Can you still buy Chappies bubblegum? Where? I haven't seen Chappies bubblegum for a long time, but that might be because I no longer take my change in one- and two-cent pieces. As a small boy, when the Chappies empire was at its acme, we always received our small change in bubblegum. In those days Chappies were two for a cent, so two cents' change would translate to four Chappies, which was a wealth of chewing, but also a treasury of information.

I learnt many interesting things from the inside of Chappies wrappers, mostly lies. "Did you know?" said the Chappies wrapper. "The Great Wall of China is the only man-made structure visible to the naked eye from outer space." How did they make up such nonsense? The Great Wall of China is not even as tall as Sandton City. Do you think Sandton City is visible to the naked eye from outer space? It is not.

I also learnt things that struck me chill with fear. "Did you know?" said the Chappies wrapper. "The longest recorded case of hiccups lasted more than 37 years." I used to ponder that, especially when I had the hiccups. How can anyone hiccup for such a long time without finally cracking and leaping into a river with rocks in his pocket? Did he hiccup in his sleep? Did he have any friends? But more to the point: can it happen to me? How do I know that my next case of hiccups isn't going to just linger and linger for 37 years? Or even just one year? One year would be enough to do for me. There were many fears and ambient anxieties in my youth, and Chappies bubblegum just added to them, but it was a small price to pay for the enrichment it brought.

For since then I have cultivated a genuine love for what is commonly known as useless information. For me, facts without utility are the only facts worth knowing. The more obscure the national capital ("Did you know? Port Moresby is the capital of Papua New Guinea. Tallinn is the capital of Estonia."), the more idle and obscure the detail ("Did you know? Oscar Wilde's prison number was C.3.3."), the more bone-jarringly geeky the factoid ("Did you know? The second name of Captain James T Kirk of the starship Enterprise was Tiberius."), the more the acquisition of such knowledge gives me a genuinely happy glow.

You can keep your inflation rates and crime statistics and final conclusive proof of the existence of God - if it ain't trivial, I don't want to know it. Just this week past I enjoyed the happiest moment in a generally amiable year, when my team - named, for personally embarrassing reasons, The Hasselhoffs - emerged triumphant at the weekly Wednesday night pub quiz over at The Barrel. It is not often I can be induced to leave the comfort zone of the Chalk 'n Cue, but with the best will in the world the combined minds of Porky Withers, Sad Henry and Fast Eddie Prosser could not throw up enough trivia to fill a chewing-gum wrapper.

The Hasselhoffs are a small but resolute unit - just me, Little Dave and Slow-Hand Cooper, who specialises in obscure music and current events, being the only one among us who reads the newspaper.

And yet, with such few numbers, standing back-to-back to fight away the foe, when the smoke and thunder subsided it was we who still stood, the blood of the fallen dripping from our bayonets.

Oh, it was a mighty effort, my friends, recovering from such early setbacks as "Name all 12 countries crossed by the equator", edging home on the backs of such triumphs as "Which nation's royal family are the only citizens permitted to drive a maroon motor car?" and "Who is Steven Spielberg's wife?"

At the end, when the The Hasselhoffs were announced and anointed, I felt such pride and gratification as other men say they feel upon the arrival of their first-born son. I was happy, and happiness, I reflected as I drank strong liquor from the floating trophy, and simultaneously slapped Slow-Hand Cooper vigorously on the back for correctly identifying the martial section of Sibelius's Finlandia, cannot be acquired by purchase or by taking it away from someone else. It is only earned through years of diligent chewing.

So I was at The Barrel when the local version of The Weakest Link (SABC3; Wednesdays; 7.30pm) aired. I am keen to see The Weakest Link.

I imagine competition should be fierce - there are an awful lot of weak links out there to challenge for the title. I was happy not to watch the first episode, though, because I would rather wait for the sounds of the herd to die down before I form an opinion of the show and its presenter, Fiona Coyne.

Before the series had even aired there was a rich and joyful murmur of disparagement from the good men and women of the local media. Fiona Coyne was roundly abused for having the temerity to take Ann Robinson's role while - gasp - looking like Ann Robinson.

The air fairly whistled with the razor wit and rapier barbs of the South African media. In the South African media, making fun of someone's name is what passes for razor wit and rapier barbs.

"Fiona Clone!" chortled one media person. "Fiona Clone!" hooted the next media person. "Fiona Clone!" howled the third media person. It's a little unfair, really. The surest way to generate unpleasantness for your host is to specifically invite the local media to apply for the job, and then let the ones who didn't get it air their opinions about the one who did. Pettiness is never pretty, especially when it dresses up as wit.

The field of trivia is too pure and precious to be begrimed by the grubby fingers of the personal. On behalf of The Hasselhoffs, count us out.