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The Nightmare Before Christmas
By Jon Blyth
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the
house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The historical wargamer lay in his bed,
With wars of antiquity filling his head.
When suddenly downstairs there was such a clatter,
He sprang from his bed to see what was the matter;
Down stairs, through the hall, in the dead of the night,
Then into the lounge where he clicked on the light.
To his shock he discovered a Games Workshop elf,
Lifting boxes of wargames gear down from the shelf.
It had on the t-shirt, it had on the hat,
All Games Workshop stuff (i.e. - dressed like a prat).
"Just leave that alone", said our hero, quite baffled,
"I won't have my wargaming collection snaffled".
The elf denied theft with aggrieved indignation,
"It's your fault if this lot's a rule violation.
Historical gaming's a thing of the past;
There's no money in it, we found that out fast.
You waste your resources in getting the detail;
We don't want the research, we just want the retail.
Sci-fi and fantasy - that's what's in vogue;
I'm sent out to sort the occasional rogue.
The hobby's moved on; it's sweeping the nation,
You must keep in line with the standardization.
These 15-mil figures will simply not do;
And as for the 6-mils, that goes for them too".
The wargamer saw his stuff strewn on the floor,
His boxes of figures piled up by the door.
He started to protest, just holding back tears,
"I painted those models, it's taken me years".
"Oh don't worry Guv", said the elf with a grin,
"We start with a free gift to sucker you in.
Take this box of plastics - they're goblins on sprues.
We'll sell you the craft-knife, the scissors, the glues,
The paints and the brushes, the shields and the bases,
(All made with child labour in far-away places).
Or ditch all that priming, and painting, and flock;
There's deals I can sell you, we keep them in stock.
From Games Workshop sweat-shops all over the land,
We offer you armies all painted by hand.
All tournament-legal and highly de-rigueur,
It works out at less than sixteen pounds per figure.
A Games Workshop ruler, some Games Workshop dice,
And thousands of rulebooks - now won't that be nice?"
"Now wait just one minute", our hero replied,
"There's no way I'm going to swim with this tide.
Compared to what I do your gaming's low-class,
You can stick your naff goblin box right up your arse".
He advanced on the elf with wild fire in his eyes,
Whilst voicing a series of Celtic war-cries.
The cornered elf uttered a foul incantation,
"Marketing! Internet! Globalization!"
The wargamer woke up, his sheets drenched with sweat,
His bedroom was still dark, not Christmas Day yet.
He sighed with relief, "It was only a dream,
I'm always surprised at how real they can seem".
He settled back down to forget the whole thing,
And wondering what presents this Christmas would bring.
He wished for lead figures, piled up in a box,
But knowing he'd just get sad jumpers and socks.
And drifting back down to the old Land of Nod,
He missed hearing something that sounded quite odd;
A jingling of bells on the cold morning air,
Just the Games Workshop elf heading back to his lair.
The End.
A very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Army
to everybody at the club
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