I applied for the quiz show to get bragging rights over my pub quiz teammates. Then I found myself sweating in the famous chair. What had I done?
![I’ve started, so I’ll panic: what it’s really like to go on Mastermind](https://i.guim.co.uk/img/media/79508783153c6afdf09d2407880b097fb438263b/422_1935_3001_1800/master/3001.jpg?width=1200&height=630&quality=85&auto=format&fit=crop&overlay-align=bottom%2Cleft&overlay-width=100p&overlay-base64=L2ltZy9zdGF0aWMvb3ZlcmxheXMvdGctZGVmYXVsdC5wbmc&enable=upscale&s=95e84c9694b079ee17c570f91c849ec9)
In all honesty, I have no idea why I decided to go on Mastermind. I love pub quizzes, sure, and I’m good at them. Pre-Covid, I was part of a crack team called Quizlamic State, who regularly took home first prize in our local one. As team coordinator, I developed a reputation for ruthlessness, brutally ejecting
Friends and, on one occasion, my boyfriend, if I thought they were underperforming. At university, I was picked for our college’s University Challenge team, though we didn’t get on the show: too boring, apparently. (The producers picked a team of historical re-enactors and archers from a different college.)
All of this stuff is what I say when people ask why I went on the show. But if I’m being honest, I don’t know why I did it. I don’t know why I do most things. I’m an incredibly impulsive person; always have been. To paraphrase
Kim Kardashian West’s reply when asked why she filmed the sex tape that made her famous: because I was bored, and I felt like it.