Episode Thirty-Two: Hashut-Uppa You Face

 

We’re joined by super special guest Thunden, host of the Mead & Mayhem League’s Podcast, MML Pro Talk. The MML is the largest most exciting PS4 Blood Bowl 2 league out there. Go check them out here!

We’re talking Chaos Dwarves! All the friendly, cheerful side of Chaos with the wonderfully diverse tactical Dwarf game. Or something. Also, Bull Centaurs.

And finally a round of Bloodblusters… Matt’s hosting, so be prepared for some horrendously old-school fluff emerging form the woodworks.

What could go wrong?

Episode Thirty-Two: Hashut-Upp Your Face

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Bumford’s Adventures – Season 2: Game Three – Downend Dynamos

Game Three: Downend Dynamos

It’s the third day of Season 22 of the WIBBL, and Bumford is studying Yaverslann’d’s next opponent: The Downend Dynamos; a Skaven team that’s been enjoying success so far in the league. They’re the only team that have won both their starting games in this division. Bumford is in the stands above their dugout, watching them warm up before the match.

“They’re a nasty bunch to be sure, no doubt,” he says to the hunched figure next to him.

The figure shifts uncomfortably. “You do know I’m their coach?”

Bumford turns to regard the pale ratman next to him. “So?”

“Ssso… Well, never mind. I’ve come to assssk you to bugger off, as, you know, this is ssssort of cheating.”

“Nothin’ wrong with sizing up the competition.”

“Well, that’sss quite right, but I think the line is drawn at pelting them with rocksss.”

Bumford grunts and lets fly with another stone the size of a potato. It hits a rat square in the face. Bumford whoops with joy.

The Skaven coach sighs and walks off.

Bumford waits until he leaves, then turns and shouts towards his own team. Within a few moments Lottabottol is padding up to him.

“Coach!” he says, standing to attention.

“Hold these a second.” says the dwarf, shoving a few rocks into the frog’s webbed hands.

“Certainly, coach!”

“Good stuff, now I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

A few minutes pass, and within a few moments the Skaven coach returns with several Ogres in referee’s striped regalia.  He points towards the Slann. The largest Ogre jogs over to him.

“Ah, good morning gentlem-urk!

“No Lottabottol today, squeezlings. To be honest, his sportsmanship and general ethics are not at all what I expected, really lowering the tone of the game,” he sniffs.

“Anyway, ratmen today. They’re almost as mutated and disgusting as you lot are. Off you go then!”

As the team leave, a shambling undead representative from the League Commissioner’s Office sidles in, clipboard in hand.

“Good morning. We have received a complaint that you’ve been cheating, and that you’ve framed so-called ‘star player’, eh,” he looks at this clipboard “Lottabooter. Ridiculous name. Is this true?”

Bumford scoffs. “How dare you, questioning my integrity. I would never dream of actin’ in such an underhanded way.”

The zombie nods. “I thought so. Well, bye.”

He shuffles out. Bumford waves at a small procession that walks past the door after the zombie, two Ogres clamping Lottabottol’s arms behind him. His eyes are a mixture of anger and trepidation. Bumford waves.

He turns and chuckles.

“Heh heh. Frog marching.”

The teams file out onto the pitch. Boggy Bee stubs his toe and almost trips on a rock.

“You think they’d comb the pitch croak for rocks before the match starts.”

A monstrously large rat called Norvegicus scampers heavily towards the line of frogs as they enter formation. The frogs instinctively take a few steps back in fear. The Rat Ogre charges towards them.

It skids to a stop inches from the nearest frog, flecking them with mud, and stands up straight. It sticks out a meaty paw, big as a paving slab, and it’s gigantic maw splits into a smile.

“Terribly pleased to meet you, charmed, charmed.”

Wasteyenot, the closest Slann, hesitates before shaking the huge arm politely. “Er, likewise croak.”

The rest of the Skaven team are similarly well mannered, shaking hands and wishing luck. There is even a polite chuckle after Tiomanicus, a Gutter Runner with three arms, manages to shake hands with three frogs at once.

Norvegicus speaks up again.

“Beautiful day, hmm? Looking forward to getting stuck in, what. After, perhaps you would all like to join us in a little post-match wine tasting evening? The exercise really loosens the palette. Well, speak soon.”

The ball is punted overhead deep into the Slann’s backfield, and Norvegicus instantly roars like a dragon and rips into the line of frogs amidst croaks and screams, knocking Snippy Slip Slapper out cold with a single backhanded blow.

Flicker Dee grabs the ball and he, along with a swathe of frogs, dart to the south to sweep around the ratmen.

They fend off the lightning-fast advances of the Dynamos, first from the north then the east. The Ogre is far away, having lost himself to mindless fury, and is chasing down Stretchy Pete, who is running for his life.

The Slann play conservatively, screening off their offence. It’s all going well until Norvegicus’s head snaps round, and he charges towards Flicker like a steam tank. It’s all the frogmen can do to keep his murderous rampage at bay long enough to score. The moment the ball passes the touchdown line, he stops slavering and frothing and claps his hands together.

“Well played, chap. I’ll get you next time, har!”

The frogs are unnerved.

The teams set up for another drive, and the rats have plenty of time to score again. However, it’s not as easy as that.

As the Slann kick the ball, an argument breaks out on the Line of Scrimmage. Norvegicus and Everetti, the Skaven Blitzer, were apparently discussing philosophy prior to the drive.

They are falling out over whether the fundamental nature of the soul is one of balance despite adversity or adversity despite balance, and perhaps you should read more about it before debating with the big boys, and perhaps your face needs balancing, and you so on and so on.

The rest of the Skaven team try to calm them down.

“Hurry up! Go get the ball, green idiots! The clock is running!” yells Bumford.

The Slann, unsure of the etiquette here, jog around the scrum and pick the ball up before walking slowly towards the touchdown line.

With barely a few seconds left on the clock, the teams set up again.

The Slann form a defensive wall, though they’re not worried. What team can score that quickly, with ten seconds left?

The Skaven team are fast.

Very fast.

It takes seconds for the ball to be swept up, then it’s sailing through the air.

Tiomanicus swipes it from the air, and is streaming towards the touchdown line.

It looks like he’s going to make it!

The Slann defense charges to meet him. Tiomanicus avoids them easily. The Blitzer Swish is the last hope. Tiomanicus, perhaps in a display of ability, decides to go over him instead of around him. He jumps, and plants both feet on the Blitzer’s head, intending on gracefully jumping off of him like a footstool for the score. Sadly, Tiomanicus didn’t take into consideration just how sticky a Slann’s head is, and instead slaps wetly against Swish’s back.

The whistle blows for the second half.

Back in the changing room, Yaverslann’d are feeling pretty good. They’ve not had a lead line this before. They’re all alive. They’re feeling confident.

Snippy Slip Slapper is still out for the count. Bumford takes this valuable coaching time to draw on his face. In pencil.

The second half begins, and the slaughter finally arrives, much to Bumford’s delight! No less than three players die within minutes of each other, two Skaven and one Slann. Miraculously, the doctor (despite angry bellows of questionable ethics from Bumford) revives Stretchy Pete from the brink of death. One of the other deaths is Tiomanicus. (He’d tried to escape the slimy fists of Flicker, but his feet stuck to the floor at the wrong moment and… Well, suffice to say his running days are over.)

The Dynamos manage to perform a blisteringly fast roundabout passing play, scoring early on in the half. But, due in part to their ongoing felicitations and, er, otherwise about various vagaries of philosophical this and metaphysical that, and the often violent confrontations within the team about exactly which path to inner peace was most direct, the Dynamos were severely disadvantaged in numbers.

They had looked like they were about to rally together, having finally unified on their beliefs (for now), when Bumford leaps up onto his chair and yells about how inner peace is wholly selfish, for what great act of self-interest can one pursue than the ultimate fulfilment of the personal soul, and they all started off again.

Making the most of this, the frogs swamp them with bodies, holding them back long enough to score a third time.

3-1 to Yaverslann’d!

“Nice one swamplettes! You’re getting a decent record. Course, it’s only against teams that wear practically nothing, so no wonder. Once you have to fight some real armour, you’re really going to suffer. Especially if it’s covered in spikes. And maybe poison. Oooh, I can’t wait, the suspense is killing me…”

He timidly peels back the top page of his clipboard, and reads.

He cheers.

“Ahar! Dark Elves! All those blades, all them spikes, and those lady elfs… Oh my.”

He sits down.

His team exchange worried looks.

There is a poster on the wall. It bears the portrait of Lottabottol. There is some very severe looking red writing beneath it.

Fumbbl replay.

Bumford’s Adventures – Season 2: Game Two – Forest Side Warrior Princesses

Season Two: Game Two – Forest Side Warrior Princesses

Bumford is feeling good. Brand new team (even if they are weird frog people), first victory under their belt. He bursts into the changing room of Yaverslann’d, an overflowing barrel of finest dwarven BlitzBooze clamped between his arms.

“Mornin’, wusses!” He roars.

The frogs flinch from the sheer volume of the greeting. They are less enthusiastic about their new coach.

Bumford eyes a spot to deposit his cargo, manfully slamming it on a bench next to Gwan Tekkit. It sloshes over the rim, splashing the spotted legs of the hapless frog. It fizzes and sizzles on contact with him, and Gwan leaps yelping into the air, rushing for the nearest water source.

“Present for you lot for doing so well!” Grins the dwarf, producing a number of beakers from his beard.

The frogs listen to the painful moans of Gwan and decide perhaps abstaining is the wisest course.

“Pah! Fine, suit yerselves. Cowards. A little salt-infused pick-me-up never hurt anyone.”

Bumford lifts the barrel above his head, bites a hole in the bottom with chunky dwarven teeth and downs the whole thing in one.

When he finishes, he hurls the barrel at the wall behind him, and it bursts, showering the team in splinters and flecks of alcohol.

It takes a few minutes to restore order to the team. A few minutes, and not a small amount of threats.

“Right. Amazons today. Bloody amazons. Watch out, they’ll try and distract you with all their provocative clothing, curvaceousness and jiggling promontories.”

The frogs are startled by this stream of eloquence from their coach.

“It means their boobies, do I have to spell everything out for you? Arnok forfend… They’ll distract you give you the old runaround when you ain’t looking.” A look of fond remembrance comes over Bumford’s face.

“Uh, coach.” croaks Stretchy Pete. “We are an entirely separate species, and therefore have no desire whatsoever for human females.”

“Wait till you see ‘em!” Winks Bumford.

“I, well-”

A powerful knock at the door, and famed chainsaw-maniac Helmut Wulf walks in. He and Bumford greet each other warmly, clapping hands and laughing.

“Thought you’d all need some help today chaps,” he says.

“But coach, won’t Mr Wulf be susceptable to the aforementioned croak distractions you were mentioning?” Stretchy suggests, smugly.

Helmut looks at the frogman with disgust, before furiously walking away.

“That’s very insensitive of you, Pete. I’m dissapointed. Everyone knows Wulf had a dreadful chainsaw accident many years ago, when Nobbla Blackwort challenged him to a juggling match, leaving him missing key aspects of his anatomy. Speaking of which, I’d be careful on the pitch today. Helmut don’t half hold a grudge.”

Stretchy Pete gulps nervously.

As the team are filing onto the pitch, Bumford stands with his meaty arms folded, sussing the competition.

A quiet croak followed by a louder cough grabs his attention. He turns to see Lottabottol, again.

“I was, ahem, perhaps wondering if you valued my assistance again this day.” He says.

“No, I’d rather punch myself in the face.”

“Please, sir Dwarf!” Lottabottol falls to his knees. “You have no idea how hard it is as a serious Slann blood bowl player to make a career! No one hires me, no one wants me! I have sic thousand children to feed…”

“Ah, fine! Just quit yer blubbin’. On ya go.” Bumford slaps him on the back, knocking him face-first onto the floor.

The amazon team, while no seasoned veterans like the last match, are nonetheless serious contenders. Several of the women, Blossom and Demeter, are rumoured to be ace ball-handlers. Bumford snickered when he was first told this.

The Forest Side Warrior Princesses (the what? thinks Bumford) are indeed every bit as revealing in their uniform as Bumford had warned. As expected however, the only one really noticing was Bumford himself.

Yaverslann’d are receiving the ball this half, and arrange themselves for the kickoff. The moment the ball lands, Flicker Dee grabs it in sticky hands and rushes to the south, accompanied by several of his fellow Blitzers. The Princesses try to pile on the pressure, but the combination of springy frogs darting about and the manic whirling Chainsaw of Helmut Wulf sees them contained in the centre of the pitch. For what seems like an age the Amazons are contained further and further, the Slann confidence growing, until finallt something snaps. Out of nowhere the Princesses are hurling frogmen out of the way, exploding from their unwilling cage, chasing down and beating up anything that moves, not least poor Helmut, who finds himself set upon by no less than seven of them at one point.

Deciding that waiting around and showboating is not perhaps the wisest move, Flicker runs the ball in for a touchdown.

As the teams set up for the next drive, Bumford notices the time left on the clock. There’s enough time for the Zons to comfortably score, equalising before the second half even begins. He needs to do something.

He stands up on the head of a nearby spectating troll (a conspicuous fellow in glasses and a trenchcoat) and turns towards the predominantly female followers of the Princesses.

He cups his hands around his mouth.

“The gender-pay gap is a myth!”

The ensuing rampage of fans sees three dead, many more wounded, and a veritable mountain of hatred pointed towards the dwarf and his team. Thankfully, it’s bought just enough time to make equalising this half all but impossible for the Amazons.

It is half time, and Bumford is chatting to his team.

“That was fun, eh! Bunch of emotional, over-reactive-”

“Uh, coach? croak Do you think they’re actually going to hunt us down after the match and do those things they said croak they were going to do?” squawks Todd’m Bouncer.

“Naw, I shouldn’t think so. Probably. Maybe. Well, there’s a small chance. Like 50-50, I’d guess. You’ll be fine. Right, off you go! Remember, no ogling!”

The Amazon offence is brutal. Absolutely no quarter is given. A punishing wall of, ahem, flesh repels any attempt by the Slann to get to the ball. Several frogmen try to use their gifts to attack the ball carrier from the air, but are each time crushed entirely.

Tired of their sport, the Princess player Hestia charges down the pitch, ball in hand, ready to score. Again, Bumford seizes his opportunity to help his team. He again clambers on top of a spectator.

“Oi! Get yer baps out!”

Hestia stops, aghast. “Excuse me?”

“You ‘erd! Waheeeyy!”

A look of rage. “I’ll have you know, I am a campaigner for the equal treatment of women in sports, and I will not abide crude remarks from the type of sexist pig that thinks it’s acceptable to yell-”

She doesn’t get any further, because, perhaps in a fit of determination, Lottabottol streams from behind and thumps her on the back of the head. He, and several other Slann, surround the ball as best they can. It looks certain they will prevent the touchdown…

But several of the other women have heard and seen the exchange, and furiously storm down pitch, giving the frogs an absolute beating. They then pick up the ball and slowly walk it in, with a last withering stare at Bumford.

The referee blows his whistle. The score is 1-1.

The attitude is tense in the dressing room.

“Well, you drew. But at least you didn’t lose, so you’ve actually lost me a bet.” Says their coach.

“Coach, we believe we must discuss some of the tactics that you used today. We believe in parity of treatment of all races, genders, species, and-” Wasteyenot is cut off by a rumbling sound coming from the hallway.

“Hold that thought froggie-boy. Don’t tell it to me… Tell it to them. Turrah!” Bumford vanishes through a trap door, locking it behind him, as the dressing room door is bashed back, revealing a gang of very unhappy, very muscular and very armed Forest Side Warrior Princess fans.

“C-coach croak!-”


Fumbbl Replay

Bumford’s Adventures – Season 2: Game One – Burnt Wood Grockles

Game One: Burnt Wood Grockles

It is a new day. A new season. A new team.

Bumford emerges from his dressing room, bedecked in a luxuriously enormous fur coat. Ostentatiously furred, almost as if Bumford was trying to make a point. He picks his teeth from his lunch. Ale boiled frog’s legs, something tantalising he’d found last night. Why was he craving frog’s legs, again?

The air is crisp, but a little swampy for Bumford’s alcohol-infused morning brain. Bumford trundles over to the door of the newest bunch of rejects he’s responsible for, and boots it open. It flings back on its hinges, slapping something wet and squishy on the way.

“Right then! Line up, maggots.” He announces, picking his teeth again with a bone, before flinging it on the floor. A huge green hand plucks it up between padded fingers as big as chair legs, before an enormous wide face scowls at it. The scowl moves to face the dwarf.

“Oh yeah! Stupid frog people! I remember now. Line up then, come on!”

“Coach Bumford, what is this? *croak*”

“I don’t think you lot ‘erd me, LINE UP!

Bumford walks to the nearest frogman and backhands him towards the middle of the room with such fury that the Slann’s head sticks to the floor. He has to be peeled off the flagstones by his mates.

The other frogs, perhaps more out of shock than anything, shuffle into a line.

The huge frog with the bone in his hand hasn’t moved.

“Bumforrrd. We are an elderrr race, and as sssuch we expect-”

If one were to be standing outside the changing room at that point, one might have heard an unusual sequence of noises. A war cry, a snap, a grunt, two sounds not unlike sticking a pole in a pool of custard, three yelps, an insane cackle, a wet splotch, a burp, then a murmur, followed by silence.

Eyes already much larger than human are stretched wider still.

Bumford wipes himself clean.

“Now that that’s out of the way, what’s on the ol’ agenda for this evening for you disgusting bog-fwompers? Ah, gobbos. Easy. Lots of green. You know the strategy, just, I don’t know, bounce around or something.”

No one moves.

“GET!”

They retreat instantly, one of them slipping over the mess.

The door swings shut, revealing a smaller frog that had been trapped there since Bumford’s entrance. Bumford unsticks him from the wall with a sharp tug.

“Do me a favour, frog-boy. Grab a mop.”

He leaves.

The Burnt Wood Grockles are a goblin team that’s surprisingly long in the tooth. They’ve been hanging around the lower divisions of the Wight Isle league for ages, perfectly content to focus on maiming newer and less successful teams instead of facing off against the heavy hitters.

Dozens of goblins, a couple of trolls, and all the trimmings jog onto the pitch. Some of the goblins are cartwheeling and throwing a ball to each other with frankly upsetting skill. Bumford squints in disapproval.

“Not even a bomber, what’s the point…”

He looks at his pathetic team walk nervously to the pitch. He looks at the roll call of names he was given.

“Says here we’re meant to have a big feller, where is he?” He demands of an aide.

“He, er, we-well, you, uhm-”

“Oh, him! Totally deserved it. Never mind. Why do we have so many blitzers, by the way?”

“Uuhm, again, er, coach, *croak*, you insisted we, we, er, start with as many as we c-could find.”

“Hmm. Must have had some great plan in mind. Let’s see how the lads do!”

Two figures move over to Bumford. Another Slann, in ornate armour, and a skink wearing a skull.

The Slann, in a deep voice, says:

“Bumford, was it? We couldn’t help noticing the, hmm, discrepancy between the two teams playing today. Perhaps you’d like us to join in? We’re always up for a bit of a scrap.”

Bumford snorts. “You mean no bugger ever lets you play because you’re useless and expensive, so you want to beg me for some money in exchange for what can laughably called your expertise?”
The frog sniffs.

“Maybe.”

The first half sees the goblins tear the Slann team apart. Sticky green fluids coat chainsaws, trolls, even goblin boots. Hemlock the skink gets punched about quite considerably, but Lottabottl seems to stay intact. A few Slann get hurt, but Bumford doesn’t care particularly. By turn 8 the Slann are down, 1-0…

The changing rooms, several minutes later.

Bumford is angry.

Bumford suggests that perhaps the ‘dirty toilet mouldy limpet sucking toad lickers’ didn’t quite get the message earlier.

Bumford puts it in no uncertain terms that he would hate to have to demonstrate his position again.

The team listen very closely.

The second half sees new life breathed into the Slann. They’re speedy, they’re agile, they’re strong. They give hits and take hits. They steam up the pitch for an early score, then pile on the pressure for the second half.

Hemlock dives into a crowd of troll for an attempt at the ball carrier, but gets squashed. Hey ho, thinks Bumford.

A sneaky gobbo is unceremoniously thrown by a Troll, landing miles from anyone, and darts for the Touchdown line. A glance from Bumford incites yelps of fear from the frogs, who catch him just in the nick of time.

A surprisingly smooth passing play sees the Slann score again, bringing them the victory!

2-1 Yaverslann’d!

“Not bad, not bad,” struts Bumford later on, swaggering back and forth. “Medium amounts of carnage, acceptable injuries… Not bad. Still worth less than the hair on the boil of my arse, but still.”

The door opens. It is the fabulously wealthy Troll that blackmailed Bumford into coaching this team.

“Well played, team, and congratulations, Coach Bumford. Our little debt is settled, you may go.”

The frogs sigh with relief. One of them laughs. The nightmare is over!

“Oh, no, that won’t be necessary Trolly. Truth it, I’ve grown quite attached to the little buggers. I’ll be staying put for the time being.” He smiles enormously.

“Well, I won’t say no! But let it never be said I was not a Troll of my word. Good day, Bumford.”

The troll turns to leave. His feet are stuck to the floor in a puddle of ooze.

“I, uhm, tried to clean it u-up, coach, but it *croak* was ever-so-sticky.”

The dwarf pats the smaller frog on the head, nearly knocking him out.

“Know what? I like it like that. That swampy odour… smells like home.”

He turns to face the team. They avert their eyes.

Fumbbl replay.

Episode Thirty-One: Slanntastic Mr Krox

Oh Slann, you underrated team of freaks, you. Who cares for tiers or optimisation when you can simply bounce around, having fun?

Who needs Blitzers with Block or Catchers with Catch? Or, well, any of the staple skills required to make a team competitive? Not Slann!

We’ll also take a look at Scrumpy Scramble this week, and how it all went, how we did and all that. Then it’s a brief overview of the Bubba League, Bristol’s new tabletop league wiv a proppur wibsight an’ everyfink (bubbaleague.co.uk, if you were wondering!)

Oh, they might just be time for Bloodblusters too, hosted by the Anne Robinson of Blood Bowl, Nazgob…

What could go wrong?

ABAO Episode Thirty-One: Slanntastic Mr Krox

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Episode Thirty: Grak and Crumblebroken?

 

Literally nothing contentious happened in the last few weeks. No new models were released, no new unbalanced star players were announced, nothing whatsoever even remotely controversial even crossed the minds of anyone.

Well, maybe not. This week we’re talking about the new star players Grak and Crumbleberry, the new models revealed at Warhammer World, the referee models and rules, as well as a few other bits and bobs.

We’ll also discuss Scrumpy Scramble, Naz’s tournament goin’ on dowun in th West Countr’y moi luver. And of course, Bloodblusters, hosted by Twelfman!

ABAO Episode Thirty: Grak and Crumblebroken?

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Episode Twenty-Nine: The Elflympic Games Round-up

 

Join us this week in our recap of what went down during The Elflympic Games Trumpkin’s Twelfman’s elf-centric tournament held on the 3rd of December.

We also talk briefly about the Albion Coast Trophy, the new Winter Board and the Bristol Bubba League that’s just started.

And, of course, Bloodblusters, and it’s Nightwing’s turn this week!

What could go wrong?

Episode Twenty-Nine: The Elflympic Games Round-up

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