So, we pick up the story with our intrepid hero and your humble narrator resentfully making his way back to his room.

I'm in my Hobby Room. I'll admit the capitals are mine alone as while the space's importance in my personal universe is such that it deserves them, to the other human in my household it is merely "the store room" and is a place where anything not immediately useful or decorative is banished. This includes me and, it goes without saying, also what she scathingly labels as my "toy soldiers" together with their attendant paints, putteys, glues and assorted bric-a-brac.

I like to think this is my domain. My fortress of solitude. This is of course nonsense as my spouse enjoys occasionally re-arranging things and reserves the right to change the status quo without prior notification let alone any pretence at consultation. I believe she does this in the same spirit as Napoleon when the great man found it useful to shoot an eminent general every once in a while; both to encourage the others and remind them of their place in the food chain. In my home you see I am very much a 2nd class citizen with less say in its layout, decor or use than the cat I compete with for resources and attention.

A brief word about the cat. It is small, ginger, generally hostile and like every other difficult thing in my life, female. We exchanged pleasantries early on in our relationship and due to the little ingrate's continuing propensity for ultra violence and grudge bearing I remain wary of it.
  
I digress. I was sitting at my work desk with my laptop in front of me wondering what to do. They say that anguish and sorrow has authored more books and written more songs of quality than joy or happiness so perhaps I should write.

I took up my pen(well, keyboard actually) and began to note down some verses. I reproduce them below for your edification.
    
Early one morning some hurtful knave
Right twixt shower, sh*t and shave 
Sent a message to my phone
It was my mate so I ignored it
And went to work and soon forgot it
No matter, tis prob'ly just 'im 'avin a moan
Yet when I again took to the road
And went off back to my abode 
Something nagging,
Nagging as I strode to my door
Twas just a feeling and nothing more

I should not have been so dismissive
For when I went and read the missive 
My heart grew cold as my finger began to scroll
My lovely game, they're about to change it
They've bloody gone and rearranged it
How could they touch my hallowed Blood Bowl
I turned on the light for it was evening you see
And read of brawler and fumblerooskie 
What's all this nonsense 
What's it all for?
Tis for NAF tourneys and nothing more

We all are speccing on finals day
Watching Malmir or Joost pushing 3000k
showing off and putting on a show
All while dodging that nightmare Claw Patrol
With all their stat freaks and murder bowl 
And with bloaty Slann we'll never know
What happens when they leap over st4 Orcish Blitzers
And the Woodies with their white wine spritzers
Prancing gayly as with you they wipe the floor
Quoth the rules committee
Never more
 
I shed tears and clenched my fist,
Maybe I'll run a bath and slit my wrist
Or post a bomb or throw some poo
My wife said "no one's died" "no, it's not the same"
"Pull yourself together it's just a game"
"Even a child is tougher than the likes of you"
But how can she get my distress 
That my marauders have no ST access
And doubtless other worse outrages in store
Quoth Games Workshop 
There'll be more

The lovely joy of rolling a double
A double 6! Now he'll cause trouble
These and a thousand more
Now heading for the door
Quoth the toy breakers
Never more
 
Stirring stuff I'm sure you'll agree. In fact having read it I feel certain you're ready this very minute to hoist freedoms banner and march on Nottingham in defence of our Noble Cause. Or something.

Having written this ode to a lost cause, I felt the need to double down. I would write a polemic on the state of our game. A damning indictment that would both move the hardest man to tears and stir the most craven of souls to action.  Yes. This would be my Magnum Opus. My Lord of the Rings. My Ulysses. This is what I would be known for long after I was gone.
 
Of course you will already know what came next. Less The Battle Hymn Of The Republic and more 400 words of incoherent screeching and thrown toys. It was basically the verbal equivalent of a dirty protest. Effective in that it unequivocally got the point across but perhaps not quite the nuanced piece of well argued prose that I'd intended. Still, onward and upwards.
 
I had unburdened myself and felt better for it. However, it got me thinking; if I, a reasonable man well adjusted and full of the wisdom of a decent span of years yet still with some residual vigour of youth, could think as I do then surely there must be others out there of a similar mind. I could raise an army to the aforementioned freedoms banner and bring down the corrupt tyrants who threatened our toys.

But where would I find these men? 

I had heard previously of this thing called social media. This apparently included platforms such as Facebook, Reddit and more. I've been told these are public forums where like minded people of similar interest can meet in a spirit of brotherhood and mutual understanding. Where discussions can be had on difficult subjects without rancour and reasoned debate is king. This sounded like just the place for me so I booted up my computer and dove straight in. 

I shall recount what I found there in chapter 3.