“A festive mood filled the locker room after the match. Confetti and the smell of gunpowder was in the air. The coach had a smile on his face and was handing out drinks to all the players.

"That may be the ninth straight loss we've had" Teflon Fishslice whispered to Bogan Picnic. "How come he's so happy?"

"Dunno" said Picnic, as the coach began shaking Avo Smash Toast's hand and telling him how much he'd deserved his MVP for the game.

"That rotten referee" the coach declaimed, "he sent off you and dear young Master Tick Tock there at the end of the half, but he couldn't stop you hurting that lowdown, mercenary elf, could he? And what do we think of elves, lads?"

"We hate them!" The throng roared in unison. Except for Lonely Nigel.

"Well apart from Wood Elves, right, seeing as we're kindred spirit, folk of the forest together, living on the edge, under a hedge, that sort of thing, right?"

"Yes, Nigel" said the coach, in a peculiarly forgiving mood. "Wood Elves are alright, aren't they? Not like those revolting, shiny suited, non-bread making Dark Elves. Lowlife scum from the bottom of the sea! And we showed them, didn't we?"

Again, the team roared in agreement.

"Yeah, but, uh, boss, they scored three times and we didn't score once."

"And how many of them died?"

"Well - uh - " and this was a difficult question, and one where Lonely Nigel had to count on his fingers "- er, one, boss."

"And how many did we hurt with the patented Ground-Blitz manouevre we had you all learn last week?"

"Er... three?" ventured Nigel, apparently some kind of goblinoid mathematical genius.

"Three, that's right. And what's more, what I saw today was no less than 13 fouls, my boys." Ladyshape let rip a massive fart in complaint. "Oh, sorry, my boys and girls," the coach corrected himself. "And did half my dear trolls get kiled in the very first block? No! And did those revolting Elves keep slipping over and hurting themselves, or failing to hit us despite their unsportsmanlike muscles? And could they even manage to pick up a ball or dodge away from us?"

There was a deathly pause, for the team wasn't good at dealing with rhetorical questions.

"It's like this. At this stage in the season, we know we're not going to get the title. Promotion is out of reach." There was a chorus of nos from the naysayers. Billy No Mates piped up, squeaking "don't give up hope" before the others held him down and stuffed chocolate cake into his mouth to shut him up.

"No, lads and lassies," that's not the priority now. We have a bigger prize to consider. Today that got us to a total of 32 fouls for the season. That's eight per game. If we carry on at this rate, we'll be bringing the silverware home for sure come the end of the year. But here's the thing - we could easily win the team award now. But the Bronze Boot goes to the player with the most fouls. And you've been spreading them out too much. One week it's Nigel, the next it's Billy No Mates. And while I admire each of you for sharing, we need to think about team productivity now. Bogan, you managed four in one game against the Yeast Lords. Now you're down to just one."

"Productivity?" Manshape murmured sadly.

"No, you're fine, Manshape. You were useful for at least half the game. Sit down and read your Top Gear magazine."

"Now, lads, one other thing. I heard some rumours about some expensive mistakes today." There was a hush of dread. "People saying you all went out and lost the treasury betting on a three legged horse."

Fructose looked uncomfortably from side to side.

"And I'm happy to say, that simply isn't true! Why, we might have no money left, but that's because we gave it all to those nice referees at the start of the game. And besides, who needs material possessions, when you have the love of your life - ahem -" The coach seemed to be getting more emotional by the moment. " - the love of your life, in the life that you love? Scoundrels, may I present to you the woman who will soon be my wife, and for your next game will be your bombardier - give a warm welcome to my beloved, Irene Shandyhands!

A beribboned, scarlet painted goblinette strode into the locker room, the clacking of her heels breaking the sudden and quite revolted silence. Each person in the room apart from the coach desperately trying not to say where they'd last seen her.

Except Teflon. "Alright love," he said cheerfully. "Aren't you meant to be cleaning bottles at the factory right now."

"How about I clean your bottle?" she rasped breathily at him, licking her lips in a way both lascivious and contraceptive in the power of its disturbingness. The others looked everyone apart from at the coach and Irene. The chance of a happy marriage was only slightly better than that of the team winning a game...”