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I know what you're thinking. You're worried that you don't possess the movie-star good looks and exquisite sense of dress required of all Blood Bowl tournament winners. You're concerned that maybe your jawline isn't chiselled enough or that you can't galvanise a room into raucous applause just by walking in. But don't worry; in just a few more installments you'll be transformed from a terribly dressed pit of self loathing into a righteous paragon of all that is good about the game. You'll be a champion soon and it's about time you started acting like one. If a bartender asks you to pay for your drink just pick up your glass, say 'don't you know who I am?' and walk away. If somebody refuses give up their space in a queue for you then politely enquire as to how many top three finishes they've achieved and push them into the road. From this moment on the plebeian masses are beneath you.

Game 2 – Valen (High Elves)

I couldn't find a picture of Gav, so here's one of a squirrel instead:



Of all the games I played on that magical weekend the one against 'Our Gorgeous Valen' was probably the easiest. Not only was he outmatched in every sense (his ability to sing along to the Grease soundtrack paled in comparison to my own) but his roster was a poorly thought out affair that didn't even feature Morg 'n Thorg or a single 200K special play card. It was also, he tells me, the result of a drunken binge and a bet that he lost with himself.

I knew that Gav didn't stand a chance of winning. I'm too good to be beaten by anyone but to pass the time between now and the prize giving ceremony I decided to humour him and play. The game itself was once again a blur. I didn't pay much attention to the first half as I was too busy keeping my shirt from creasing and rehearsing my victory speech in my head. What did stick, though, was that Gav received and long-bombed a pass to score in two turns. It was then my drive, where I planned to execute a classic grind and score in turn eight and then receive in the second half and do the same again. Gav's team was falling apart and things were looking promising.

However, it suddenly dawned on me that stalling out against a beleaguered high elf team and their massively outclassed coach would not make my victory seem 'Hollywood' enough and so, in the spirit of fair play and showmanship, I elected to score in turn seven and thus give Gav the chance to not only replenish his ranks but also score a one turn touchdown. I went 2-1 down at the end of the half due to what would be considered a 'noob error' if it were performed by a lesser man...

It was never in doubt though. Winners do a lot of things. They drive speedboats filled with bikini clad women; they ride around cities in open-topped buses and wave; they get together to spray champagne over each other with their shirts off and then refuse to address the confusing feelings that result from it. But the one thing they never do is panic. So when it was looking like the best I could hope for was a 2-2 draw and some sort of worthless accolade like second place I decided to step it up a notch. Several little metal figurines stood between me and the reward I was born to receive so I decided to remove them completely from the board. Not in a 'pick them up and hide them in your underpants' kind of way but rather a 'make some dice rolls, cross reference those dice rolls with the relevant sections of the rulebook and then act accordingly' kind of way.

And there it was. Victory was mine once again. In order for my opponent to keep his dignity I restricted his obliteration to a measly 3-2. I could have done more. Despite there being only eight turns in a half I felt confident that I could have hit hit thirty, maybe forty more touchdowns, such is my majesty.

Living With Victory and Its Side Effects




Winning is like a drug. People can like it too much. For those who have never experienced it before it can be a potent brew. Most people can handle at least two or three tournament wins a year before developing any serious complications. When taken in moderation victory can be a stimulating and rewarding endeavour.

However too much glory can, in rare cases, be detrimental to your health. There have been noted cases of previous winners who have so thirsted for more triumph, so craved success, that they have gone off the rails. When there are no tournaments to attend they will challenge local vagrants to a Blood Bowl one-dayer using the Waterbowl ruleset. They will draw little faces on their fingertips and, one-by-one, utterly overwhelm them at Carcassonne or Dominion. Their working and personal lives will be shattered as they lose the ability to relate to humans and instead communicate only in probabilities and made up Warhammer manoeuvres.

These are the worst case scenarios but nobody is truly immune. If you ever feel yourself seeking victory when there is none to be had then you may test positive for 'Gloryhound-itis'. It is a condition that can ruin your life as it not only affects you mentally but will also inflict the same physical symptoms as haemorrhoids. The only known cure is to throw your next game of Blood Bowl, preferably to a player of markedly lower ability. This will alleviate some of the pressure to win and may even reduce your standing in the community, as well as your NAF ranking, but it'll all be worth it in the end. Besides, you're still a winner in your own mind so should have no problems winning the next tournament.

Game 3 – J-TY (Dwarfs)




Considering that he was a man with a double-barrelled surname J-TY turned up with neither a shooting jacket or a barely suppressed hatred of the working class. Also, my hopes that he would bestow a knighthood upon me after I destroyed him were short lived, as was the possibility of receiving a couple of hectares of land as a reward for my services to Blood Bowl. There would be no cash for honours here, only the rip-roaring phantasm of raw skill that I would be laying at his feet like the ceremonial sceptre presented to the kings of old.

After paying the necessary respects to God, the Queen and St George we set about playing toy soldiers. His Royal Highness Prince Jonathan was using dwarfs and a deep kick rendered him powerless to advance. As a player of significant calibre I had no problem throwing as many one dice blocks as I could find and, as befits an athlete of my standing, even tried a few half dicers. You know, just for laughs. My outlandish blocking, expert positioning and excellent spacial reasoning was then rewarded with a diving tackling deathroller to the face.

But we all know how this story ends. Due to my revealing the outcome of the tournament at the start of this report the thrill and the suspense is gone. In the movies there's usually some sort of climactic build-up, the bad guy is eventually dispatched and a buxom blonde ends up in the protagonist's arms. Nothing like that happened here. The outcome was decided early, J-TY wasn't so much dispatched as beaten at Blood Bowl and I got to sit back-to-back with Geoff Porritt. Winning is always fun, always enriching, always invigorating, but not always glamorous.

I never found out what happened to Prince Jonathan once the tournament ended. Rumour has it that as penance he was forced to relinquish his seat in the House and Lords and act as ambassador to Sunderland for a week.

Coming up: I don't know. Some stuff. I forget.