”
“Knowing you I’m sure it is.”
I handed over the notes to the barman and rested my elbow on the bar.
“This is your regular? I’ve not seen you here before,” I said.
“I live close enough. Milton Drive?”
“I know it.” The bus route passes the estate on its way to the Nest. I leave the car at home. I noticed the disco lights more than ever.
“To think I’d only been twenty four hours away from Rebecca for the best part of half a year and knew nothing about it.”
“We’re Saturday drinkers, usually. But it’s Grace’s birthday tonight so we figured, why not?” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder towards Grace who was making love to a strawberry & lime cider at the table. To think I’d only been twenty four hours away from Rebecca for the best part of half a year and knew nothing about it. The quizmaster read out the answers from the previous round. “The Wall” is a nickname given to India’s Rahul Dravid. I felt Linden’s clouded stare burning into the back of my skull as I rested even heavier on the bar—I was practically lying on it by now. The Curragh is in Kildare and I sipped my pint to excuse my silence for a moment.
“You’re looking skinnier now,” she said.
“Fat club,” I said, “it works wonders for the gut.”
She snorted into her gin goblet and put her hand on my shoulder.
“Make sure there’s still some of yourself left afterwards, though.”
I saw Barry shooting looks towards me.
“I’d better be getting back for the last round.”
“I’ll talk to you afterwards?”
“For sure.”
Fat John had gathered a substantial pile of shredded beer mats by now and Linden rocked softly in his seat. The wheels of disaster smoothly in motion. Barry sat quietly as the quizmaster read out the first question, which I did not hear. I lashed into my latest pint and a hungry optimism awoke in me. I had lost three stone (unintentionally) since leaving the job and the car had failed the NCT twice. My right to optimism had slowly dwindled in the year that had passed.
“I focused my vision and saw the shape of Robbie Kiely standing across the road, watching us with his hands in his pockets.”
The disco lights shuffled and settled on their new spots on the ground as the music continued to blare. I swear it was getting louder. The quizmaster asked how many times Kerry have drawn All-Ireland football finals. Barry scribbled furiously on the page, grumbling into his pint about “useless pricks.” Linden purred softly beside me, finally in his happy place for the night. Fat John brushed his pile aside and hummed a tune and tapped his fingers on the table. I sank the rest of my pint. All I could hear now was Sweet Dreams by Eurythmics pumping into my brain. Hook it to my veins and it will sustain me.
I gazed out of the window beside the table and considered the Nest, as I had done many times. It had become part of our crew since we had come across it. It was as important to us as any one man was. I focused my vision and saw the shape of Robbie Kiely standing across the road, watching us with his hands in his pockets. He gave a contented nod and then I blinked and he was gone. I looked back towards the crew.
“Fierce humid for a Sunday, wha’?” The summer night drew in close and heavy overhead and the windows fogged.
Barry grunted in reply.
“Eight times, by the way.”
“What?”
“Kerry. Eight times.” I stood up and made for the bar.
Barry’s eyes lit up and a smile etched onto his complexion and he crossed out numbers on the sheet and scratched his correction onto the page in frantic hand. I looked over to the Beer Necessities table. One of them was wrapped around a young one touring the dancefloor. Another had seemingly lost interest and swiped left and right on a dating app. Another was in the midst of ripping up beer mats. Such is life, I thought. We were looking good for first place.
I ordered a round of pints at the bar and Barman Derek winced as he set a clean glass under the tap and lager swirled in its neck. I caught Rebecca’s eye. I made a gesture that said—“drink?” She smiled and nodded and I raised a casual finger towards Barman Derek for one more. He wore a look of anguish but arguing was, by now, beyond him and he reached for a gin goblet.
I looked back to our own table. Barry grinned contently over the completed answer sheet. Linden could have been asleep or taking a stroke by the saliva accumulating on his chin. Fat John swayed to the musical rhythm, gripping the spine of his seat for support. The music took over and I no longer heard anything else. Three times, she rejected me. The quizmaster gave a final call for answer sheets and Barry made his way towards the booth.
Sunday at The Eagle’s Nest. The height of summer. A heavy July night, and I turned to see how the young lads were getting on over on the dancefloor.
Shane McDonnell is a student and writer from Dublin. He is currently studying at University College Dublin. He has recently been published in Caveat Lector, run by UCD English & Literary Society.
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