In the 10 years I’ve been part of my wife’s family, I’ve seen my parents-in-law (married 30 years) have a total of zero fights. There is the odd disagreement, sure, but they never really argue. Not in the same way my family argues: regularly, passionately and with much gesticulating.
Which made it all the more strange to see them having an intense clash over whether or not snakes have eyelids. My father-in-law, a man who excels at retaining information but struggles to recall which parts are true or false, was sure they did. Snakes do have eyelids, he reasoned, because he had seen a snake documentary not that long ago, and at some point, someone had definitely mentioned something about their eyelids.
While your quiz of choice may vary, any serious quiz fan knows that it is this masthead’s very own Good Weekend quiz that is woven deep into the fabric of our cultural identity.
Credit: Marija Ercegovac
Meanwhile, my mother-in-law, a country girl at heart who grew up on a farm, was certain they didn’t. There were plenty of snakes on the family property, she explained. Red-belly, eastern brown, pythons and adders. But not one of them had eyelids.
This stalemate went on for far too long, and it soon became apparent that, despite a lifetime of fond memories, both parties were prepared to die on this very specific Snakes Do/Do Not Have Eyelids hill.
Concerned for everyone involved, I took it upon myself to say the only thing guaranteed to neutralise the situation: “OK, guys, moving on, what is the smallest ocean in the world?”
“Easy,” said my sister-in-law. “The Arctic. Next question.”
As with so many families, no weekend catchup is complete without partaking in one of our most sacred Australian cultural rituals: the Good Weekend quiz.
(Yes, it’s worth acknowledging the Good Weekend belongs to this masthead, and while your quiz of choice may vary, any serious quiz fan knows that the Good Weekend quiz is woven deep into the fabric of our national identity.)
Whether providing a reprieve from small talk during Sunday lunch or helping lift the vibe at a hungover brunch, the Good Weekend quiz has taken on a life of its own.
In lounge rooms, living rooms, cafés and pubs, you will find someone prepared to say the five magic words: “Should we do the quiz?” So powerful is the gravitational pull that even those who claim to hate organised fun find themselves sucked into the vortex.
How quickly a Good Weekend can turn bad when your family starts arguing about how many sides a heptagon has.
Credit: Simon Letch
As with most family rituals, it is ostensibly a way of spending “quality time” together but ultimately an exercise in an airing of grievances punctuated by the occasional power struggle. One minute, you’re happily married; the next, Snake Eyelids!
Our Good Weekend is no longer when the family starts arguing about how many sides a heptagon has. (It’s seven).
When quizzing with my wife’s family, I take on the role of Quiz Master, a strategic move that absolves me from getting too involved in any controversy. However, Quiz Master has its downsides, namely that regardless of how well you enunciate each question, someone will always turn to you and say: “Can you repeat the question?”
And herein lies the other magical thing about the quiz: no matter your family dynamic, inevitably, you will find the same types of characters popping up.
Every quiz group has a quiet achiever who sits silently in the corner, mumbling the correct answer yet failing to speak up. You know they know which metal is the best conductor of electricity, but instead of screaming “Silver!” they say nothing.
This is usually when someone like my brother-in-law – overconfident but under-researched – declares the answer to be bronze. So convincing are they in their delivery that the crowd assumes they’re right, and it’s not until much later that the truth is revealed.
Perhaps the worst offender, though, is the deliberator, the person who believes if they just use their powers of deduction, eventually, the answer will present itself. They may not have the slightest clue what the most common family name in Vietnam is, but they will happily spend an hour explaining that they work with two Nguyens but three Trans, and yet their gut says the answer is most certainly Pham. (The answer is Nguyen).
Ultimately, while doing the quiz may expose flaws in the family unit, scoring it is a great unifier. No one wants to come out of a Good Weekend quiz feeling bad about themselves, so ‘close enough is good enough’ becomes the unspoken rule. Wrong answer written down, but correct answer mentioned in passing? That counts! Can’t read your own illegible handwriting? It’s probably right!
At the end of the day, doing the quiz isn’t about getting 25/25; it’s about nurturing a family ritual, one that creates shared memories and a sense of belonging by spending time with the people who matter. Even if those people are foolish enough to think that snakes have eyelids.
Find more of the author’s work here. Email him at thomas.mitchell@smh.com.au or follow him on Instagram at @thomasalexandermitchell and on Twitter @_thmitchell.
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