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Every Tuesday, across the nation, ordinary adults become insufferable. A taxonomy of the pub quiz — the viva-voiced pedants, the phone-under-the-table chancers, the quizmaster with delusions of grandeur, and the couple who will not let the capital of Australia go.
The British queue was once a grim necessity. Now it is a social club, a spectator sport, and a way of feeling superior to people who have not discovered the correct rope line. A field guide to waiting for nothing in particular.
Somewhere along the way, every pastime became a side hustle and every hobby got a business plan. This is a defence of pub darts, wonky watercolours and the ukulele you have not touched since 2024.