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Thursday, 31 July 2014

It's been a while

I've been busy, but that's no excuse for letting my blog fade away for more than a year. I suppose it comes down to a mixture of factors.

Last week I became a father for the first time and am not particularly interested in anything other than my family at present, but another constituent element over a longer period of time was my involvement in developing the brilliant sci-fi skirmish game, THON.

I was lucky enough to interview the game's creator, J R Vosovic as part of my regular writing duties for the excellent Australian gaming magazine, 'The Campaigner'. We got talking afterwards and I asked if I could contribute a short story idea set in what little I knew of the THON universe. Jon agreed and thinking nothing more of it, I sent him the opening scene to what is now - technically speaking - my first novella, (short of a novel by about 7000 words) 'Sparks'.

It was an incredibly difficult, but rewarding experience that made my revisit the way that I have subjectively criticised some of the Games Workshop writers out there. I had no idea how hard it was to write good fiction within the limited framework of an existing intellectual property, (and JR held a pretty loose leash) but now that I have, it's time to extend a heartfelt apology to Anthony Reynolds whose Word Bearers novels received some particularly unfair criticisms on this blog.

Anthony, the truth is that I wolfed your novels down whole over the space of 2 days during a trip to London. The Genestealer story arc was particularly chilling and you deserve better than the hater nonsense that I excreted here. It wasn't until I read the Grail Knight stories again that I remembered just how good a storyteller you are.

I suppose that the primary reason for stopping this blog is that I'm really, really happy with everything that Games Workshop have done since 6th edition and don't have anything to moan about or take the piss out of even if I had an inclination to do so. The next time you read this blog, (If I choose to continue it) it will be hobby based material alone. I won't be ranting, or taking the piss out of people for doing their job, but the old material will remain here to remind me about past mistakes.


Should I piss off then?
No Jervis. You're doing fine mate. You're back at the top of my favourite gaming people list where you should always have been. Sorry for being such a dick to you for years.

Well you piss off then.
 Righto! Off I piss.

Good night and God bless,

Uncle Truth x

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