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There was no painting competition at Games Workshop last weekend. I never took my lovingly painted Astorath the Grim up to the store to sit him next to plainly inferior models and bask in his glow. There was no grave miscarriage of justice committed by allowing the judging to be done by popular vote among a group of people most of whom barely know how to drybrush. I didn't lose to a model which had been basecoated and washed only, and Chris didn't win the competition even though he would have deserved it if it had happened. Which it didn't. I didn't finish in an anemic third place, and, most importantly, I certainly didn't TIE for third place with a 12 year old and a fat slob of a teenager who appeared to make use of an ancient technique involving upturning a paint pot directly over the miniature.
None of these things happened, which is incredibly fortunate as I can't imagine any way I could have preserved my sanity or faith in humanity had events borne out as I have suggested they might have.
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