Back in Cape Town, Russell, Roger, and I had a regular, somewhat clandestine ritual: the Sex Quiz in Observatory. It was held in a private basement area of a local pub, tucked away from the more "prudish" patrons upstairs.
The highlight of the night was a round where the quizmaster would play snippets from various adult films. The challenge was simple: guess what happened next. You earned a point for a correct answer, and another if your guess was funny enough to make the room roar. To facilitate this "educational" exercise, a TV was mounted high on the basement wall.
One night, we were deep into the third snippet—a particularly explicit scene that required some creative guesswork. Suddenly, a flustered pub staff member came sprinting down the stairs, looking like he’d seen a ghost (or at least something he wasn't supposed to).
He spoke urgently to the quizmaster, who hit the "Stop" button with panicked speed.
It turned out that the pub’s technical team had forgotten one crucial detail that evening: they hadn't separated the TV feeds. Throughout the entire building—including the main bar and the quiet family restaurant upstairs—every screen was showing our "private" quiz content.
It was the ultimate reminder that in life, just when you think you’re in a private "basement" of your own making, the rest of the world might just be watching the broadcast.
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