A Coyote and Roadrunner Christmas

Hello, folks!  We hope you all had a lovely Christmas - and that you're slowly making a dent in the mountain of leftover turkey in the fridge.

Our Christmas was fun.  We drove down to Cardiff on Christmas Eve because Coyote had to do some of that 'work' stuff.  The studio was nice and warm, and I pottered about looking at all the pretty and tempting buttons while he did his wizard bit; cueing everything in and fiddling with faders.  Then something caught my eye.  Something so wonderful, so brilliant that I just have to share it with you.  It was the chair...THE CHAIR!

Yes; they have BOF chairs at the BBC!  Excellent.  *Chuckle!*  (For the record - they're great for whizzing about in.  Nice coasters.  Brakes are a bit dodgy, though.)

Several hours passed and I got a kiss from Derek Brockway, which was nice.  Coyote tried to explain to me what all the different bits of the mixing desk did, but it was like trying to explain quantum physics to a chimp. Here's the pro in action! 

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Then we drove over to Swansea where we collapsed into bed and fell asleep to dream of cheese twirls and 4ft orange windsocks. We then had a gorgeous Christmas dinner (with epic gravy that was epic) courtesy of Coyote's mum...and put a Santa hat on a very unimpressed Maisie:

That evening it was back to Cardiff for more radio wrangling.  I spent a while swearing at a vending machine that didn't want to part with its goods and then we watched Eastenders while scoffing Celebrations.  Other chocolates are available...but not in POTS 1 because we ate them all.

Then we drove back up north.  Dear reader, something incredible happened on that trip back.  We didn't see ONE BOFmobile.  Not a single one.  We were on the road for about 2.5hrs and didn't see a single glint of chrome.  It was blissful.

It's been a great Christmas.  Next up - the New Year!  Let's hope 2013 is a lucky one for all of us :) 

xx

Waltzing Warriors

It's nearly Christmas.  At this time of year, people are usually running around like blue-arsed flies, trying to find a bottle of perfume for Great Aunt Edna or guiltily opening Christmas cards from people they've forgotten to send to.  Not us, though.  Oh no.  

Earlier this year, an opportunity far too good to pass up presented itself to us.  If we went through with it, we could infiltrate the BOF community on levels we'd never imagine in our wildest dreams.  We could see BOFs, their BOFWAGs and their BOFspring during leisure time!  Dare we...?  Dare we step into the lair and order tickets to see André Rieu and his Johann Strauss Orchestra?!  It was a big gamble...

So we spent half an hour chasing down £200 worth of tickets - all in the name of fun.

December the 18th arrived and we jumped in Minty.  I wasn't sure if I was allowed to take a huge, in-your-face lens with me...so I popped a baby lens onto Auntie Pentax and hid the big bugger in my bag - ready to snap on when the house lights went down.  I'm a bit cunning like that.  Like a fox...only less hairy.  Wax strips are wonderful things.

But I digress.  The first obstacle we had to overcome was crossing the border.  It was ok for me because - although I have a Welsh soul and would fight to the death to defend our daffodils - I was born in England to English parents.  Coyote, however, is as Welsh as a rugby match in a slate mine with leek soup at half time.  It wouldn't be easy for him.  I watched him closely as we crept past the sign for Englandshire.  His pulse raised a little and a small sweat broke out on his forehead...but it would seem the gradual exposure to my Worcestershire ways had made him immune enough to survive.  We could relax.

It was easy enough to get to the NEC.  We parked up and walked towards the fleet of shuttle buses that were to convey the audience to the LG Arena.  It was then that we realised what we'd got ourselves into.  We were suddenly cast adrift in a sea of beige and purple; a cloud of Chanel hung over the gathering crowd and I got smacked in the face by a Hermes scarf as we boarded the BOF bus.  But there was no going back.  We would see this through no matter what happened; no matter what fate would befall us, we were going to face it head-on with a grin.  

£4 for 2 bottles of water later (it was Radnor Hills water.  That was just taking the piss, frankly) we wandered into the arena and found our seats.  Surveying the scene, a shiver traced down our spines...

Look at them.  BOFs.  BOFs EVERYWHERE.  We were sat in a room with 11,998 BOFs.  I started to shake; Auntie Pentax rattled in my hands and Coyote had to steady me as my breathing became erratic.  'It's ok,' he soothed.  'They can't see us.  Just don't make any sudden movements and for god's sake don't mention bacon.'  I hunched down in my seat and swallowed hard; the bitter taste of extortionately expensive water sliding down my throat.

André and his orchestra marched through the crowd to the tune of 'Seventy-Six Trombones' and suddenly the atmosphere changed.  The BOFs began to applaud and some of them even stood up!  Yes - they actually creaked to their feet and - with a cacophony of approving 'beough!'s - they watched as the Dutch violinist strode towards the stage, grinning smugly in the knowledge that he was making about £400,000 an hour.  I toyed with the idea of asking him if he'd lend me a tenner, but I didn't want to risk drawing attention to us...we were doing well.  I nearly blew our cover when a beige-clad BOF behind me dropped his water, though.  I reached down and picked it up, dutifully lifting it back to him.  He thanked me and said, 'I thought it was my wallet!' I grinned and replied, 'If it had been your wallet, I wouldn't have handed it back.'  I blinked...and quickly added 'sir' with a sickly-sweet grin.  That was a close call. 

It was a tricky first half.  While we were protected by our bubble of natural BOF loathing, something started to happen to us.  While the kettle drums boomed and the violins washed over us, we found ourselves swaying to the music.  Not only swaying, but clapping and stamping our feet, too!  What was going on?!  We're seasoned BOF Warriors!  How could we be behaving the same as them?!  The interval arrived and we hastily beat a retreat, searching for a small oasis of calm where we could gather ourselves and mull over the happenings of the first half.

Taking our seats for the final leg, we braced ourselves.  We wouldn't get sucked in this time.  We would sit quietly and observe.  We had been tricked once - and once was too many.

But...but...the soloists!  The tenors!  The bagpipes! The sweet, sweet music and the theatre of it all...!

People were dancing in the aisles; smiles on every face as the music filled the vast arena.  We couldn't help ourselves - we were swept up once more in a sea of festive joy.  And do you know what, dear reader?  We couldn't care less.  We let ourselves be drawn in by the spirit of the occasion; allowed ourselves to be at one with the BOFs...just for three hours.

And then the moment came.  Seven encores later, the man himself looked straight down your humble narrator's lens:

That knowing look.  He was fully aware of what he'd done...and he was proud.  We should've loathed him - seen him as King of the BOFs...but we couldn't.  This was André Rieu - a man who had, against all odds, succeeded in making Coyote and Roadrunner enjoy an evening of beige.  He'd brought people together.  He deserved, and now has, our respect. 

"What I have never understood is this.  If ceasefires can be held on Christmas Day, then why can't they be held all the time?  If I was Prime Minister, I would give all the soldiers violins instead of guns.  But then I am no good at politics." 

~ André Rieu, December 18th 2012. 

A Strange Phobia?

I'm a water baby.  One of my earliest memories is of being plucked out of the freezing harbour at Aberdyfi and swiftly shoved up my dad's jumper to warm me up because I'd made a beeline for the water.  I learnt to swim at an early age and won quite a few awards at school swimming tournaments.  My family and I used to go canoeing and sailing on a regular basis and, now I'm older, I'm a keen boogie boarder and kayaker.  It may seem odd, then, when I tell you that sometimes I simply can't approach the water. 

The sea, estuaries, rivers, canals and lakes are all beautiful places to me.  I feel most relaxed when I can hear a bow wave splashing nearby or the pinging of ropes against masts.  Put me in a wetsuit, chuck me in the water and I'm in my element!  But add a large, man-made object to that equation and things change dramatically.

Take this for instance:

The rotting wreck of the RV Sarsia in Birkenhead's East Float.  I went there earlier this year with Coyote and I couldn't get anywhere near the wall to which she was moored.  My heart raced, my palms got sticky and my throat constricted.  I had to stand back far enough to know that even if I stumbled and tripped, I would be nowhere near this horrible thing.  I was so scared, in fact, that when Coyote approached the edge of the wall - showing no sign of fear at all - I almost begged him to step away from it.  Just looking at the photograph now makes me feel physically sick.

I've never had a scary experience in the water.  I've never been on a ship that sank or been tangled up in anything near or in water...so I can't explain this fear.  Basically, it's anything large and man-made in water that sends me into a complete panic.  I'm bad enough just looking at them from afar; but the thought of being in the water next to them fills me with such a fear that I can't even think straight.

It's not just boats.  Finding myself bobbing up and down next to any of these would paralyse me:

I trawled the internet trying to find a name for this phobia.  It's not megalophobia because if any of these were on dry land I'd be perfectly happy to bounce all over them.  It's the fact that they're partially submerged.  If I was in the water and knew there was a shipwreck several hundred feet beneath me, that wouldn't bother me either.  This, however, does bother me:

The very thought of my feet touching that sends a chill down my spine.  The water's beautiful...but that vile hulk lurking just under the surface petrifies me.  (Trawling Google for these images was hell!)

I guess what I'd like to know is if many others out there share this phobia...and is there a name for it?  Loving the water as much as I do, I find it bizarre that I should be so scared of such things.  It's not just an 'I don't like it' fear, it's an 'oh my god I'm going to die' fear.  

So if anyone can shed light on this - or if you have experiences to share - please get in touch via the usual channels.  It's be great to hear from you!

Thanks :)

PS - I'm also scared of Huw Edwards.

Y Mochyn!

Just up from HQ, on a slate-topped wall in front of a stone cottage, sits a concrete pig.  Ever since Coyote and I have lived in the Dulas valley, we've been rather amused by her frequent transformations.  

The other night, we thought we'd bring her a little festive spirit...so we crept up the road in the dead of night, armed with a silver tinsel garland.  Like two completely inept ninjas, we slipped it around her neck and hastily retreated into the darkness.

The following day, we discovered that the owners had not only left the tinsel in place...but they'd also added a Santa hat to complete the look!  This made us smile - it was a little bit of local teamwork ☺

Back at The Ranch today - where there are workmen currently cutting holes in the floor - I decided to search for this pig online.  Surely somebody else had noticed this charming little character?

They certainly had...

Introducing our local celebrity: Y Mochyn!

All photos © David Coleman

We'll be snapping Y Mochyn in her current festive garb at the weekend.  In the meantime, we wish you all a lovely week ☺ xx

The Project

Greetings from a soggy Dulas Valley!

Just thought we'd keep you posted with what we're up to at the moment.

We've decided to lay our sprout guns down for a while and concentrate on something a little more artistic.  That's not to say, of course, that sprout guns aren't artistic (sprout purée shows up lovely on black paint and chrome), we just want to have a crack at something that involves longer attention spans.

This is where the problem may lie.  You see, we have the attention spans of goldf...ooh!  A MOTH!

...an hour later...

That was a very unusual moth.  He looked a bit like Michael Gambon.  Anyway...where were we?  Oh yeah. We want to create a video that features some of Wales' gorgeous scenery.  Be it lakes, cityscapes, forests, waves on the sand, busy shopping centres or sprawling mountain vistas, we want to capture a bit of Wales in pixels.  However, we don't want to do it the easy way.  Taking a few photos and bunging them together in a slideshow is a bit boring...as is setting up a camera on a tripod and letting it roll for a few seconds.  So - how to make it that little bit different?  Combine the two into something like this!

That's just a test batch we took in Aberdyfi yesterday.  39 photographs condensed into 9 seconds.  Ideally, we'd like around 30 different locations, all edited together in sections to present a funky tour around this unique country.  It'll be quite a big undertaking, but we hope to create something that reflects the beauty of Wales...with a little Coyote and Roadrunner edge.  The photos will be polished and the timing tightened up, so the finished result should be quite snappy and bright.

If you have any suggestions for places we should visit for this project, please let us know!  We've got a few in mind, but your input would be fabulous.  As regular readers will know; we've seen a fair old bit of Wales (656 places so far) but not all of it.  Your suggestions would be delicious...like a slice of hot, melted cheese on toast.  Mmm...melted cheese on toast...you want that now.  You know you do.

So yes - please get in touch!  Many of you have already got my email address - so use it!  Or you can tweet us: @Goleudy or @MarkTheTravel.

Tarra for now.  We hope to hear from some of you soon! xx

PS: We saw a fully-grown man skipping down the road past HQ last night.  Just thought we'd mention that.

The Humble, Gentle Sprout

I am a humble, gentle sprout,

I mean no ill or harm;

How can I be of any threat?

You can fit me in your palm!

I am a simple, healthy veg,

Little sister of a cabbage.

I do not wish to hurt or maim;

I am not wild or savage...

Until...

I see a BOFmobile. 

Chrome glinting in the sun.

Then my placid air wears thin

And my calmness comes undone.

I feel a rage build in my stalk,

My leaves begin to twitch;

Darkness creeps throughout my veins

And my layers start to itch.

I see the tinted windows gleam;

I note the linen jacket.

Chelsea boots of finest hide

That cost a fecking packet.

Filofax on the passenger seat

Listing several dinner dates;

Financial Times in the back

With circled shares and rates...

Then...

I know what I must do.

I have to make a stand.

Protect the innocent from the BOFs

And purify our land.

I leap towards the windscreen,

War-cry booming from my soul.

No more pacifistic thoughts;

My heart as black as coal.

I hit the target with a SPLAT

Obscuring the BOF's vision;

He swerves onto the muddy verge

And I cackle in derision.

Then night falls upon me;

I'm broken; start to fade.

But as my purée clouds the glass

I know my point's been made.

I may have been a single hit;

A solitary message,

But I will not be the last to fight

And instil a fearful presage. 

How can I scare a BOF, you ask?

Make them shake and twitch their snouts?

It's simple, oh dear reader:

BOFs are terrified of sprouts.

For all their grand bravado,

Their armour has a chink.

They're too intent on following trends 

And worrying what others think.

Sprouts, of course, are not well-liked

And folks are quick to state

That sprouts are something they abhor;

They deeply, truly hate.

So naturally, a BOF will follow

The consensus of the masses;

Not wishing to daringly deviate

From their piers and higher classes.

And that, O brothers, is how we fight.

Give the bourgeois bunch a clout.

The BOFs will never beat this nemesis:

The 'humble', 'gentle' sprout...

Taking the Mic

When you turn your radio on, what do you do it for? I do it for information and entertainment. Nothing more, nothing less. When those speakers kick into life and those voices waft out, I'm after news, weather, good music, fun and - perhaps - a hint of enlightenment. I like it when it's so sleek that you don't even notice the professionalism.

As Coyote and I spend a lot of time driving around Wales, we often have the radio on in the car. (Between you and me - there's only so many 70s and 80s cheese albums a Roadrunner can take!) Of course, traffic and travel updates along with weather forecasts are extremely useful to us - but so too are good tunes and fun chat.

It's not a difficult request to fill. So why is it, then, that radio stations are becoming increasingly debate-based? It seems to be phone-in after phone-in, with less and less time set aside in the schedules for things that people actually want. Of course we all like a good debate - but isn't that what friends and family are for? Wouldn't you rather throw forth your points of view on the day's hot news with people you can actually see - as opposed to listening to a few people in a studio/on phone lines all talking over each other?

As with all media today, radio can only survive if it appeals to everyone. That’s why I understand that it has to feature things that I may not enjoy. It’s like a buffet – you choose what you want and ignore the rest - which is exactly what I do. I’ll tune in for certain programmes and turn off for the ones I don’t. It’s the way it works. However; recently I’ve noticed that I’m turning off more often. I’m listening to fewer hours of radio per week than I ever have done – and that’s sad.

I grew up in a radio-loving family. My dad always listened to The Archers, I’m Sorry I Haven’t a Clue and Just a Minute. My Nan enjoyed magazine programmes like Woman’s Hour and never missed an episode Desert Island Discs. Then there were wonderfully written productions like Bleak Expectations – that was just brilliant!

Sir Philip: We resolved to escape from St. Bastard's or die in the attempt!
Sourquill: And what happened?
Sir Philip: We died in the attempt.
Sourquill: Oh, how awful!
Sir Philip: Of course not, you blundering idiot! How would I be talking to you now?

Pure class! Now...where was I?

Oh yes. I suppose I should mention sport at some point. Sport doesn’t appeal to me at all; so when a station broadcasts a live match I turn off. That’s my choice and it’s one I’m happy with. But when a station (one that isn’t dedicated to sport) churns out so much sport that even the sport bulletins overrun, it gets a bit frustrating. But I won’t dwell on this too much. I will, in fact, be a good sport about it. See what I did there?! No, you’re right. It was crap.

Which, in an almost seamless link, brings me to ‘celebrity guest presenters.’ I will never understand what drives the decision-makers to plonk a comedian, musician or singer behind a presenter’s mic and give them free reign. Just because these folks can warble a tune or tell a joke does not mean that they can engage an audience in a radio show. Frequently I hear a ‘name’ burbling into a microphone about how he/she is so honoured to have been asked to host the airwaves, and then immediately adding that they don’t actually know what they’re doing. It’s not endearing. It’s annoying. If I wanted to hear someone giggling hysterically because they don't know the name of the newsreader, I’d gatecrash a Channel 5 Christmas party.

It gets even more baffling when you realise that there are people out there with presenting skills that would save radio stations a few bob. In many cases, these people are already in the broadcasting industry and pottering quietly right under the decision makers’ snouts. They’re people who have the gift of the gab and can self-op; meaning there would be no need for an audio supervisor and they could, perhaps, bring down the amount of phone-answerers and broadcast assistants. This would save cash, and that cash could be put towards interesting outside broadcasts or, maybe, promotional merchandise a little more exciting than badges and car stickers. But no. The Powerful Ones (who may or may not drive BOFmobiles. But probably do) prefer to hire an expensive name in the hope that it brings celebrity-worshipping ears to their station. I’m not denying it works...but there’s no longevity. Listeners can’t warm to a temporary voice; no matter how many awards that voice has perched on its mantelpiece.

I’ve spoken to many people in my quest for opinions. Some bemoaned the lack of live comedy shows; others wondered why there were so many ‘shouty’ people on air these days. One person even told me that he’d started listening to a commercial radio station because the adverts were more entertaining than the output of the regional station he used to listen to. The one thing that really struck me was how many people said, in one way or another, that they don’t feel radio is as ‘friendly’ as it used to be. Some of the older people said that they almost regarded those familiar voices as friends – people they would invite into their homes by flicking the ‘on’ switch; but now they feel those once-friendly voices are more like lecturers than friends.

Yes; radio is floundering. The airwaves do still offer some good quality output and people can find something they like if they look hard enough, but the former is getting scarcer and the latter is becoming more difficult. What I don’t understand is why this has happened. Surely there are enough listener panels and audience councils out there; diligently firing ideas at the ones who ask for them? I even applied to be on a panel myself once. As it was, I filled out a questionnaire and never heard anything back. I wasn’t one of the chosen ones.

Perhaps it’s just as well. I don’t think I would’ve given them what they wanted to hear...which, when you think about it, is worthy of a wry smile. Do they actually listen to and act upon the opinions and ideas given to them by their panels? Or do they set these groups up as a mandatory courtesy - almost like asking someone how they are in the street, knowing full-well that the person is highly unlikely to give you a true and accurate reply?

This post isn't an argument; it's an opinion. It's not the rant of a disgruntled radio listener, but the tentative words of someone who's wondering what's happened to something she cares about: British radio. Of course, there's nothing I - a small voice in a cacophony - can do to make anything better; but at least I can say I've said my piece. Things don't change unless change is instigated; and I hope that this post might just inspire people to speak up and make themselves heard if they can.

So - ideally, what would I change? Hmm...

1. More Improvisation

Radio gold often comes from mining the Improv. Quarry. Scripts are all well and good, but these days they don't allow for genuine fun. Presenters are increasingly reliant on bits of paper and this creates a rather starchy, unfriendly air. Think of those priceless times when a listener has called in with a tale and made everyone laugh. Do they have a script in front of them? No. How about loosening the restraints a little? Colouring over the margins? Of course you have to be careful not to wander off the page - for there be dragons...and possibly litigation - but a good presenter will know the boundaries and be more than capable of working within them and getting the most out of their input. Which brings me neatly to...

2. Fewer Celebrity Guest Presenters
The odd one can be fun. I can even think of a couple who have done so well that they've been given full-time presenting gigs - but they're as rare as rocking horse poo. More often than not, station editors collar arty types who wouldn't know a fader if they sat on it and probably think that RadioMan is a very pretty version of Microsoft Excel. That means they have to have an army of knob-twiddlers behind a pane of glass, ferreting away to make sure the show doesn't fall flat on its face. Many also seem to struggle with listener interaction; not knowing what to say to callers or how to respond to emails and texts. When this happens, empathic embarrassment has us reaching for the off switch.

3. Well-Scheduled Debates and Phone-Ins

I'd be lying if I said I didn't like to hear people having a good argument now and then...but there's a time and a place. It appears that editors seem to think that a great time to have people yelling at each other is first thing in the morning. It isn't. When I'm pouring the first coffee of the day, still yearning for the warmth of the bed I've just dragged myself out of, I really don't want to turn the radio on and hear people at each others' throats over the best place to situate their wheelie bins. Give us some time to wake up. Feed us the news gently, give us some nice music...and when we can walk and talk at the same time, then unleash the fury of the masses. Besides, I for one am in no capable state to ponder the intricacies of wheelie bin location until I've had at least three coffees. And a bacon sandwich.

4. More Eclectic Playlists

Yes - I know this is a minefield; what with royalties, rights and suchlike...but if I hear Robbie Williams wailing on about candy one more time, I swear I'm going to cry.

Well; I think I’m done here. I’m off to watch TV. There’s not much on; but at least if you throw a shoe at a screen you’ve got a visible target.

The Pisses

Once upon a time, on the edge of mystical Snowdonia, stood a stone cottage.  It wasn't grand by any means, but it was cosy and homely.  It nestled against a rocky hillside, looking out on a vast valley of pines.  Blue smoke curled from its chimney and mingled with the languid mist, waiting patiently for its owners to return home from their expedition.  Suddenly, the bucolic hush was shattered by Roger Whittaker whistling like a possessed kettle as a dark blue car pulled up outside.  It was the headquarters of Coyote and Roadrunner; two intrepid travellers who harboured the curiosity of a thousand cats.  They were also fond of catnip, but weren't very good at walking on walls...so this is where the comparison with cats must end.

Roadrunner eagerly threw herself out of the car and stood looking at the garage up the road.  Her nose twitched.  Coyote rounded the car and slipped a loving arm around her shoulders.  'He's gone home, Roadrunner,' he soothed.  'He'll be back tomorrow morning, though.  Don't be sad!'

     Her shoulders dropped and she trudged up the steps to the front door, leaving Coyote to lug the Pimm's and Space Raiders inside.

Later that evening, they sat on the floor playing Scrabble by candlelight.  There wasn't a power cut; they just liked being able to make animal shadows whenever they liked.  Coyote was particularly good at casting shadows of honey badgers.  Roadrunner scrutinised the Scrabble board.  'I don't think that's allowed,' she frowned.  'It is!' Coyote protested.  'Everybody knows what a Qozxjym is!  And it's a triple word score.  Tot it up.'

     Just as Roadrunner began counting on her toes, there was a flash of light outside.  It was a torch.  She sprang to her feet and ran to the window, beaming from ear-to-ear.  Sure enough, she was greeted by the sight that her heart longed to see.  A man with a white beard and blue overalls was slowly walking down the road, carrying a plastic 4-pint milk bottle.  Blue top.  It didn't appear to contain milk, however.  Roadrunner jumped up and down on the spot.  'Coyote...Coyote...IT'S MISTER PISS!' she squealed excitedly.  Coyote crossed to the window and grinned as the man passed by, carrying his container of dubious liquid.  He waved at his back as he disappeared around the corner.  'Hello, Mister Piss!' he smiled.  'Hey,' he turned to Roadrunner, his brow perplexed.  'Where's Furry Piss?' 

'I don't know,' Roadrunner pondered.  'Maybe she's with Fat Piss?'

'Or Niss Piss?' Coyote suggested.

'I think Niss Piss is still at work,' Roadrunner said, looking out at the drizzle that washed silently through the orange street light.  'She works long shifts at the hospissal.' 

They fell silent for a few moments while they mulled over the possibilities.  With a shrug, Coyote gestured to the Scrabble game in progress and they resumed their battle of probably-not-in-the-dictionary words.

The Pisses were nice neighbours.  Mr Piss owned the local garage where he spent his days tinkering...and probably tinkling.  Niss Piss worked at the hospital (probably in the urology department) and Fat Piss - their daughter - was fat.  Furry Piss was their lovely sheepdog.  She liked to go on evening walks with Mr Piss as he toddled between his Piss Garage and Piss House, carrying bottles of...well, what appeared to be...piss.  

     Coyote and Roadrunner didn't know why he pissed into bottles.  They just put it down to a strong work ethic.  The less time he spent walking home to relieve himself, the more pisstons and pisstributors he could fix for his customers.  It made sense.  The only thing they didn't like about him was his vehicle.  It was a BOFpiss.  Not a BOFmobile, you understand...because Mr Piss was not a BOF.  Although the BOFpiss was indeed a black Range Rover with chrome bits and tinted windows, it couldn't be classified as a BOFmobile because no BOF would be seen dead in oil-spattered overalls; let alone pissing into a bottle.

Niss Piss and Fat Piss couldn't look less alike.  Niss Piss was a willowy, grey-haired lady with a gentle manner.  They often saw her elegantly strolling down the road - probably having delivered an empty bottle or two to Mr Piss.  Fat Piss, as has been earlier stated, was fat.  And short.  It should probably be mentioned at this juncture that Coyote and Roadrunner had no evidence of Niss Piss or Fat Piss relieving themselves into bottles - in fact, if you think about it, it'd be a bit difficult for them; being women and all - but they became Pisses by association.  Their dog, Furry Piss, was allowed to piss pretty much everywhere.  Because she was a dog.
     Coyote and Roadrunner had no interest in discovering their real names.  The village they lived in was quiet and they had to make their own entertainment.  One time, someone kidnapped a hamster and held it to ransom; demanding £5 and a Sherbet Fountain from the owner.  This shocking incident made the front page of the local newspapers and people were talking about it for years.  Yes...the village was very quiet.  So quiet, one might say, that you could hear a gnat piss.  Or a mechanic, for that matter.

To be continued...

If The Cap Fits...

Having been woken up at 0720hrs by our carbon monoxide alarm freaking out, Coyote and I were feeling a tad jaded as we ventured into Aberystwyth.

The CO detector is a new acquisition at C&R HQ.  See, we have a log burner that's very slightly psychotic, so it seemed like a wise move to install a little box that could tell us when it was trying to murder us in our sleep...

We call her Bunny.  Cute name, we're sure you'll agree.  However, the name was inspired by the film Fatal Attraction.  Think on.

Obviously, she didn't manage to kill us this time - so off we toddled in search of cloudy lemonade.  We like cloudy lemonade.  It's like normal lemonade...but with clouds in it.  Aberystwyth was fairly peaceful, and after a brief detour to the Arts Centre to buy some Nerds (peach and wild berry.  Tasty.) we headed back into town to brave the Sunday shoppers at Morrisons.

There were plenty of BOFmobiles around; chrome glinting in the afternoon sunshine as they whiled away their hours cutting up innocent motorists on roundabouts.  We drew level with Morrisons garage and suddenly we were both starved of breath by the sight that greeted us.  The EXCITEMENT!  The AWE!  The SHEER KNICKER-MOISTENING JOY...!

Coyote deftly swung Minty into the forecourt and I swiftly snapped a photo with my phone before we scarpered.  Apologies for the quality - it was a bit of a ninja moment - but look...

IT EXISTS!!

In our enduring battle against the BOFs, we've seen plenty of amusing plates.  We've even seen a couple of 'BOF' plates on other vehicles...but never on a BOFmobile.  We found it.  We found the HOLY GRAIL.

But this doesn't mean that we'll rest.  Oh no.  We won't stop the good fight until we've seen a Range Rover/Discovery driver being pelted with frozen sprouts by an angry octogenarian in an Austin Maxi.  Preferably somewhere in Pembrokeshire.

Please Bring Her Home

Fifty Shades of Beige

Henry flicked the light switch by the door and a slow grin crept across his lips.  She was waiting for him.  Wordlessly, he walked to her and ran his hand over her cool curves as she stood motionless in the dim studio.  'You're perfect,' he whispered;  his hot breath on her slender frame.  His eyes fixed on her, he rounded her and slapped her behind with his palm.  The sharp sound echoed through the room and she yielded slightly with the force, moving closer to the glass desk.  A deep, languid laugh rose in his throat as he walked to the desk and sat down, his eyes drinking her in as she stood stock-still in front of him - just as he liked it.  He could control her; do with her as he wanted...but not tonight.  Tonight he had more pressing matters, and she would wait.

     Coldly, he stood and left, not losing pace as he switched the lights off and left the studio.  The heavy doors sighed closed behind him and he smiled.  She would be still be there later.

'Good evening, Mr Beige!' Terry beamed as he watched him breeze through the security doors.  He received no reply. 'Miserable bastard,' he muttered to his weary colleague behind the reception desk as Henry vanished down the steps outside the building. 

'Aye.  You'd think with all that money he'd be happy as a pig in the proverbial.' Chris sighed, not lifting his eyes from his newspaper.

'What was he doing here anyway?' Terry pondered. 'He's not due in 'til Monday.'

Chris finally looked up and gazed at Terry from beneath his bushy eyebrows.  'The man's a workaholic.  Whereas we'd grab a day off and handcuff it, he sits at home thinking of reasons to come in.  Each to their own, I suppose.'  He shook his head and returned to the sports pages.

'Hasn't he got a bird?' 

'Yeah,' Chris chuckled.  'But women don't earn you money!'

Holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph over his thinning hair, he marched down the path with his linen jacket flapping behind him like a flappy thing that flaps a lot.  His highly polished, Chelsea-boot clad feet clacking on the wet tarmac, Henry Beige scowled at the leaden sky as he ducked into the car park and unlocked his bloody enormous black Range Rover.  His skin tingled as the soft, buff leather of the driver's seat creaked under his corduroy-wrapped thighs.  Rain pattered on the roof and the automatic wipers - with chrome bits on them -  kicked in as he guided his BOFmobile onto the main drag.  His heart thumped heavily in his chest, gaining pace as he imagined the scene waiting for him when he got home.  While the other half was away having her hair done or playing polo or having Botox in her bum or whatever it was she was doing, this cat was going to play.

The automatic garage door - with chrome bits on it - opened and he drove through and parked.  With a cursory glance he made sure it was closing behind him as he unlocked the heavy oak door that led to the hallway.  Once inside, he clapped the lights on and stood in the arch that led to the kitchen.  Warm light from the under-unit LEDs bounced off the chrome sink and draining board.  The chrome toaster shone, reflecting the glint in Henry's eyes.  The kettle - also chrome - glowed...as did the chrome coffee machine, the chrome juicer, the chrome sandwich toaster, the chrome percolator, the chrome fruit bowl, the chrome tea caddy and the chrome tea towels.  Hold on...no.  The tea towels weren't chrome; that would be silly.  But Henry liked chrome.  That, essentially, is what I'm trying to convey here.
     Undoing his tie - which didn't have chrome on it - he padded into the kitchen.  Beads of sweat prickled his forehead as anticipation built in his body, heightening all his senses.  She sat on the work surface, beckoning him.  Even he couldn't resist her.  Henry; the man who liked to command.  His fingers trembled as he reached out to her, her skin glistening as he embraced her naked softness.  'I've been waiting for this all day,' he almost growled.  His passion grew as she hovered for a moment near his lips; teasing him, pushing him into realms of desire that no man could escape from.  She was a temptress...but he was Henry Beige.  He would not let her take the reins.
     He grasped her firmly; her flesh tender and warm in his hands.  'Don't try to dominate me,' he hissed.  'You're mine.  I'm going to destroy you.'  Forcefully, he lifted her to his mouth.

Finally, he was satisfied.  He turned his back and walked out, slumping onto the black leather sofa in his study and sighing contentedly before leaning towards the mahogany table and pouring himself a brandy.  He could still taste her on his lips and fingers.  He sipped at his brandy and suddenly remembered the vision of delight that was doubtlessly still waiting for him back in the studio.  If he drank the brandy, he couldn't return tonight.  He weighed up his options.  No - she wouldn't go anywhere.  Besides, he might get indigestion if he went out now. That was the best plate of belly pork his maid had ever prepared.  And, as alluring as his studio paramour was, it's not as if an Autocue had anywhere else to go.

He belched and switched the TV on.  The Antiques Roadshow.  Splendid.