Competitive (dis)advantage

Do you know who sang ‘Drive By’? I did, but...

I was on Radio 2’s Ten to the Top music quiz earlier this week. I listen most days, usually shouting answers at the radio and wondering sometimes how some clueless contestants make it on air. I often get quite a high score.

You can listen to how I did here. (For those who only know me from here, I wonder what you make of actually hearing me rather than just reading me.)

I messaged in, got a call from the producer (they clearly favour chatty people with hobbies), and was asked a handful of music questions, which I answered correctly. Then came a call with Vernon Kaye and his team – it was a fun and funny conversation and Vernon was swearier than the edited version suggests.

I was worried that I’d clam up or go blank when it was time to answer the questions, but the chat with Vernon had relaxed me (as I imagine it was designed to do).

People are often surprised by how competitive I am. Winning matters to me – but I’m also a good loser.

I suspect it goes back to childhood.

Growing up, games were a regular feature of family life. Alongside Monopoly and The Game of Life, we played a lot of cards. My grandad – Daddy Mick – loved them. He and my nan played regularly, and he would also go off to “card school” to play for money.

On Sunday evenings, after tea (we would either visit them or they would come to us most weekends) the cards would come out. Rummy, Sevens and Pontoon were our favourites.

When we were old enough, we played Pontoon for small stakes – 2p and 5p. If we lost, Daddy Mick kept our pocket money winnings. At the time I thought it was quite shocking that an adult would take money from a child; in hindsight, it was a useful lesson. Don’t bet what you’re not prepared to lose.

I’m fairly sure Daddy Mick cheated at Monopoly – he was always the banker and always won – but I like to think he played pontoon straight with us.

Thinking about competitiveness made me remember these two events.

My first taste of unexpected victory came at primary school sports day in 1977. I was 10: chubby, girly, bespectacled and repulsed by football – I was always the last to be picked for a team. I hated it so much that I somehow managed to persuade the school to let me play netball with the girls instead. I was anything but sporty.

But that year I was persuaded to try out for the egg-and-spoon race.

In the trial, something extraordinary happened. I scooped up the egg, set off, and seemed to fly. The egg stayed put like it was glued to my spoon. I won easily. It was, I think, the first time I had ever experienced physical triumph.

On sports day itself, when it mattered, the egg seemed to be glued to the ground. It took me forever to get it on the spoon – I fumbled, dropped it, tried again, dropped it again. By the time I started moving forward, everyone else had finished. I shuffled towards the line, increasingly flustered, repeatedly dropping and picking up the bloody egg, my glasses steaming up with the effort and shame.

Years later, at secondary school, for reasons I can’t begin to imagine now I signed up for a quiz competition run by the Metropolitan Police. Teams from around the borough would travel to different schools, answering questions on the history of the police, from the Bow Street Runners to modern-day bobbies, in something like a University Challenge head-to-head.

We did well and reached the quarter-finals, by which point I was convinced we might actually win.

We didn’t. We lost badly. I remember the feeling with surprising clarity: not just losing, but the sharp drop from expectation to reality.

I didn’t disgrace myself on Radio 2. But I didn’t quite do as well as I’d hoped.

Have you ever had a moment of triumph or failure that you still think about?

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