Old Glory and my hatestorm ...

I went to the Derby 'Old Glory' wargames show with the shop this weekend (working on my fucking birthday, no less). I thought I'd share a couple of thoughts with the hoi polloi (you) to get a proper update on my blog. And as I'm rusty and out of practice I'm switching targets from Mantic back to Games Workshop. I need an easy target to get back into the swing of things. I have a lot of bile to get rid of, but recent events in my real life have messed with my head (the world is topsy-turvy, I tell you). So, like a rabid stoat in a maternity ward it's easy meat for now.

Old Glory is an independent wargames show in Derby. It is sponsored by the Old Glory miniature company, and is a largely historical show. However, Hasslefree and Heresy were there so it was all right. As it was my birthday weekend I did get away with goofing off, so I spent a bit (a lot) of time smoking and going to the aforementioned stands.

Now, everyone should know I love both companies. They are true exemplars of the indie miniatures scene. Kev and Andy are wonderful to talk to, both very witty and quite free with their time, so you can talk to them at length and they are both really good at masking their irritation and boredom. And Andy is making what ranks as the best dragon miniature (and I use that term ironically, it's fucking huge and will beat up your Forge World dragon and steal it's dinner money). So go ahead and wibble on about stuff that makes no sense, pop a chubby over the Heresy dragon, they love it. I spent my birthday money (working on my fucking birthday, no less) and scored some awesome booty.

From Heresy I got 2 of the Hurn Headtaker limited edition miniatures. Based upon the predator, it's fucking amazing. Like all Heresy models it's really well cast. You get options for wrist blades, spears and hands as well as the obligatory over-the-shoulder plasma cannon. With less than 50 of the limited run left, I'd really recommend picking one up. Value-wise, at £8 it's easily the equal in raw material of the £12 Logan Grimnar Space Wolf from GW, and unarguably cooler. More about GW later.

I also picked up a fantastic bargain from Heresy too. The uber-cool trenchcoat warrior gang Andy did was available in a big ass blister for £37.50. With ten models in the pack it works out to a saving of about £4. That's not much, I hear you cry like the unbelievable tossers you are. Fuck you, I reply. It has a fat guy with a Stinger missile launcher, a nutcase in a leather dress with a flame thrower and a hard nut with a minigun. One of them is cartwheeling with a shotgun. That is all. You go buy them now, I'll carry on when you get back. Really, I'll still be here.

Back? Already?

You better have fucking bought them.

I'm going to carry on with the literary gem that is this blog now.

All are exceptionally well cast and wonderfully characterful, really good for use as Delaques in Necromunda (aside from the fact all the GW gangs look puny and insipid next to them) but more on GW later.

Switching over to Hasslefree, I finally got my limited edition resin Axenarf. This model (inspired by the GW original Skrag the Slaughterer, not the wanky one with a cauldron tied to it used nowadays, but more on GW later) is a multi-part armoured Ogre with optional heads and a big certificate of awesomeness (I got number 66) made to celebrate Hasslefree's 6th birthday (I had to work my birthday over the weekend, did I tell you?). I also got a pre-release Goatboy master as a birthday present, and bought what is probably the best example of the female form committed to an artistic medium since Rodin's Danaid, Artemis.

This model is naked (the only other female model I have owned with even a hint of boob was Werner Klocke's Chaos Sorceress) but not in a titillating way. It echoes the statuary of ancient times, and all she is wearing is a helm (looks Spartan to me, Hoplite at a pinch) and sandals. She is holding a shield with a big blank space for freehand as shown in Ali McVey's version and what looks to be a gladius (maybe a Gladius Hispaniensis, but I'm no expert) and is in the 40mm scale.

These miniatures can only be made on the indie circuit where creativity has free reign. The very idea of pitching either Artemis or Hurn to a committee at GW is ludicrous. Now, don't get me wrong, GW do produce some great minis. Aside from the sheer ludicrousness of the High Elf helmet there are some wonderful models in that range.

The new Dark Eldar models are also nice, if looking a little fantasy chaos warrior-ish. With the demand for movement in models there are some bizarre running poses and the skiffs look more and more like Jabba's sail barge in miniature (Sarlacc pit anyone) but it is still strictly within the canon as defined by GW's financial masters. And, I suppose, the design studio.

But therein lies the problem. With no room for innovation outside of Forge World (and most of their stuff is derivative and uninspired) I have been drawn to the following conclusion:

Games Workshop is the death of creativity.

Like some fat, malicious, syphillitic, geriatric sadist teabagging the miniatures industry with it's rotting scrotum whilst simultaneously defecating shit, tumours and rotting Space Marines onto it's forehead, all the time wishing it was Simon Cowell, hence able to force greater consumption of it's product by the bovine, cud-chewing masses (you) and completely dictate the zeitgeist of the tabletop industry.

It already dictates the structure of the average gaming company simply due to the number of disillusioned, fucked-over ex employees who, like the psychologically scarred survivor of a torture porn film just end up repeating the cycle again.

In this way GW has tendrils throughout the industry. Retail employees used to have the 'ten commandments' - common sense guidelines like bathe frequently and don't wank on the shop floor during opening hours (where else did you think they got such shitty superglue from?). You know, the kind of thing people can work out for themselves by being able to act in a social situation. Now there are the doctrines (and you thought my Space Marine metaphors were tortured) which govern how a store will look (taking a leaf out of McDonalds food, the same as all other stores), how to make scenery (only out of GW product unless you work at Warhammer World) and how many Baneblade tanks to sell to the guy who has a High Elf army.

Seriously, WHAT THE FUCK? Who do you fucking think you are? Even painting methodology is dictated, with the emphasis on the flat coat/wash/drybrush/done method. Hello Golden Daemon. No really. With one competitor being told he painted in too French a style to make it through the first cut and another being told by an 'Eavy Metal member he should have entered the competition with a miniature that failed to make first cut one has to wonder what the bean counters are doing trying to gouge a bigger profit from a consumer base renowned for smashing their toys when they fail to validate their reason for being by losing a game and alternating between a cataleptic sate when confronted with a real woman and masturbating furiously to porn/bragging about the sexual gymnastics they would perform with that girl over there and entering a cataleptic state when that girl over there walks near them. Possibly yelping in terror if any female anatomy brushes them then fainting.

I am honestly surprised there hasn't been an incident in the store where one of these social underclass (you) cuts up rough after smearing himself in excrement, or possibly Scorched Brown paint and maybe drybrushes a random staff member with his penis.

And those poor bastards in retail. Conditioned to eat at the trough of blandness through spiritual abuse so they are Pavlovian in their responses. Horrendous sales targets (GW Christmas special training: 'If you really loved your son you'd spend more than the £150 you already have' - I shit you not), bizarre orders, demand for new starters with deep pockets and bitchy corporate culture it's no wonder they try to sell you shit you don't want or need.

In a hobby that thrives on individuality GW (and Mantic) have proven that it's natural state is really a Mediocrity, echoing popular culture.

We're all to blame, but you can make a difference. Spend the money that would have gone on a Baneblade on Heresy or Hasslefree. If you need to spend your cash on a range that supports a game, go to Wargames Inc and buy or order some Flames of War or WarmaHordes. Support the indies, or all you will be left with is GW and some expensive models on Ebay you'll wish you had bought earlier.

Rob
Angry at weird life turns ...

Don't lick the baby!

It's been a while since my last post. No, I don't care about what mundanity you fill your existence with, this is my blog so pay attention to me. In the time I've not been spewing typed bile over the internet, I have managed to run a painting contest at Wargames Inc that I placed dead last in. It seems that artistic ability cannot compete with size or a bare breast when it comes to miniature judging. Don't let the fact that my model has no genitalia on display or is small influence you in any way what so ever, eh? Anyway, here's Mr. Stinky in all his glory -

I have altered the levels to better represent the colours on the model (they are reasonably close to the real model) but it has had the effect of making him look green-screened onto the picture in places. But who gives a fuck, right? It's complete and a reasonable effort for the time and lack of sleep involved. No, I don't know what the sculptor was smoking when he made it. I'm only glad that people like Andy Foster will cast up the more outré models and give aspiring sculptors the chance to shine.

A quick aside - Heresy Miniatures is essentially 3d Palace but with miniatures, so if any members of that community want some great reference models, go buy some. No, you can't fucking torrent it, it's real, for fucks sake. Idiots.

Speaking of idiots, the other day, while selling some random chump a toy he doesn't need I inadvertently offered my services as minipainter to him on commission. Regulars and the fuckers that comprise my customer base will be literally shitting themselves with laughter when I reveal I have to : prep, assemble and paint to completion the Khador Behemoth in six weeks. Well, the muppet is paying my price, so it looks like I'll have to do my best to follow through with my end.

And, seeing as this sort of thing seems to get the Youtube geeks wet, I'll even do an unboxing post so those that don't know what the Behemoth is can get a good look. Personally, what I think you get when you pay your money is a box of what you've bought but you all seem to be masturbating over this kind of thing, so here's some gratification for you.

Please clingfilm the screen, otherwise your dried snail-trail emissions will give everything that special Twilight daytime sparkle.

Starting off, here's a picture of the box. It's reasonably sturdy, and can raise a painful welt on the forehead of random customers who piss me off:


As you can see, it's brownish with a picture on the front and has a price tag. This is the amount of money some random chump or chumpette with a 'Rick Astley is so uber' meme fixation will have to pay. Note it's in Sterling, the only real currency in the world. Why's that, I hear you whine while snorting coke through a straw made of your local monopoly money? By Royal Appointment to the Queen of England, that's why. Don't make me kidnap you and force you to watch Big Brother over and over again.

On to the next picture in our unboxing special episode ... the inner plastic container! Yes folks, included in the price for free is this fetching inner box made of modern plastic which, as we all know, is derived from oil! That's right, in your own little way you are contributing to the war in the Middle East. Actually, you're all responsible for it. Fuckers. Well here it is. The result of your fucking consumer whore lifestyle. Enjoy it, war criminals:

The next picture shows the white metal bits that have to be cleaned and filed and pinned and put together. That's right, it's a lot of work to put a mini together. As it's for olblue, I was tempted to put it in a bag with some superglue and shake it all about and post it off, but it will be painted pink and black so that's enough of the aggro, I suppose. It feels a bit pyrrhic, to be honest, as he's colour blind so it will all look like it's gray anyway. Perhaps he was abducted by aliens and crossed with a skinned chihuahua after being repeatedly probed with a sink. It would explain the baldness. Anyway, the picture:

I've sort of ran out of steam with this. I honestly cannot believe you have the slightest interest in an unboxing but one of the conditions of the commission is to do a stage by stage thing on my blog. You could, of course, buy one yourself and look at it in reality. Oh well. Fills the binary aether, I suppose. It's not like there's a limit to the amount of shit the internet can store.

The next post will have prep details, hints and tips on how to do it properly (i.e. my way) and maybe some other stuff. I was planning on doing a series of reviews on gaming product and an article or two on paint ranges. If I can be bothered. You can comment to let me know what you would like but I probably won't pay any attention to you.

No, I definitely won't pay attention to you. Bastards all.

Rob
Angry at bread, because it doesn't taste like it smells when cooking.

The blog is closed, everybody get out.

Apparently (and much to the amusement of the other staff, customers and especially the owner of Wargames Inc) I am Bernard Black, crotchety book shop keeper and aggressive drunk of the sitcom 'Black Books'. Now, I do like the series, and Dylan Moran's stand-up is fantastic but I just don't see the resemblance. The hilarity stems from a staff member's wife saying 'That's Rob! Just replace the wine with coffee and it's Rob!' while watching series one and then it spread like a particularly virulent STD. Every time I interact with one particular staff member (you know who you are) I usually get the following response at least once: 'Jam jam jam jam jam eurgh!' followed by a mime of 'me' throwing toast to the ceiling. I think there has even been threats of sticking plastic toast to the shop roof. Irritating as this may be, I didn't think anything of it until the time came to go out and interact with real people.

A friend of mine, Amy, is going to work in China for a year as a part of the VSO programme, which means she has more balls than I do. Which also means she has far more balls than the rest of you, what with me having an American football as well as a couple of back-up testicles. This past Saturday was her going away party and I was invited for drinks. Yes, she is that committed to charity. The downside? It would be at a local pub frequented by people who don't play wargames. Not exactly my milieu but duty called (it had nothing to do with ogling her in her party dress either, before you start).

So when I got there I edged my way past the well-dressed people (I had chosen a rather fetching anorak and Primark t-shirt ensemble, complete with the requisite beige combat trousers of the sixty-year old), spotted Catherine's American beau Steve and quite quickly got myself a pint of coke and hid in the corner. Steve is a nice guy, automatically interesting because he's foreign so I could follow standard UK diplomatic policy and hide behind the nearest yank. Especially useful when the obligatory huge drunken guy from Nottingham demanded a chinwag.

As the evening progressed I eyed the svelte people passing in front of me. The women were like gazelles on the African veldt, graceful and alluring. Me? Was I some leonine predator on the hunt, you ask? Yes. Yes I was. If by leonine predator you mean fat, toothless hippo in a muddy, excremental wallowing hole. I steadfastly refused to move from my comfy, leather hidey hole unless it was to nip out for a fag.

Out of my depth? Considering that I can't actually swim it's a particularly apt metaphor. I got to meet some people who are so far out of my social circle I would normally need a fucking radio telescope to catch sight of their feet as they ran quickly away from me. All through the night I was having flashes of that episode where Manny locks Bernard out and Bernard is forced to brave the outside world for once. That was when it hit me.

Despite all of the good intentions from the lovely people I know (most of you can exclude yourselves from that prior statement. The people concerned know who they are) to include me in a broader social circle, I am Bernard Black. I am fiction made flesh and blood. Fucking typical. I'm not Batman or Raffles or Howard Carter, I'm the living avatar of a drunken Irish arsehole. Made slightly more ironic by the fact I am half Irish. For fuck's sake. When the party decided to decamp to a local bar for table dancing (the party were going to dance on tables, apparently. As I don't drink I wasn't going to do my Grandad shuffle and fall off a sticky, formica-topped table. That would have been the kicker, the sober guy breaking his leg while the drunken ladies in their improbable heels stayed safe) I took my leave. It had been a long day, I was shell-shocked by my revelation.

Seeing as the majority of you fuckers are so tight you fucking squeak, I'd like you to help Amy out here. You sure as shit ain't spending your cash in the shop, so why not do something unrelated to whining about the rising cost of GW products for once. Scroll down and you'll see that even I, grumpy Irish bully that I apparently am, have donated to the cause.

And yes, Amy did look alluring in her party dress. However, gentleman that I am, I didn't stare at her cleavage once. Or more than once. So there.

So onto a brief hobby update today. I have been painting (sort of) for a miniature painting competition I'm holding at the shop. The model I have chosen is Andy Foster's Feral Queen - a really nice female beastman type that could double for Valkyria the Bloody with the addition of some wings (and as long as you don't try to use it at Games Workshop).

In addition to this, I'm actually starting sculpting proper - no more likenesses of Burke from Trapdoor, I'm going for a (reasonably) whole miniature. I will be starting it about a half hour after this long winded and picture free update, so expect to see pics of my progress ... at some juncture in the future. I will be using Fimo over a wire armature and trying to sculpt a male figure. Hopefully it won't end up looking like some ancient fertility idol but you can never be too sure ...

Rob
Angry at the whole Cerebus the Aardvark turn his life seems to be taking

It's all your fault, you encouraged them ...

Another day, another post. This time, it's my latest addiction - Firestorm: Armada. It's like Battlefleet Gothic but with no flying castles. I have chosen the Sorylian Collective as my fleet of choice to help the sales push at Wargames Inc. All next week I am running intro games for the peons who blight my life. I'm also proxying enemy fleets with BFG models, so you needn't feel like a lemon if you don't have the toys the cool kids have. You'll just look like that kid in the corner - you know, the outsider who no-one really likes. Which is why hugely muscular male barbarian miniatures are not homoerotic in any way whatsoever. Pictured below is 17cm of resin warship that actually fits together. That's right, it's nothing to do with Forge World at all.

A similar metal BFG ship (Cairn Class Tombship or Marine Battle Barge) will set you back £20, plus you won't actually be able to play a Games Workshop Specialist game in a Games Workshop store as the guys at GW Loughborough found out when the area manager bollocked the GW staff member who had foolishly allowed the regulars to play a GW game in a GW store. Apparently, as it's not a core game it's not welcome as it doesn't encourage massive sales of Space Machines. This was after the aforesaid regulars had done about £500 on BFG product. Really fucking professional to dress down a staff member in front of the customers and on the shop floor.

The above Sorylian battleship is in stark contrast to the latest bolus of plastic shit to be listlessly dripped from the sphincter of the GW design studio's derelict, rotting tract by some form of decrepit peristalsis. These atrocities are actually real models that are expected to sell. Looking like a skinned Damian Hurst exhibit, these things have been on the kind of steroid/antibiotic shit that are force-fed to beef cattle to the nth degree. Un-fucking-believable. Abdominal muscles all the way up to their necks and arms like Nelson's fucking column. All this screams 'I want to be a Rat-Ogre' in a loud voice. Not as skinned-rat looking like the 'Dire Wolves' in the Vampire Counts range, but rat looking all the same. Whoever put this shit together also understands nothing about anatomy, it seems, beyond the basic requirements of a biped - one head, two arms, two legs and a body.

I don't think that creativity should be stifled, but (paraphrasing from an interview with a GW sculptor I read a while back) you need to learn the rules before you can break them effectively. All this seems to have flown over the head of the deaf, blind, dumb and dead moron who okayed the go-ahead of this addition to the range of ungilded turds, who seems to not understand that you shouldn't have biceps over the shin bone. However, the number one crime that has been committed is the fact that they don't have cloven hooves.

Now call me a bitter classisist if you will (and I'll call you a twat) but having standard, clawed legs means these are just large Beastmen. That's all. I imagine that they will be really heavy hitters, but that won't change the fact that these models are just shit. And the fur - my God, the fur - looks like it has just got some doormats stapled to it's skin. Workshop has a shitload of cash invested in haptic sculpting tools and 3d software and spend a fortune on tooling these molds to pump out rotting smeg. They wouldn't do it if idiots (i.e. you) wouldn't buy the shit. That's the only way to make GW change their mind - hit them in the accounts department. However, don't take my rant for it here are the offending miniatures:

Now compare those to this green from Felix Paniagua (fired from the GW studio), a more traditional minotaur from his Avatars of War range:

Note how it looks like a minotaur, even though it is heavily muscled, and the hair looks like hair and not like a rug randomly glued to any extremity available. And it has the traditional cloven legs, not rippling fields of undulating meat contracting like an ocean of giant spasmodic penises. I fucking hate how they have completely ruined the flavour of the Beastmen army, leaving it bland and tasteless. Genericised for mass consumption it's like Big Mac special sauce but with the main ingredient being blood-flecked ejaculate. And it will be you fuckers that perpetuate this artistic blight. Twenty seven pounds sterling for three models. Like Tyranid Ravenors but shit. A massive let-down after the Trygon kit.

Right, it's midnight and I have had enough of the lack of taste that GW preys upon to shift most of it's fucking product. You may deserve this shit, but I don't.

Rob
Angry at the river of cash avoiding him

Tangents within tangents within ovaries ...

Bit of a surprise package arrived today, so I have yet another model stealing my attention - Major Dreadful from the SmartMax range. This is a wonderful resin miniature, extremely well cast especially when compared to Forge World. Barely any mold lines and flashing and, comparing it to the Khorne Daemon Prince out back, much more character.

French quirkyness works on so many levels, especially in their women. However, I have chosen to paint a fat, English lawman and his bulldog (which has a realistically detailed shitbox).

Sigh. Sometimes I hate having so much choice, I am the prevaricator supreme.

Anyway, get your arses down to Wargames Inc if you want to berate me for my language. I'll have to be polite to you, I'll be in public.

Rob
Angry with options