Episode Forty-One: Terrible Twos

We’re two years old! We look back on years and years any, uh, well that’s it, of content.

We’re also talking about the Chimera Cup!

Ah! And we have shiny new excellent microphones! Listen to our sexy voices in glorious definition!

And then Bloodblusters… Run by Nightwing. History books out, chaps.

Patreon Link: https://www.patreon.com/ABAOpodcast

Shirts and Stuff: https://teespring.com/en-GB/stores/abao

What could go wrong?

Episode Forty-One: Terrible Twos

Find us on iTunes!


Two Years Old Today.

Two years today we started Anything But A One Podcast. Forty episodes, over eighty hours of footage. It’s been amazing so far, but we ain’t done yet!!

I just wanted to say thank you to all the amazing listeners out there that have helped us get to our second year of podcasting.

Hearty back-slaps to Nightwing, Merrick, Nazgob, Knightly and Hung for sticking with me for so long, and for being there when I first said all that time ago “Anyone fancy doing a podcast then?”


Episode Forty: Professional Trade Union


Twelfman can finally, finally go off the rails on a bit of Elven Union Pro Elf action. And not only that, but he and Nightwing get to be all mushy over Eldril Sidewinder. Swoon. Oh, also Dolfar Longstride and the skills Nerves of Steel, Kick, and Pass Block.

We’re also proud to announce we’ve launched some money making schemes! Help us get better microphones by either buying a shirt or supporting us on Patreon.

Patreon Link: https://www.patreon.com/ABAOpodcast

Shirts and Stuff: https://teespring.com/en-GB/stores/abao

And we are joined in our Twelf-run Bloodblusters by Special Guest and All-Around-Lovely-Chap, Jo Fro, of MML fame.

What could go wrong?

Episode Forty: Professional Trade Union

Find us on iTunes!

SAWBBowl I – An Experiment In Goblins

I suck with goblins.

I don’t know how to play them. Like Undead or Dark Elves, I just don’t really get them.

Still, like the insane Blood Bowl fanatic I am (pun intended), a bunch of us Bristol peeps (including fellow podcaster Nazgob) decided that taking Goblins to the new and shiny SAWBBowl would be a good idea.

SAWBBowl is Glowworm’s new baby, rising from the ashes of Crumb-Bowl like some glorious phoenix, if the phoenix was northern and sounded like Joe Pasquale. It’s a non-tiered tournament. 1100tv, and you get 6 skills including a double, or you can swap the double for two normals on the same player – provided that player is numbered ‘4’ on your roster. Long story.

Anyhoo, here’s the roster I took:

  1. Ripper
  2. Troll with Guard
  3. Troll with Guard
  4. Bomma with Hail Mary Pass
  5. Looney with Leap
  6. Fungus the Loon
  7. Fanatic with Mighty Blow
  8. Pogo
  9. Goblin with Diving Tackle
  10. Goblin
  11. Goblin
  12. Goblin
  13. Goblin

1 Bribe, 1 Reroll

Experienced Goblin players will probably shake their head at this for many reasons:

  1. Too few goblins
  2. Too few bribes
  3. Too many weapons
  4. Ripper

What do they know, eh?!

I built this roster as a sort of bring-all-the-toys approach, hoping the general pandemonium would be conducive to startling victory.

How wrong I was.


My first game was against Darkson’s Vampire team. If there was ever a team I stood a chance against, it would be a vampire team. He had only three vampires, one with Block, one with Dodge, and one with Blodge. A smattering of Tackle and Wrestle rounded off the army of thralls, and five(!) rerolls meant he was well prepared for Vampire chicanery.

The game started pretty well, with my swathe of MB causing a decent level of pain. Hitting guys, KOing guys, even a Cas or two. It was all going well. The Bomma was a bit crap though, throwing bombs heartily into the audience.

Unfortunately for me, I forgot that Vampires can actually be pretty amazing. Before I could blink I had vampires all over the place, and my ball carrier was on the floor. The ball sailed beautifully over the heads of my silly goblins, and I was scored against on turn 6. Phooey.

All my weapons were sent off bar the Fanatic, who I was able to Argue the Call for. I brought on the Chainsaw, as I didn’t have enough bodies to sub for him. I didn’t use my bribe, as I thought it would make sense to keep it for the end of turn 8.

Not a lot happened for a turn, and the second drive began.

The chainsaw was sent off, but the Fanatic once again was saved by Argue the Call, so I kept my bribe again.

Cue a bit more Vampire nastiness, and once again they scored, leaving me 2-0 down but 2-0 up in Casualties. I did have two dead goblins, but I’d done that myself by throwing one and running one over with Fungus.

Deciding to up their games, my trolls suddenly went crazy in turn 14. Three thralls on the line, one was KOd by a rock. The other two were killed in one turn, and Troll number 3 blitzed another, took a Both Down and killed the 3rd. Nice!

By the end of the match, there was one thrall left on the pitch, but I was still 2-0 down. Maybe the next match will go different, thought I…


There are a few teams that are tough to play against as stunties. One of those is Dwarves. Thankfully, I wasn’t playing Dwarves, though Nazgob had managed an immensely respectable 1-1 draw against the beardy team last round. I instead was drawn against Gorgoroth and his Chaos Dwarves.

So that’s ok then.

He pounded me. Lots. At one point I was setting up with three trolls and a pogo. The HMP Bomma did a thing this game, only once though, taking down a ball carrying Hobgoblin. Cheerfully, despite losing 3-0, I inflicted 4 casualties. Two of those on Chorfs! I was feeling pumped, and turned to talk to Nightwing. My excited Most Casualties dream died away though when I saw he’d pitch cleared his opponent’s Norse with his own Norse team. Never mind then!


Two games, two losses, but I had learned that Goblins were hilarious fun. My last game was against Angry Hobbit, one of the best sports in Blood Bowl, returning without fail to tourney after tourney with Stunty after Stunty after Stunty. This time he’d brought his Ogres, with Brick’Farth and Grotty in tow.

My trolls decided that killing snotlings was so passé, and elected instead to KO as many as possible. The Cas count was pretty pathetic on both sides, with our guys killing themselves more than the enemy. My HMP wasted my only reroll on my first action of the game, snake-eyesing it and stunning himself.

Grotty took down Fungus in a display of immense bravery, before dying on a failed dodge. Snotling after Snotling flew through the air, ball in hand, only to fail the landing time after time. The Bomma did something useful at one point, picking up the ball and HMPing it to the other end of the pitch.

In the end, I scored 3 CAS (the lowest of my three games), but finally won 2-1.

When we were waiting for the awards to be given out, I had a chat to the Hugo. He had beaten a Wood Elf team with his Goblins! A hell of an achievement.

…However, as it turned out, the amount of CAS I’d been inflicting each game was boosting my tournament points, and it ended up that I was one point ahead of Hugo… nabbing me the Stunty Cup! I was certain there had been a mistake, but no!

This means I’ve now won a Stunty Cup with Ogres and Goblins. Halflings, here we come!

Overall, I was pleasantly surprised with Ripper and the Trolls, while disappointed with the Chainsaw and the Bomma. I can never get my head around chainsaws.

Maybe I’m just bad with Goblins.

Bumford’s Adventures – Season 2: Game Five/Six – Gunville Stonesmiths and Da Undercliff Boyz

Game Five/Six – Gunville Stonesmiths and Da Undercliff Boyz

Bumford is sitting, thinking. He is in a large worn red chair that creaks as he adjusts his weight.

“Please, one more time run it by me.” says the figure opposite the dwarf. An mysterious figure shrouded in darkness.

“Well, commish. A wager is what I’m sayin’. You ‘n’ me. Winner takes all. I win, I get the league. You win…” Bumford spits on the floor. “Well, whatever you want I guess.”

“Confident, you seem.”

Bumford thinks back to his last game…

Bumford is sitting in the stands. He watches his team set up against a rugged dwarf team. he doesn’t recognise these lads. Probably from the smaller mountains, the warmer ones closer to the greenlands. Pah.

His team are warming up. They seem in relatively good spirits.

It could be because Bumford told them they were playing a team of fresh-faced halfling-dwarf crossbreeds that have never even touched a blood bowl ball. They’d laughed at that.

Ah well, they’ll discover the truth soon enough!

Bumford looks to the backfield. Some other famous slann ‘star’ has offered him his services, one “Quetzal Leap”. He was a small, lithe frog, very fast and clearly knew his business. He was hopping from foot to foot, talking to the rest of the team. They seemed bolstered by his confidence.

The dwarf leaned over to the spectator next to him. “Three gold pieces says he’s down and out before the first half.”

The bearded human next to him eyes Bumford up and down, then agrees.

The whistle is blown, and the ball sails skyward!

It is halftime, and Bumford walks past the crumpled heap that vaguely resembled Quetzal Leap to spend his shiny-gotten gains on a McMurty’s Gut-Splitting Gumbo Combo Meal.

The slann are down 1-0, and are receiving. Quite a few of them are out of the game, and the ones that are left are wary.

Within a few moments, the score is 1-1, but more and more frogs are occupying the injured dugout…

By the time the whistle finally blows for full time, there are only three frogs left on the pitch. The score is 1-1…

Bumford start s.

“Pah! Just look at my team! Stupid frogs that they are. None of them ‘catchers’, none of these so-call ‘kroxigors’, whatever they are. Just a group of stupid frogs that have barely played a game between them, and we’re unbeaten!

“Unbeaten, say you? Yet top the table you do not.”

Bumford grunts. “I said unbeaten, didn’t I? Nothing but wins and draws. So yeah, I reckon I could take you on.”

The figure stands up and makes to leave.

Bumford spits again and does the same.

A voice follows him out…

“Tomorrow, then.”

Bumford is in the dressing rooms with his team.

“Right lads! Last game of the season then, change of plans, we’re playing the “Da UnderClif Boyz” boys. Odd name.”

His team are limbering up, which for a group of humanoid amphibians is enough to turn most stomachs.

“Important one today. Just go out there, beat them up a bit, do what you normally do and beat ‘em down. Orcs go down just as easily as anyone else. Well, sort of. Off you go!”

Da Undercliff Boyz are a burly group of orcs that are all almost as wide as they are tall. Each wore smooth, black-iron armour that must have weighed as much as two grown slann. Each shoulder pad and greave was pockmarked with grooves and circles.

Something seemed odd, thought Bumford.

Each team set up on the field.

The atmosphere was tense.

Bumford watched the orcs in their pre-match preparations. They lined up on the scrimmage point, and stood waiting.

The referee turned to look at the orc on-field captain, Harz. Harz turned to look back.

And nodded.

Bumford sat up. “Wait a minute…”

The Orc Team rushed forwards, simultaneously slapping and hitting hidden buttons on their armour. Enormous gleaming spikes appeared as if my magic from all manner of hidden alcoves from every inch of orc armour. The slann, waiting for the whistle, had not moved yet.

“Uh…” said Wasteyenot.

The orcs were then upon them, crushing, punching, impaling, and generally unleashing a wave of pain and injury on Yaverslann’d.

The Referee them reluctantly blew a whistle, and rolled the ball onto the pitch.

“What is he doing! This is insane!!” yelled Bumford.

Frogs were getting maimed and knocked senseless everywhere he looked. They were unable to lash out at their attackers for fear of getting stabbed, and were reluctant to leave their friends to their fates.

“Gah! That cheatin’… Right! Step it up lads, don’t worry about the team, they’ll be fine. Score! Do it!”

Stretchy Pete heard him and nodded, managing to grab the ball before it rolled gentle towards the orcish lines. Once he had it, he huffed it with all his might to Flicker Dee, who had just extricated himself from a scuffle with a troll, and was sprinting for the touchdown line. No sooner had Pete thrown the ball, he suffered quite a significant level of punches straight to the face. It paid off though, and Flicker, panting and wheezing, scored.

By half time, despite enourmous injury, the score was somehow 1-0 to Yaverslann’d…

It had been far longer than the legal allotted time for teams to refresh at half time. Yaverslann’d had been on the pitch for some time now, awaiting the return of Da Undercliff Boyz.

The door to their dressing room banged open, and the orcs begun filing back out. Their armour looked different… Where before had been black metal, they now looked white and powerdery.

Each orc left a small puff of the same white powder with every step.

“What is that stuff?” Thought Bumford.

The teams set up again, this time with most of the frogs setting up much further back than before. The three unlucky mercenaries that waited up front looked nervous.

The referee, before blowing his whistle, insisted each team shake hands before beginning the next half.

Bumford was confused. What was going on?

Each team, lined up again, and took it in turns to shake hands with every enormous orc. It was when he noticed his team were wincing when padding back to position that Bumford knew what had happened.

He stood up to yell as the whislte was blown. The ball flew overhead, coated in the same white powder that coated the orcs.

“It’s salt! Don’t touch it! Don’t touch them, ya stupid frogs!”

It was too loud. They couldn’t hear him.

Every time a frog came into contact with an orc, he fizzled, and croaked with pain. Punches, coupled with the acidic reaction suffered by his team, meant frogs truly were suffering. Slann were collapsing everywhere, frothing and writhing.

Bumford was furious. That cheater!

Each slann that picked up the ball had to force himself to hold it, despite great pain. It was simple for the orcs to knock them down and take the ball for themselves, then slowly walk it in for 1-1.

At least it was over while Bumford still had a team. There were only two frogs left on the pitch. Even when Bumford had coached the Nautical Imperatives, an elf team, he had not suffered as much punishment as this.

As his two remaining players limped towards him, the referee blew his whistle. The orcs began lining up again.

The ref gestured towards the frogs, pointing at the pitch.

Bumford was not pleased.

The slann lined up, all two of them, on the Scrimmage Zone. The entire Orc team lined up opposite them.

The ball was kicked into the slann half, and within seconds his team was on the ground again. The orcs were laughing as they scooped up the ball with no resistance and scored again. The whistle was blown again.

2-1 to Da Undercliff Boyz!

Bumford burst into the Commissioners office, but was met by an official looking goblin instead. He opened his mouth, but before he could get a word out, the goblin spoke.

“I have here a written affidavit from one ‘Trollington the Third’, listing each of the rules you have broken while competing in his league, from posing as a referee to betting against your own team and then losing, to outright murder. It is the commissioners wish that you turn around, head back to your team, and get ready to compete in the next season, and he says he would very much dislike to have to hand this note over to the King’s Guard.”

Bumford closed his mouth. He considered for a moment.

“Fair enough. See ya next season!” he said with a wave.

And left.

Bumford’s Adventures – Season 2: Game Four – Chine Gang Assassins

Game Four – Chine Gang Assassins

The frogmen of Yaverslann’d file out of their changing rooms, squeltching as they go.They are ushered onto the pitch by Bumford, casually giving a boot to the arse of Holy Victor, who is lagging behind.

They’re a touch uneasy about this match. Their opponent is Chine Gang Assassins, a lithe Dark Elf team that (much to Bumford’s fury) don’t actually have any assassins on their team roster.

“They should be called the Chine Gang, er, Stupid Bloody Elves. Yeah, much better. Har!” He sniffs.”Huddle!”

The frogs squish together in a moist ring, with Bumford in the centre. He rotates as he speaks to the team.

“RIGHT,” he yells, “First things first, GNASH ‘EM, then GRAB ’EM, then you take their stupid pointy ears and you-“

“Er, coach? Croak Shouldn’t you be keeping your voice down in case they hear us?” squeaks Wasteyenot.

 The stream of dwarven swearing plainly carries from the huddle all across the stadium. By the end of the tirade, Bumford is red in the face and Wasteyenot is lying supine.

The Dark Elf team are much more aloof. They are standing in a loose group, staring blankly around. Some of them are armoured in terrifying spiked plate, some are terrifying short on clothes.

The whistle blows for the teams to prepare. The slann line up in their traditional setup, but the dark elves stay put.

The ball is booted deep into the Dark Elf half. They do not move, instead stand quietly still.

The frogs, unsure of how to proceed, start to creep around the elves. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

A blood-curlding screech from one of the lady elves with the mad hair, and something snaps in the Chine Gang. They go from statue-still to bloodthirsty maniacs in the split of a second. Spikes impale frogs, booted feet connected with squishy underbellies, and the air is filled with mad croaking and wild whooping.

“Thaaat’s more like it!” cheers Bumford. He’s clapping and jeering with the best of them. “Stupid bloody frogs! Stop pissing around and get stuck in! Great ugly bloated-”

He stops and squints. There’s no denying the Gang are great at their finesse play, they’re elves after all, but something’s wrong. The ball isn’t in their possession any more. Somehow, Todd’m Bouncer has launched himself nine feet into the air and descended on Lebi Leasher, slapping the ball from his hands, and Stretchy Pete has the ball. He’s streaking for the Dark Elf side, several other frogs close behind him.

Oh well, thinks their Coach, at least they’ll score quickly. That’ll give the knife-ears another go at beating them up on the line of scrimmage. Ah, the Line of Scrimmage. Bumford’s eyes glaze over.

He’s standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Dalof and Brouk. He knows some of the other lads are beside them, but he can’t see that far. The snow is so strong and thick it’s filling his boots, his sleeves, his eyes.

“They’re comin’! Get ready lads!”

That’s the voice of Junner, an insane ginger bearded madman of a dwarf. A huge, hirsute shape lumbers towards the young Bumford. It’s enormous, it’s slavering, and it had him in it’s eyes. A weight on his shoulders, and Junner has leapt from Bumford’s shoulders, barrelling into the monster like a cannonball…

Bumford sighs and snaps back to reality. The clock shows it’s nearly the second half, and the frogs still haven’t scored. They’re running the clock down! Cowards!

“No’ on my watch, bloody frogs!”

He jogs through the crowd, shoving and pushing, until he is beside the match. One particularly ugly ogre takes offence at being shoved, and bellows, rumbling after Bumford. Bumford yells insults at him. He turns back to the match. One of the lady elves with the mad hair is attacking Snippy, the smallest of the frogs. He is being forced backwards towards the crowd, towards Bumford himself. Bumford waits for his moment, lunges forwards, grabbing the frog by the scruff of his sticky neck.

“Coach, wha-”

Bumford throws Snippy at the furious ogre, who catches him crushingly in one meaty hand, then throws him at the floor with a wet slap. Bumford has already left.

He is now near the elfin touchline, and catches the eye of Stretchy Pete. He warns them that while he showboats up here his team is getting killed. Stretchy Pete reacts with horror, then immediately runs it in for the 1-0 at half time.

“Snippy was a beautiful frog, taken from us at far too young an age.” Bumford wipes a tear from an eye. His voice cracks with emotion “If only we had scored straight away, instead of selfishly running the clock down, giving the vile elves chance to exact revenge on him.” He glares at Pete.

Pete looks down.

The second half begins at the frogs’ hearts aren’t in it any more. They throw themselves at the elves, but don’t really achieve anything. They collect the ball, but their feeble attempts at fighting off the Dark Elves are paltry at best. They trip up, they go down, they drop the ball. By the time the referee blows his whistle it’s 1-1.

When they file into the changing rooms at the end of the match, Bumford is whistling and humming. He spots them on their way in. “So ya drew, never mind. Worse things happen at sea, eh? Why so glum?”

They can’t meet his eye.

“Snippy… his croak mother is in the crowd. She wants to know where he is…” says Wasteyenot.

Bumford nods. “Fair enough. Pete, off you go.”

Pete looks aghast.

“But what do I tell her?”

Bumford eyes him menacingly.

“I think you know. Now, go.”

Pete eyes the floor again, then shuffles away.

Bumford fetches his clipboard and checks it once Pete is gone.

“Ok, so dwarves next week. This should be a laugh, eh? Come on, cheer up! No one’s died.”

They look at him.

“Well, no one important. He barely even put up a fight, little wuss, I barely had to touch him.”

He winks at them and saunters off.

The frogs do not know how to react.

FUMBBL replay

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.