“"Say what you like about those Elves," Fructose Overdose said, wiping a crumb from his chin, "they sure bake a nice brioche."

Another inexplicable ability to read the rules or the schedule of the league had meant the Scoundrels had been half way to the Yeast Lords' stadium before anyone realised the match was actually scheduled at the Theatre of Breams, and between the fighting on the barge and the endless recriminations afterwards, they'd only got home fifteen minutes before the match started. To everyone's surprise, the Yeast Lords had brought an entire wagon of buns, loaves and pastries which they'd parked outside the Scoundrels' dressing room before the match as a 'good luck present'. That had been the highlight for most of the team.

The coach was uncharacteristically angry as he entered the dressing room. "Brioche? We got wrecked by a bunch of pansy posho Elves and you're talking about brioche?"

"Come on boss, we did pretty well" said Legneck, polishing the spring on his enormous pogo stick. "Bogan Picnic's non-stop dancing lessons paid off, and, well, Wonton there scored as many touchdowns today as we did in the whole of the last season."

"That's because we only scored one touch down last season!" the boss yelled, pointing a shuddering finger at Fructose. "And if you let the opposition score five touchdowns, that still means you lose! And why did you let Ladyshape eat all those croissants before the match?"

"I ... like ... croissants" said Ladyshape, peering through the hole in the wall from the female changing room.

"Never mind if you like croissants, we all know you're gluten intolerant. And those Elves knew too, which is why they fed you all that bread so you'd be too. Damn. Sleepy. To. Do. Anything. All. Match!" With every word, the coach stamped his foot again, his face growing redder and redder.

"Cheer up boss, it wasn't all bad" said Avo Smash Toast in a placatory tone. "They even left us some cake."

"Cake? What kind of elf bakes cake? Let me look at that!"

The coach seized the Battenberg cake that was on a table in the middle of the room. "This isn't from the Elves, you nitwit!"

"What is it, boss?"

"This is the cake we were meant to be hiding the bribes for the ref - ahem, the contributions to the Referee Benevolent Fund - in. What's it still doing in the changing room after the match? And why is there only half of it?"

"Dunno" said Manshape, burping up a few half-chewed banknotes.

"You, you ate the money we were going to pay the refs off with? No wonder we had five players sent off. And you, Ladyshape, you ate so much bread you couldn't move, and the rest of you didn't even try to stop her, and worst of all, you, Bangins, you couldn't even do the decent thing and blow yourself up!"

"Boss," said Avo, "are you alright? You're not crying, are you ...?"

The assembled Scoundrels gathered around, worried at these sudden mood swings. Somebody offered a revoltingly stained hankerchief.

"It's not easy, you know" sniffed the head coach. "Week in, week out, you keep letting them score. And we've spent all the sponsorship money on that new ball for Spin Dizzy's birthday, and we sacked the Singed Poor Sexytime Exotic Dance Troupe before the season when we got the accounts wrong, and now Twelve Stone Theresa not speaking to me any more, and "

"Come on, boss" said Avo, patting him on the back. "There's another game next week, and they should be a pushover. I heard all their players died, so winnings just a formality. It'll be alright."

"Dead, you say?"

"All dead. So dead, they smell worse than Fructose's aftershave."

Within seconds, everyone was fighting each other again. As sundry bread products and the remains of the Battenberg were pounded into the floor, the coach skulked out, already hungrily planning his celebration of next week's 8-0 win...”