Let the games stop

In a recent post, I referred to the fact that, when the competitive streaks were handed out, I didn't get the standard ration. As is so often the case, on the winning front, I am a bit different. I really, really don't like competition. I hate losing a lot. But, unusually, I am also uncomfortable with winning, feeling an intense empathy for the inevitable losing side.

A few years ago, I decided that, intellectually speaking, I was lacking: I did not know how to play chess. Shortly afterwards, Father Christmas rectified my lack of chess set and kindly supplied the Usborne guide to the basics. Like a good girl, I read the book from cover to cover several times before attempting a game but finally, after a few days' diligent study, I felt ready to commence my chess career.

And who better to play against than my boyfriend at the time, Henry, then an intelligent, political twentysomething who would guide me through the initial stages with the love and healthy firmness that I needed.

We set up the board. Already my heart was at MDMA-esque levels, fluttering in my throat and making it hard to concentrate. What if I beat my boyfriend? That would be awful, throwing too much open to question. And worse: what if I lost? The humiliation, the self-flagellation that would follow would be horrific. Even if I won, I would lose. The self-inflicted pressure throughout the game rendered it entirely unfun and, when I won, I felt the predicted guilt and confusion. I hate bad losers a lot but I detest bad winners. Even Henman's restrained fist shake makes me squirm. I refused to gloat. And, knowing how little I'd enjoyed myself, I haven't played chess since.

Beating my last ex, Simon, at badminton was always equally confusing. Something about an intrinsically unsporty girl beating a boy in a game involving a racquet made me feel ashamed and a bit wrong. These days I tend to steer clear of things that involve winning or losing - not because I don't have a competitive streak but rather because my competitive drive is so intense, my hatred of both winning and losing so fierce that, even as a spectator, it makes it difficult for me to enjoy any sort of game at all. And, consistent to the last, that includes pheasant.