“Lord Catatonia’s address on BBC Radio 4’s “Thought for the day” segment of the Today programme

How do you measure chaos?

The Lords of Discord have been questioning my faith in their confusing way of late. With the flotsam and jetsam of living kind before us on the field of battle, creatures that crawl, creatures that creep, creatures that stride, creatures that leap, we have been, time and again, humbled. And this is the way. We expect no less. But chaos confounds expectation, and so we also expected success in part as well.

Can chaos be measured in height? The twisted evil little echoes of the tiresome dwarfkind, those chaos dwarves, who so abashed of the cut and thrust of battle do send their snivelling slaves before them, are short of stature. But in sooth, they tributate the chaos gods aplombingly. Even in the devi-graphics of their army, with the hobogobolobolins and the bull-centaur (who with body of a bull and head of a man is the reflecho of our own minotaur Clover [though to my mind, the bull centaur has the better deal, having a mind for reason and poetry *and* being hung like a beast {although if it comes to a ruck, I would rather side with Clover, who harbours much bitterness for his lot which might explain his rage}]), and their malfeasant, odorous Troll, and the diminished delegation of diminutive dwarves of chaos, and they struck quite a cacophony of the eye as they stood opposing us.

I pitied them then, as we glorified the chaos gods with our carnage. We drove a phalanx of our hairy-eared goatie ones through the disarray of dwarven ranks, their goatly-goat bells clonking as they trotted along. Clover, swept up in the mood, did fork the chaos dwarves star player Grindleton off the pitch and into a baying crowd. I heard the crack of bone, the tear of flesh, and the crowd gasp. I spied an oxford comma. He was done. . He died for chaos, and the lords of discord relished his senseless death.

Though the bull centaur carried the ball past us to score, as the day-star crumbled on the horizon we forced the ball out of a melee in the dwarven half and bundled the ball into their endzone…our first win. The sense of anti-climax was invigorating. I hated it. I hope to feel it again. Beastman Chunky begged me to let him leave the active roll and be given light hoof-clipping duties, holding up his bloodied crushed fore-hoof. I held up my hand, similarly mangled and laughed in his stupid, grass munching face, “there is only ONE way out of this team for you my gruff little friend!”
”