We few…we happy few.

Well it’s been three years but I’m doing English archers again, (though admittedly in 28mm this time rather than 15mm). What goes around comes around, eh.

Lovely thing about the 100yrs war is that only one side used a lot of cavalry and that should speed up painting progress. I hope. 

Here’s a few pictures of ‘em so you can see where I’m at. They’re Perry’s of course and lovely sculpts to boot but darned fiddly to glue together with my fat fingers and clumsy hands of death.

I probably should have titled the post “look ma no flock” since as you will observe… there’s nary a whisker of the stuff to be seen.

Once again digital photography proves it is not your friend. They look okay from a distance I promise.

 

And here’s the back of them, which is probably the view most opponents will have since I hope to command the French…and lose every encounter with panache. They’re in the colours of John Mowbray by the way, which you probably already knew. 

Lack of flock is heresy I know, but while these lads are intended for Billhooks - they may get a few runs out in Boathooks and I suspect they’ll look a bit daft on board ship with a small garden plot around their feet. I’ve gone with the Kenneth Branagh Agincourt “grubby as fuck” look for the peasantry on the basis that it’s hard as hell to look squeaky clean when you’ve got dysentery and been sleeping under a hedge for several weeks. We’ve all been there…am I right!?

What? Only me?

Cripes!

The blog title obviously refers to the words Shakespeare stuffed into Henry V’s mouth from his play of the same name but it’s also an acknowledgment that after several years of steady posting I’ve finally achieved the magic number of 40 blog followers. Wow. Slightly chastening to think that one of those is my granddaughter (hi Ella) whose only really interest is in finding out what her barmy grandpa is up to and another follower is manifestly dead (R.I.P Graham) ((though I guess he could still be following?)).

Seems like I emotionally invested in the Betamax of content platforms when the world had already moved on to the VHS of Facebook. The wife keeps telling me that size doesn’t matter…and it’s kind of her to reassure me that the number of blog followers isn’t an issue… but still. Too much France? Too much crazy? Too many flights of fancy into new genre’s? Let me know, on the reinstated comments section if you can be arsed. 

Toodleooh

Chicken Korma / Chicken Karma

As a rule you should never post when under the affluence of inkerhol but I’ve been round mes voisines today and Christ that Pastis of theirs is strong stuff.

I’m conscious that I owe the blog a post, but gaming has been scant of late and miniature painting has to unfortunately come second to me endlessly cutting l’herbe dehors. Fortunately the Pastis has opened a couple of the doors on my advent calendar of troubled youth, so I’ll regale you with an anecdote from the past in lieu of anything actually relevant or interesting.

Buckle up.

The Current Mrs Broom planted hundreds of Euros worth of new plants last year and within 48 hours the four new chickens I’d just purchased had dug most of them up. “Why chickens.” she demanded of me, (in a most fearsome bate) “and why now?”

It was a good question. So in concert with my recent interest in all things Indian, I consulted various Hindu and Buddhist sacred texts and burned a bit of incense. You know, like you do. The unexpected outcome was a trip in the BroomCo Time Machine (pat pending) to the long lost land of Worcestershire in the grim old winter of 1977.

Though it no doubt stretches credibility, the young Jolly Broom Man (miserable brush boy?) was nothing like the handsome strapping chap I am today, all quivering whiskers and steely gaze…no sir, I was a girly milk sop with greasy hair, a brace, and was still wearing flares when my peer group had all moved on to drain pipe jeans. 

My parents had bought a small holding and gone “back to the land” in 1974 but after a couple of years the realities of stoop labour were beginning to tell. We didn’t have much cash (to put it mildly - you try paying your rates with goats milk) and so pater would sometimes come up with the occasional wheeze in order to generate emergency lucre.

Apropos the post title - from a mixed farm perspective, cockerels are pretty worthless but my dear father had chanced upon 50 going cheap, (sorry). After injecting them with female hormones in order to make them nice and plump (for reasons I didn’t immediacy fathom) they became my charge down on the farm. 

They were a decent bunch them chucks, with the female hormones eliminating their usual urge to fight or fuck everything in sight - instead they were good with colours and partial to musical theatre as I recall. They lived in an old refrigerated van only slightly less tatty than the family home and though they were relatively well fed the conditions they lived in were generally poor. I felt bad for them but at 13 (ish) there was bugger all I could do about it.

In the winter of 77 pater got the nod from a bloke who owned the Grand Tandoori on the Soho road and the purpose of my gaggle of gay chickens became suddenly and horribly clear. On a cold and wet November night daddy got a couple of crisp new fivers and by the light of a sputtering Tilly lamp I got a lesson in how to kill a chicken by breaking its neck. Thrusting the still twitching corpse into my cold little hands he nodded to the rows of roosting birds and muttered.  ‘There’s another 49 of the bastards in there. You’d best be getting on with it.’ 

Lovely bloke my Pa. 

On reflection I’d have been better off strangling him. (Oooh girl got daddy issues!)

So as you can see, karmically speaking, I had a great wrong that I obviously and unconsciously needed to address. Once I’d explained matters to the Current Mrs Broom she became a lot more understanding. I find there’s nothing like a bit of childhood trauma to grease the wheels of forgiveness. 

Makepeace, my bearded Favorol, gets human breakfast granola every day along with fresh blueberries and raspberry’s from Intermarché. The flock wanders where they will and live in a state of the art insulated coop that cost over a grand. Karmically speaking I may not now be re incarnated as a toilet seat.

One of these days I’ll tell you about the great goat caper in which a 14yr old me had to illegally drive the green family VW 1300 beetle through Birmingham to the abattoir with four billy goat kids on the back seat. Happy days - and nary a Fonz in sight.

Oh crap, I almost forgot this is a wargaming blog. 

Here’s a picture of some English 100yr war lads I’ve been working on. Proof if proof were needed that digital photography is not your friend. lol. 

Just noticed the chap in the middle has a bit of a droopy arrow. We’ve all been there.

Toodleooh mes amis. 

The siege of Salisbury House

I played a game the other day that went undocumented on the blog but the upshot of it was that the British retreated to the safety of the Salisbury House compound and sent out a message asking for help from the Lucknow garrison (Captain Lawrence disguised as a native and hidden in the back of a cart). 

The next game involved an attempt by the mutineers to storm the compound and was played over a week ago. Although I’ve lost my notes the following pictures will hopefully give a flavour of the action. The rules used were The Men Who Would Be Kings and all the miniatures are Empress 28mm. Both sides started the game with 25 point forces and the winner would be who controlled Salisbury house itself after 9 turns.

First up - a view of a part of the compound which is assumed to extend off board in several direction but is bounded in its entirety by a 12ft high rendered mud brick wall. Seen here are the main entrance (centre) and the tradesman’s entrance (snigger snigger) on the right.  The modular perimeter wall was badly and hurriedly scratch built but serves okay for now. In the background is another bungalow, to the left a tented field hospital and in just behind the wall in the foreground a walled croquet pitch.

I think this shot was taken around turn 2. The sneaky sepoys used a cannon to blow a hole in the perimeter wall - only to discover a British cannon looking back at them. Several waves of sepoys attacked the main entrance, the tradesman’s entrance and the left most portion of the wall itself. 

The defenders of this portion of the compound were two platoons of the 64th Regiment, a 9lb artillery piece and a platoon of Sikh Police. The Sikhs covered the rear of Salisbury house while the gun and the two platoons of the 64th covered the front. Despite complaints from the ladies the 64th took up a defensive position within the walled croquet area and made a right mess of the lawn as a result. 

Backs to the wall… Thankfully the battle was paused at this point for several hours while the servants came out and removed all the unsightly rubble from the smashed wall. Good job everyone.

The sepoys attacked from four directions, through the hole in the wall, below…

A mob entered via the tradesman’s entrance (sorry I still want to snigger) and tried to get onto the croquet lawn.

Began climbing over the wall itself…

And even snuck into the compound from the off board right flank. Definitely not cricket.

After some horrendous sepoy losses, they managed to secure the bungalow and control of the croquet pitch. 

The forces of colonial oppression still occupy Salisbury house, so they won, but the 12 wounded European soldiers that were the cost of holding off the horde are now being treated in tents that are constantly under desultory fire from the bungalow. 

Meanwhile, 40 miles to the west a small relief column under a colonel Morrison has been despatched from Lucknow. We can only hope he arrives in time! There’ll be no bullying off for the final chukka until the mutineers can be cleared from the croquet pitch, that’s for sure.

And finally. 

I’ve had a blissful three weeks or thereabouts without exposure to any news or current events. I strongly recommend it. Apparently the world still turns without me worrying about it. Who knew? No mushroom clouds on the horizon so all must be okay.

Music is and always has been a great soother of the noggin. Painting the Empress miniatures was largely accomplished while listening to an Indian themed sound track. Here’s an example which you won’t like and will skip out of after the few bars but which greater minds than mine have described as the best Beatles track they neither wrote or performed.

A bit of Tatva…

And this which is just a great laugh as well as a great song…

Look after yourselves mes amis.