Povos, Parmos, PJ & Duncan

Alreeet folk,

This time, the toy soldiers have been "ooop norf" risking life and limb in a strange part of the world where we have to be on our guard against all things wrong about the north of England. To set the scene, I took the Smelves of Elrond up to a one-dayer in Middlesborough, which is somewhere I had only ever skirted around before. Lets consider some more about geography.


Yorkshire.

Yorkshire is simply the best county in England, and therefore the world. No-one is in any doubt about this, and if they are they get beatings. With world class sport in the form of cricket; drinks in the form of Sam Smiths Old Brewery Bitter; headgear in the form of flat caps; and a climate where the clouds are just that little fluffier, sky bluer, sun brighter, and rain softer than anywhere else. 



Actual true image of Yorkshire landscape

Tyne and Wear

A region where gangs of ginger bykers roam the wildness of the Metro Centre, and local hardmen PJ and Duncan patrol looking for folk called Mike to wreck, Wearside is as close to Scotland as its worth going before you fall into the waiting maws of dragons. With piss-poor football, even its local brown ale is brewed in Yorkshire for export into the gaping maws of gaggles of slags waiting to trap gullible men in the virtual open-brothel-cum-toilet of the Quayside. 



Hardest men in Newcastle waiting to have their howay with you


Middlesborough

Middlesborough then is as far north as I dare go without my passport. A three-hour drive via Hull, with only the sounds of native smoggy Chris Rea on the cassette player. Still actually in Yorkshire, would its proximity to the shithouse of Sunderland have tainted its otherwise pure air? A quick few sessions on DuoLingo and I had mastered their language - canny means good, cannot, and can-like. Such brevity was refreshing. 

Actually, the whole place was surprisingly fancy, with big parks and houses; not too many annoying hills; and an impression that the seaside wasn't  far away. It was very much what I imagined what you would get if Scarborough had a big brother. 


Toy soldiers

We'd been lured up north on the promise that the local folk were nice chaps and that they enjoyed some laffs and bantz. Imagine the horror to find that someone had kidnapped these and replaced them with gamey fucks? The folk were nice in the same way that your kidnapper is nice while breaking your fingers with a hammer. The event, a GBHL80, was three games at 600pts, and while it wasn't full of the tournament heavyweights, it was clear that these folk played hard and with fairly robust armies. My list was the previous 600pt Rivendell list which I quite enjoy. 


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