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Tuesday, 23 July 2013

What's new this week?





HEY YOU!!!

Who, me?


YES YOU. ARE YOU  A SAD, DESPERATE LONER WHO USES TABLETOP WARGAMING TO FILL AN OTHERWISE FATHOMLESS HOLE IN YOUR LIFE?

Yes.
DO YOU HAVE BUMFLUFF LIKE A WISP OF CANDYFLOSS AT THE CORNERS OF YOUR TOP LIP AND LABOUR UNDER THE MISAPPREHENSION THAT YOUR GREASY LONG HAIR MAKES YOU LOOK SOMEHOW DASHING? YOU MAY EVEN OWN A STETSON, OR FEDORA.

Yes. I look like captain Jack Sparrow. My mum says.
HAVE YOU JUST MURDERED A LADY?

What?
DID YOU MAKE HER DRESS UP AS THE CLEANER AT AN INSURANCE OFFICE THEN STOVE HER HEAD IN WITH AN PLASTIC EFFIGY OF THE BLACKPOOL TOWER THAT YOUR GRANNY BROUGHT BACK FROM HOLIDAY YEARS AGO?

The Space Needle. It was the Seattle Space Needle. Oh God... Oh my sweet Jesus, I'm going to jail...
THAT'S WHAT YOU THINK 'NEIL FROM THE YOUNG ONES', BUT YOUR FRIENDS AT GAMES SWEATSHOPTM HAVE DIFFERENT IDEAS!

You can make it go away? I won't have to go to prison?
YES. WITH THE NEW 'SUPERLY MASSIVE OVER THE TOP' CASE FROM GAMES SWEATSHOP, YOU CAN SAFELY AND DISCRETELY CARRY YOUR VICTIMS' REMAINS TO THEIR FINAL RESTING PLACE WITHOUT FEAR OF DISCOVERY. SIMPLY CHOP THEM INTO SMALL, MANAGEABLE PIECES, (WE RECOMMEND USING CUNTADELTM BODY DISPOSING TOOLS) AND PLACE THEM NEATLY INTO THE CASE. VOILA! NOW YOU CAN GO TO GREGGS AND GAMES WORKSHOP AND YOUR HOUSE AND NOWHERE ELSE UNLESS YOU HAVE A JOB IN RELATIVE COMFORT AND WITHOUT UNDUE FEAR OF REPRISAL!

WOW! THANKS GAMES SWEATSHOP! TM
DON'T MENTION IT YOU BIG CREEPY BASTARD. NOW OFF YOU TROT. THERE ARE PLENTY MORE WOMEN OUT THERE FOR YOU TO STARE AT MALIGNANTLY FOR LONG PERIODS OF TIME BEFORE BRUTALLY MURDERING FOR YOUR PERVERSE GRATIFICATION.

I will kill again.

I disapprove of stereotyping gamers in this manner! What would Tim Stanley from the Torygraph say?



Piss off Jervis.
Righto.


















Sunday, 19 May 2013

Adeptus Tits-Tanicus

Adeptus Tits-Tanicus
By Laura Goldring


The ground rumbles faintly, as though the scudding clouds in a polluted sky overhead are harbingers of some greater approaching calamity, which in essence they might be, for death approaches.

The God Machines are walking.

There is a loud pinging sound as the Warlord Titan 'Frustrum Stercore' fires its auspex. Such is the great force of the sensor pulse that the few remaining windows within a 2 mile radius falls like rain upon the rubble-haunted streets below.

The Volcano cannon, a weapon the size of a cityblock tracks with a deafening grind of colossal gears and cogs, then sparks its own miniature sun; vaporising a structure in the middle distance and leaving dancing motes of idiot light on the eyes of any who might yet survive in that hellish wasteland; that absence of sanity and decency.

"Weapons check complete my Princeps." says Moderati Gallus Vitulamen, unable to hide a note of pride "Target destroyed. Weapon operating well within safe parameters." Princeps Vetus Cunnus offers no reply. He is of the old breed, no haptics, or noospheric links. A simple nod of his withered head from within the bubbling, gloomy confines of the MIU coffin serves to assure the bridge crew of his approval.

"Very good Moderati." gurgles a tinny, artificial voice from the coffin's vocabulator grill. "Now we must seek out the enemies of the Omnissiah, for in his glory, the machine god has given mighty Frustrum Stercore the means of doing his will throughout the stars."
"It shall be done my Princeps!" replies Vetus Cunnus, overcome with enthusiasm for the task at hand.
"Helmsman, all ahead forward, striding speed." barks the terse command from the rear of the bridge.
"All ahead aye, Princeps." replies Helmsman Stultus Pungunt and so they are off, striding through the fog of war with even death fleeing before them, even though they are probably going a lot slower than a large tank, or a squadron of heavily armed bombers would.

"My Princeps, we have an auspex return." barks the short-tempered sensorium, Parvula Cole. "It appears to be a single enemy engine, Reaver class." The princeps gurgles surprise and slides closer to the glass.
"It is the will of the Omnissiah..." he whispers, reverently.
"My Princeps?"
"Never mind Moderati, never mind. Sensorium, tell me, what is the enemy engine's loadout and status?"
"Coming into full sensorium range now my Princeps... yes... I have it. The enemy has a Vulcan mega bolter, 2 carapace mounted Plasma Blast Cannon, a Chainfist and... blessed Omnissiah protect us..."
"Keep your head Sensorii. Complete your report!" barks the Princeps, angrily.
"O..of course My Princeps. Forgive me. The enemy engine has... a huge pair of tits!"
"DAMAGE REPORT!" screams the Princeps, his voice little more than a strangled gurgle of static through the bridge speaker system. Moderati Gallus Vitulamen recoils from the sonic backlash and reads from his screen.
"My Princeps, void shields are holding, but our Titan's self esteem levels are dropping, fast!"
"My Princeps! A new return. Enemy infantry column inbound from the dust storm. Traitor infantry and Skitarii in the van. They're looking at the other Titan's tits sir!"
Vetus Cunnus recoils inside his tomb of glass and preservative fluid. Through the mind impulse unit, he feels his Titan reel under the ridicule of its twisted, big-titted counterpart. He cannot help but share the God Machine's feelings of shame and inferiority. All is lost.
"My Princeps!" yells the Moderati "Engine room reports that our void shields are failing. We have to attract the attention of those enemy soldiers immediately! They're whooping and making uppercut motions with their fists like out of the Carry On films with Sid James and Barbara Windsor. Sir, in comparison with that bountifully boobed nightmare we're a poor man's Joan Sims, at best!"
"Princeps? Princeps Cunnus, you have to do something sir. Now! yells Parvula Cole."
"ENOUGH!" comes the harsh, artificial roar over the speakers, this time a definite statement of command, rather than the pathetic whine of before. "Helm, give me strutting speed, all ahead forward and wiggle the arse for good measure!"
"All ahead forward, strutting speed, Aye Princeps. Prepare for arse wiggling on 3...2...1... commencing!"
"My Princeps, some of the soldiers are looking over here. It's working!"
"We're not out of the fire yet Moderati. Engine room, this is your princeps: have the hosiery servitors prepare to release tension on the Vulcan Mega Bra and activate tissue injectors. It's time we showed this bastard some real cleavage."
"My Princeps, please reconsider! Frustrum Stercore is a slimline model. We can't match the natural curves of our opposite number. We'll just look like a push-up job!" begs the tech-priest, Stultus Retunsus.
"Advice acknowledged and disregarded Tech Priest. I accept full responsibility, now pad us up!"

There is a tense, silent moment as the awesome power of the Omnissiah's mysterious workings are put into play. Gears grind and creak as the enigmatic machineries of a lost age, a dark age are wielded once more. The very bridge shakes as damage reports flood in from all parts of the God Machine.
"It's working my Princeps! The Skitarii are shouting 'Phwoooaaarrrrr!' and one of the cultists has just made a flimsy excuse to visit the latrines! The enemy titan is reeling... Sir... It's breaking off! We've won! Victory to the Omnissiah!"
There is jubilation on the bridge as even hard-wired servitors gurgle their approval in monotonous binary cant.
"What are your orders my Princeps?" asks the Moderati, eagerly.
"Now we shoot them all with the Volcano Cannon and go home. I have a feeling that Frustrum Stercore will want to take its bra off and get into a bath with some candles."
"For the Omnissiah!" yell the crew in response.
Once more, the God Machine sets off into the wastes, it's mission over, it's upper back a bit sore...

THE END

Sunday, 17 March 2013

Something to actually do with wargaming

Here are some shite pictures of models that I painted:

Plague-cunts

Infinity Cunts

Cunts playing the loot scenario from Necromunda on my board.

As above


As above

Right. Now I can get on with being needlessly cynical. Cheers.

SCULLLZZZZZZ

Here's another exclusive excerpt from the Beige Library's next e-book, 'Really angry Space soldiers that are definitely not marines(tm)', by new writer, Laura Goldenring.

Even through the green photo-receptive lenses of his ancient helmet, the world around him was rendered into little more than a static-ridden wash of white noise and swirling energy. The city around him was a mess of rubble and broken girders. Everywhere was the detritus of war, but that was the church of his God, the God of battles; the God of Blood and Skulls to which his infeasibly long was now irretrievably linked. He was a Khornate Chaos Space Marine(tm) and that meant he was dead angry at everything. All the time.
"Grrr.... I AM DEAD ANGRY!" growled Kahrn, angrily.
"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" roared Sarnak, his follower.
"SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!" bellowed Rendarr, another one of his followers. They were also Khornate Chaos Space Marine(tm) and so were also really angry all the time.
"GIVE VOICE TO YOUR RAGE BROTHER!" bellowed Sarnak; his helmeted head twitching in the throes of his lunatic passions. Kahrn growled, because he was really, really angry then told them why he was angry.
"GRRRRNNNNAARRRRRRNNNGGGGG.... I WAS ONTHE BUS THE OTHER DAY AND THIS GUY IN FRONT OF ME WAS TALKING RATHER LOUDLY ON HIS PHONE! GRRAARRRRR.....!" he rumbled.
"DID YOU CLAIM HIS SKULL?!" asked Sarnak, eagerly.
"FOR THE SKULL THRONE?" added Rendarr, unhelpfully.
"GRARRRRNNNNNN....NNNNO." said Kahrn, shaking his head, furiously. "GRRRNNNNN... I JUST TUTTED A BIT - so he could hear it mind - AND SIGHED QUITE LOUDLY. AT ONE POINT I ALSO LOOKED ROUND AND SHARED A DEPRECATING SHAKE OF THE HEAD WITH AN OLD LADY PASSENGER SEATED NEARBY. GRRRRRRAAAARRRRRRNNNNGGGGG.... (for the blood god)."
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" echoed his followers exultantly.
"GGRRRRRRRYES! PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE, BUT ULTIMATELY INEFFECTIVE ACTION FOR THE BLOOD GOD!!!!" howled Kahrn, waving his pitted Chainaxe Gorechild in a murderous arc before him.
"GGGNNNNNNRRRRGGG..... THEN THE OTHER DAY I WAS ON THE PHONE TO MY BANK AND THEY PUT ME ON HOLD FOR OVER 10 MINUTES WHILE CARRYING OUT A RELATIVELY SIMPLE PROCEDURE. GRRRRRNNNNNGGNNNNNN...."
"BLASPHEMY!" bayed his followers, angrily. "DOES THE TELEPHONE CALL-CENTRE OPERATIVE'S HEAD NOW ADORN THE SKULL THRONE?" snarled Rendarr, hopefully.
"GRRRNNNNMMGGGGGG.....NO HE WAS IN BELFAST AND THAT IS DEAD FAR AWAY. MY BANK HAS A ROBUST AND EFFECTIVE COMPLAINTS PROCEDURE WHICH I HAVE NOW INITIATED IN ORDER TO BE MONETARILY RECOMPENSED. GNNNRRRRGGGGG..... ALSO I HAVE MY MORTGAGE WITH THEM AND IT WOULD BE ONEROUS TO TRANSFER MY ACCOUNT TO ANOTHER INSTITUTION GNARRRRRRRGGGGGGNNNNNZZZZZ...." spat Kahrn, his voice little more than a rage-strangled cry lost amid the distortion of his helmet's vox-grille.
"ERM... FOR THE BLOOD GOD?" shouted Rendarr.
"YES, THANKS FOR THAT GRRRNNNNN... COMPLIANCE WITH LONG-WINDED AND ULTIMATELY UNSATISFYING BANKING COMPLAINTS PROCEDURES FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" shrieked the warriors, lost in the rapturous fervour of their leader's homicidal example.
"WHAT SHALL WE DO NOW?" Spat, Sarnak.
"SHALL I RELATE THE ANECDOTE ABOUT MY RAGE UPON OPENING MY IKEA FLATPACK MAGAZINE RACK AND FINDING SOME BITS MISSING?"
"GRRRNNNN...NNNO BROTHER. THAT ONE MAKES YOU SOUND LIKE A CUNT. LET US GO TO THE SHOPS!" hissed Kahrn "AND READ ALL THE MAGAZINES WITH NO INTENTION OF MAKING A PURCHASE. FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
"FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" screamed his followers; waving their chain-axes and racing from the scene of devastation.

The very ground beneath them trembled in the wake of their passing. They were underway once more upon their mission of murder-make. Skulls for the Skull Throne. Blood for the Blood God.

Friday, 22 February 2013

The Adventures of Matt Ward

In this week's Adventures of Matt Ward, Matt Ward begins work on the new Codex Chaos Daemons codex by Matt Ward:


Thursday, 31 January 2013

Dear Uncle Truth part Zebra

Howdy.

Well, it's round about that time again where I set the world of wargaming to rights with my sagely advice. My  inbox has been quite literally overflowing of late, so let's crack on.

First up is a little lady by the name of Rick:

Dear Uncle Truth,

Hello.

I have a dead good idea for a... erm... game. Yes, that's it, a game!
It's not got any figures, or rules or anything, but basically I want $300,000 cash money, (no cheques). Don't worry about the figures and all that shite, cos even though I practically invented wargaming I apparently - to all extents and purposes - believe that no cunt in this hobby cares about them despite overwhelming personal experience to the contrary.

Cheers, Rick

Dear Rick. That sounds like a truly splendid idea. Put me down for 3... whatever it is you're trying to raise money for.

         
                            


Piss off Jervis and stop copying Admiral Ackbar!


(Righto)

Here's another phlegm-ridden apology for an email. This time it's from your Mum:


Dear every cunt,

your tea is out on the table and is getting cold. Also, here's $300,000. Nip to the Rick Priestley on the way home and get me a... thing.

Love Mum x


Dear Mum,

Yes Mum.


Well, that's all the cock-spasm I can handle this week. I'm off to wipe my arse with a Black Library novel that wasn't written by Dan or Nik Abnett.

Laters,

Uncle Truth



Monday, 10 December 2012

Sneak excerpt from new Space Marine Battles novel:50 Shades of Ultramarine

50 Shades of Ultramarine

(For Nick McLean)


Inconsequentia VII’s twin suns were rendered down to hazy blots hanging perilously above a smoky horizon in the middle distance. They throbbed sickly; enveloped as they were in  a fugue of smoke and desert ash.
Colonel Trivial eyed his adjutant with calm resignation as the younger man stepped back from the parapet, visibly shaken.

“Colonel... the... the enemy are...” began the younger man before his superior cut him off abruptly.

“It’s ok Corporal Stammer. I am fully cognisant with the minutiae of our plight. The enemy are no doubt advancing their armoured column through the dust bowl even as we speak. Am I correct?” asked the older man with a wintry smile. The young adjutant bowed his head and tried to speak.

“No, no old fellow. Don’t try to speak. You sound like a right cunt when you do.” Said the old man with a wintry smile. He patted his adjutant – who was younger than him – on the shoulder then wiped his gloved hand on the nearest surface.

“Sir, sir! Colonel Trivial sir!” shouted a voice that was steadily increasing in volume. A flurry of black rocketed around the corner of the zigzag communication trench and slid to a parade ground halt before both officers.

“Ah, Commissar Nice!” said Colonel Trivial. “What’s the news?”

“Sir, four of the men from shitebag company have deserted sir!”

“Really?” asked the Colonel, “Well, what are you going to do about it?”

“Sir, I thought I might get to know them over the course of a seemingly endless, but really very lucrative campaign into a sector of the Imperium that nobody else has ever heard of and watch them being slowly whittled down until only a few of the more popular characters remain to wonder when the franchise will finally run its course and why no cunt ever sees stuff out of their 40k codex in it, sir!”

“Oh. Oh I see.” Replied the old Colonel who was old. “Can’t you just shoot them Commissar? That always stopped them deserting back when I was standing only quite a bit behind the line infantry with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit!” said the Colonel, waving a finger expertly. 

And Wintrily.

“Oh no sir, I couldn’t possibly do that. You’d have to get Commissar bastard for that one I’m afraid. I’m dead nice. I know all the cunts names and every fucking thing!” The Colonel nodded, oldly.

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re right there. There’s nothing else for it then. We’ll have to get the other 15 million guardsmen that haven’t run away and get them to march slowly toward the enemy, fire ineffectually at their opponents for a turn then get slaughtered when the enemy charge them and their guns don’t work up close.” The Colonel shook his head sadly.

“Yes.” Said Commissar Nice “It is really shite how their guns stop working the minute one of our troops gets attacked in close combat. If only there were some way of using a lasrifle up close!” All three men stood in contemplative silence for a moment, then shook their heads and laughed.

“Ah Commissar Nice. You and your batty ideas!” laughed the Colonel with a smile that was the opposite of Summery with a touch of cloud. “It’s a good thing Commissar Bastard isn’t here, or he’d have to shoot you!”

Suddenly, there was a thunderclap of displaced air above the trenchline. 

A cloud of dirt was hurled violently into the air. For a long moment, there was silence. Then suddenly, the weak light of both suns was blotted out fully by three hulking silhouettes towering above the humans like titans of old.
The strangers were clad in shining blue ceramite edged with gold. The symbol of the Ultramarines chapter was emblazoned upon the left shoulder pad of each; their chests each bore a holy, golden Aquila. The middle one appeared to be the leader.
He was a bear of a man. He topped out at just over two metres in height. In his right hand he carried a massive bolter that a grown man would have struggled to lift with two hands unless he was a bear of a grown man, in which case it would probably be ok. In his left hand, he carried nothing, but managed to do so in a bear-like manner. Colonel Trivial found his nerve and spoke up.

“My Lord?” he managed. Suddenly, the three helmeted heads turned to inspect him. The glare of their red eye lenses was dead scary. The Colonel felt like a fly being watched by a spider. A really big spider with ceramite and a gun.

“We are the Ultramarines.” Growled the middle titan.

“He’s a bear of a man.” Whispered Commissar Nice.

“Yes, I am.” Said the marine, turning quickly to stare at the Commissar. “We are Space Marines and our hearing is dead good. We have come in the name of the Emperor. Let his reign be eternal!”

“Let his reign be eternal!” intoned the assemblage, solemnly.

“I really like him.” Said one of the Ultramarines. The other two looked at him. “I really mean it. He’s dead nice.”

“Yes, Inapproprius. We know.” Said the leader in a distinctly bear-like voice.

“Where are the enemies of the Emperor?!”  roared the third one, zealously. Colonel Stammer pointed into the distance. The Space Marines turned in unison to survey the distance, optical sensors humming in unison as they rendered the vast distance down to little more than a stone’s throw.
“Hmmm... that’s really far away.” Said the third one, less zealously. “We’ll just get them later on. I’m going for a shite just now Brother Ursine. For the Emperor!” he roared, making the sign of the Aquila.

“For the Emperor, replied the assemblage.” Brother Toomuchinformatius stomped off, majestically.

“Truly, they are as far above mortal man as the holy Emperor is above even them...” gasped Colonel Trivial, his wintry voice cracked with reverential awe.

“M...my l...l...lords... w...what about the e...e...enemy?” asked Colonel Stammer, haltingly.

“I have auto-reactive shoulder pads.” Said Brother Inapproprius, helpfully.

“How will that help?” asked Commissar Nice once brother Ursine had acknowledged his upraised hand.

“Do you have auto-reactive shoulder pads mortal?” asked Brother Ursine magnanimously. The Commissar shook his head in reply, marvelling at the way the Space Marine was just so much better at stuff than a regular guy was. “Then you are a cunt.”

“Oh.” Said Commissar Nice.

“Now...” said Brother Ursine. The assemblage waited. And waited. And waited. An hour later the Space Marine continued  “...we shall pray to the divine Emperor for guidance as it is written in the Codex Astartes. That is until they needs some more money and bring out a new one next year.”

“My Lord, I must ask... why the big pause?” asked Colonel Trivial at a point where his bladder could no longer adequately contain the suspense that was running down the inside of his jodhpurs.

“Because I am a bear of a man.” Replied Brother Ursine.

“Here, has any cunt got a bit of bog roll? I was all set to drop the kids off at the pool and there’s no shitewad. I don’t want to get bum-finger what with these good gauntlets. They’re chapter relics and everything!” Yelled brother Toomuchinformatius, loyally.

“Here Brother, take this copy of ‘Battle for the Abyss fromThe Horus Heresy’ series of books. Brother Toomuchinformatius eyed the proffered text auto-reactively.

“I have a eyed that proffered text auto-reactively mind and have deduced from the execrable prose thereon that somebody has already got some shit on those pages brother. Is there an alternative?”

“Only the Word Bearers Series of books by Anthony Reynolds.”

“War is hardship...” he intoned, solemnly; shaking his helmeted head. “Abyss it is brother. For the Emperor!” he yelled, forming the Aquila while masterfully managing to hold up his power-armoured greaves so that only the top of his genetically enhanced arse-crack was visible. “Actually, I’m as well just laying a dog’s egg right here. Then I can watch a bit of the fighting while I have an Eartha Kit.” Brother Toomuchinformatius squatted majestically, staring into the middle distance while his genetically enhanced sphincter dilated and went into post-human spasm.

“You honour our chapter brother. Now, let us be about the business of the enemy.” Said Brother Ursine. 
“The minions of Chaos...”

“They’re the ones with the good albums. All ours are shite classical ones and that.” Said Brother Inapproprius.

“Indeed brother.” Continued Brother Ursine, in a Bear-like manner. “I have decide upon a strategy in keeping with that of the blessed Codex Astartes. We will take a few shots at the cunts in front of us, then run forward and hit them with energised sticks for a bit.”

“Hey, that’s my plan!” yelled Old Colonel Trivial with a wintry scowl. Brother Ursine raised his bolter, sighted and fired in one smooth motion that a bear may have been able to do had it been selected from a feral, primitive culture, trained to be the ultimate soldier, then encased in relic armour and given a big, fuck-off gun with exploding bullets that it curiously couldn’t use as a firearm up close.

“You human, will come with us!” yelled Ursine, pointing at the quivering Corporal Stammer. “You will be useful should we require the ‘Look out sir’ special rule. Come now, or we will ruin the suspense of following Black Library’s overplayed Horus Heresy series by telling you the final ending!”

“Bring me back a kebab!” yelled Brother Toomuchinformatious as he struggled valiantly to produce a tom-tit of epic proportions upon the lucky soil.

They turned and melted into the misty miasma of the dust bowl below as one. As they ran, they shouted really nice things about the Emperor because they really liked him.

Lots.  



By Quentin Prick

Quentin is a former store cunt who has nearly learned all of his letters and has a Space Marine chapter that he made up without any help from his Mummy, Brian. Quentin lives in a bin in Shropshire with his imaginary hamster, Mopsy.