Talk Fantasy Football

Hmm! I wanna know what the Duck Barney got up too.....as i too have got an ear infection!

Captain Barney.....answer for yourself!

Game 3 – ni_se (Amazons)

Over the course of history the Spanish have had a few things at their disposal – an armada, an inquisition and, as of the World Cup, a Blood Bowl team capable of producing more sound than a jet engine. European mainlanders have long been famed for their ability to outshout an AC/DC tribute band, but those from the Iberian peninsula take a special pride in popping the eardrums of everybody within a six mile radius. In fact sign language has been the official second language of Andorra since the fourteenth century.

And here's a little bit of trivia for you: the first man to ever completely dig through the Earth's crust was Spanish. He never intended the feat, he was simply playing in a Blood Bowl two dayer in Madrid and slammed his dice cup down so hard over the six games that eventually he'd excavated down to the planet's core.

But onto the game. My opponent was a lovely man from the northern part of the country. As a Northerner myself – albeit from the rain soaked, technologically backward north of England rather than the sun drenched paradise of northern Spain – I could relate. I threw some 'Northtalk' his way and asked him if Spain had an answer to Les Dawson or Jimmy Nail. They didn't.

The game itself was the typical fare, or at least the first half was. In the second I made precisely six thousand dodge rolls without failing which managed to net me a win. Again I turned to my team in expectation, only to find that their heads had exploded from the deafening sound of Spaniards winning at Blood Bowl.

Interlude – Amsterdam as a City

It would be rude to write a report about a tournament held in Amsterdam without devoting a section of it to the city itself. This was my first trip and to be honest I'd only heard what I'd read in the papers. When I pictured Amsterdam I saw only smoky rooms filled with strung out addicts, seedy back alleys, glaring red lights and donkeys wearing lipstick. It was a pleasant surprise, then, to find a city that was culturally rich, contemporary yet classic, liberal, erudite and populated by some of the friendliest people alive. The place was a treat to walk around, we were only hassled once and I saw no more than two lipstick wearing donkeys.

It really is a city that could please anyone. If you like museums then there are plenty. If you like to relax and watch the world go by then there are lots of places for that. If you like being told that you're a naughty boy by a four hundred pound Croatian woman dressed as Freddie Starr then you can do that too.

All you need to enjoy yourself here is ten euros and good eyesight.

Game 4 – Venomous_Breath (Norse)

After spending a day being the ignoble Englishman, spouting the virtues of Imperialism to my opponents and taking their Blood Bowl teams for the Crown, it was nice play a fellow countryman. I'd had the Cross of St George painted on my face but Breath had gone a little further with his nationalism - he'd broken into the Rijksmuseum the night before and stolen a sword in the hope of launching a holy war against the Dutch sometime between games five and six.

But before he did that there was the small matter of toy soldiers and with wild abandon he proceeded to annihilate my team in a manner that was most unpatriotic. Not for half a millennia has such harm been inflicted onto one Englishman by another. I was the Charles to his Cromwell.

I left the table defeated, muttering under my breath that this would never have happened if there were two Welsh teams at the tournament. By this point I was tired and paid little attention to how my team did, so lets just say it was a victory for the Roundheads.

I last saw Venomous Breath standing atop the Royal Palace waving the severed head of the Netherlands premier in the air. According to the rest of the Hampshire Super Hogs, he 'does this a lot'.

Game 5 – towin5000 (Dwarfs)

If a man looks like a Belgian, talks like a Belgian, smells like a Belgian and has a Belgian flag on his shirt then he's probably a German. At least that's the assumption that one of our team jumped to when rocking up to his table. Geographical faux-pas aside, yes, we were playing the Belgians. They only had four legitimate Belgians on the team, the other two having been mistaken for Germans and conscripted into organising a David Hasselhof world tour.

My opponent, though, was Dutch. At least I think he was Dutch. He spoke with a Dutch accent, had Dutch mannerisms and even told me he was Dutch. He'd been recruited by the judges to plug a leak within the team after somebody had dropped out.

Again the match is nothing but a hazy memory, something I will never be able to fully recall again, like my first day of school or my PIN number. I recall it being a victory, although as I was pro elves and he was dwarfs I think we can safely assume that shenanigans were put into play.

A gentleman, although he bore a striking resemblance to the Dutch premier. Come to think of it I didn't see him on day three...

An absolute riotous read so far!! Keep it up mate!!

Considering how utterly wankered he was friday night, (hence the mass stickering of De Schutter in the name of the Hobbit Homeland) it has to be said that this:

Sizzler wrote:he'd broken into the Rijksmuseum the night before and stolen a sword in the hope of launching a holy war against the Dutch sometime between games five and six.

Is potentially true.

Game 6 – Barnacles (Dwarfs)

A promising performance against the pseudo-Germans had thrust us deep into enemy territory. We were downstairs for round six, outside of our comfort zone, unable to look down on the other players and spit on them when they weren't looking. There was also an enormous variation in temperature between the top floor and the bottom. If playing in the third tier was the equivalent of playing inside an overweight Turkish man's bum crack then playing downstairs was akin to going for a stroll through the Arctic wearing nothing but your underpants.

The Welsh, though, didn't seem to mind. As a people who spend eight days a week getting rained on they were more than capable of withstanding the freezing conditions. In fact we had to take a five minute break an hour through our games so that they could re-apply their sun cream.

Barnacles (he never told me what that meant, although when I turned up to the table he was stuck to the bottom of it) decided that he didn't like the cut of my jib and systematically dismantled my team. When the game was done and I had stopped crying like a girl it was quite clear that I had been dominated. By this time I was so tired that I could barely stand. I was starting to physically shake, my vision was blurred and I invited my re-roll counter out to dinner. As a team we decided to have an early night. We vowed to go to bed no later than 10pm. At 1.30am we were still playing something called Carcassone and cursed our nerdy nature.

Game 7 – Banelord (Undead)

Just like that woman in Sunderland with the suspiciously strong jaw my opponent would drop a bombshell on me when it was too late to do anything about it. Half way through our game I casually asked about the trophy that he was using as a re-roll marker and was nonchalantly told that he had won the Dungeonbowl. Okay then.

It came as a surprise, then, to draw this game 1-1. Admittedly I was rolling like a fiend, making errors that a child wouldn't make and getting away with them, forgetting to close off my cages and falling into unconsciousness several times over the course of the game. The twelve hours sleep that I'd had over the previous six days had brought my body to the brink of total shut-down. My diet has never been that great, but when you spend a week subsisting on nothing but cider, cream cakes and Dominion it starts to become dangerous. My aim was no longer to do well at this tournament but to make it out alive.

Again I paid little heed to the progress of my team. It was too early in the morning, too far into the tournament and I was far too busy focusing on not falling off the balcony.

Game 8 – Tom_Brady (Lizardmen)

The less said about this one the better.

Game 9 – Doudou (Dark Elves)

My ninth opponent was wearing a neckerchief and so had already established himself as my favourite opponent yet. Olivier was a very jolly Frenchman from the Basque region (the same as our Spanish friends from earlier in the report) as so was imbued with a natural propensity for making noise. He was also blessed with a fondness for Pop Tarts. My Pop Tarts to be precise.

I don't know if it was my inability to form lucid thoughts after nine games of Blood Bowl, my ennui with the game or the fact that I was just rubbish, but Olivier unleashed upon me the full fury of France. What I did know after this drubbing, though, was how Harold must have felt in 1066. Doudou must have also seen the correlation and, taking the opportunity to enhance the experience further, thrust a witch elf into my eyeball and unhorsed me.

I lost this one 5-1 but would happily say that this was one of the most enjoyable games of the weekend. Olivier was a treat to interact with and didn't get mad when I butchered the French language in a bid to communicate on his terms. When I mistranslated a kick off result and instead told him that I wanted to lick his head he was very obliging.

Summary

This was a weekend to remember, despite the fact that I can only recall fourteen minutes of it. The people were great, the city was a treat and the event ran as smoothly as could be. I must offer my thanks to all involved, whether that be the organisers, the volunteers who gave up their time or the players themselves for creating such a great atmosphere. Managing five hundred sweaty Blood Bowlers is an act of heroism all of its own, but when those Blood Bowlers are tired, inebriated and threatening to throw themselves into the canal it becomes a godlike feat.

Thank you, all, and see you in four years.

This is fun! awesome writeup

A masterpiece, Sizzler

Ah, Banelord. He was my Round 6 opponent.
I went 1 up on him and receiving start of the 2nd half...but he then proceeded to clinically take my team off the pitch, and a couple of spots of bad dice left me sobbing into my beer.

I want to hear teh Tom_Brady story...

Fantastic sizzler! Those were some magically formed paragraphs.

Paul gegg even said "this is the best thing I have ever seen" and that you could quote him on that.

Definately brilliant!!!!

Wow, definitely the best tournament report I have ever read and I'm still smilling about some brillliant comments .
What happended in/after game 8?
Your opponent was so upset, that he fled and took some of his mates with him ?

Writing mine up at the mo. I feel like mine will be a creation of a toddler with a fist full of crayons!

Awesome Mr. Siz....just plain awesome

Thanks, all. Game 8 was a bit of a tense one. My opponent began flinging dice across the room and crushed and extremely well put together re-roll counter beneath his shoe. I think he was one of the guys who went home before game 9. Unfortunate really...

I know Owens opponent was one of the guys who left early, but I'm pretty sure that's ebcause he was being given a lift from one of the other two. From what I saw of their game, he had fun.

Yes, he was one of the 3 guys, one of which pretty (un)famous, who left after game 8, leaving his captain, the other 2 guys of his own team and the opponent team of round 9 in shit.

Worst moment of the WC (I was there as Head Referee, I'v seen some), but such an unsportmanship conduct that, as yourself said, the less we talk about, the better.

Just big compliments for your report, now I'm curious about Pug's one