Loser
I know how Alex Ferguson and Bill Belichick must feel. It's funny how addictive winning can become. I've never really experienced it before, at least not on a long-term basis.

And now... loss. It's almost too much to bear.

A few weeks ago, disillusioned with the chronic mediocrity of our performances in the Harringay Arms quiz, Team Albatross decided to try out another pub. An experimental competition saw us come fourth, and it was generally decided that with a change being as good as a rest, we might see an upturn in our fortunes.

Sure, the questions seemed a little easier than at the old place, but with the chance to prove our mettle over a six week season, the move - even if only temporary - seemed too good to resist.

Aided by the relative easiness of the questions, the results were immediate. We won the first week of the season with a record score. We won the next week too. And the third, with a total beating our own record.

It was starting to get embarrassing, partly because we were so obviously punching below our weight. We were quickly becoming the least popular team in the pub. The first week we won we were warmly applauded, the second less so, but still a polite congratulatory ripple. But the third week? Nothing. Tumbleweed. And by the fourth victory on the trot, people were asking the quizmaster whether he was going to ban us.

Short of deliberately giving the wrong answers we'd done everything we could to reduce the likelihood of us winning, even going so far as to demand our paper be remarked when we were sure we'd got points for an incorrect answer that had been misread by the scorer.

But all to no avail. Our winnings kitty continued to grow, and the lead over other teams in the race for the end of season prize reached 26 points - more than some competitors score in any one week.

So when, last Monday, we turned up with more than the regulation limit on players, Team Albatross had to split in two. This, we thought, might finally see us lose and regain a little bar cred. Certainly the first half of the quiz felt a little shaky for our depleted forces, and the half-time score confirmed it, putting us in joint second place.

Despite redoubling our efforts in the second half, when the final scores were in revealing a three-way tie we knew our time may well have come. And indeed we flunked the tiebreak question. Our crown went to another group.

But while we were generous in defeat and enjoyed the boost in morale and hope it gave to the rest of the teams in the pub, our loss has haunted me all week.

Why? Because this week's picture round was on British political figures, and while I got nine of the featured individuals immediately, the other one left me agonising: a black female Labour peer. There are only two that I knew of , but which one was it - Baroness Amos or Baroness Scotland? I went with the latter and resisted several urges to change the answer before handing the paper in.

And when the answers were revealed? It was Amos, of course. Bloody Amos. Something I guess I knew all along. The two of them don't even look alike.

I'm still gutted.

I know I ought to be big, that spreading the wealth and ability to rejoice in a win can only be a good thing, and that everyone on Team Albatross felt some sense of relief at finally losing. I also know that we're still long odds-on favourite to take the title in the final round.

But bugger magnanimity - I'm hooked on this victory high. Winning most of the time isn't good enough. We could have had a pefect season, and we blew it. I blew it.

Next week there'll be no surrender. It's clobberin' time.