Monday, 27 February 2012

Samuel and Sybil: BOFmobile Hunting

This weekend, Coyote and I had to keep an urgent appointment with our psychiatrist.  We feel sorry for him and like to keep him in work, see.

That meant we were unable to make a video for you lovely people.  However, Samuel and Sybil kindly stepped in for us!  They're lovely people...apart from the language.  And the fact that they never seem to have any idea what they're talking about.

They went BOFmobile hunting.  This is what happened...

WARNING:  Contains some Tooty Frooty language.  Not suitable for little people or dishwashers.

*Meep Meep!*

Friday, 24 February 2012

Invasion of the CyberBOFs

After discovering that throwing a brick at a Range Rover window was a very effective way of gaining access, we recently repeated the process.  This time, we targeted a BOFmobile that was parked outside Toys R' Us.  We figured that the BOF inside would be so confused by all the bright and fluffy things in the shop that we'd have plenty of time to grab some evidence that we could take back to Penderyn Towers to analyse.

It took a few shots (I think the old lady with the Zimmer frame will recover just fine.  I was more of a runner at school) but eventually we got rid of the rear window.  Coyote reached inside, grabbed what he could and we legged it.  The BOF didn't appear at all; he's probably still there telling some poor, unsuspecting Furby all about his love of vintage cars.

When we got back we realised that Coyote had managed to get hold of some blueprints.  A cold chill ran down our spines as we turned the plans this way and I turned the heating up a notch.  

It was nigh-on impossible to understand what the blueprints were for.  The handwriting was atrocious; it looked like a drunk spider had wandered across the pages in search of a fly kebab.  A lot of the plans were obscured by bacon grease too, so it was incredibly difficult to fathom just what the BOFs were intending to create.  However, we did manage to suss out a few bits and pieces; so we popped down to the local hardware store and bought some nuts and bolts, a floorboard saw and a really big hammer.

Several hours passed.  Sweat beaded on our furrowed brows as we worked through the night; our fingers sore and our hearts pounding.  Then we stopped playing Hungry Hippos set about building whatever was on the blueprints.

A crate of Stella later and we stepped back to survey the creation.  It was terrifying.  More terrifying, in fact, than getting stuck in a lift with Anne Robinson...

It was a CYBERBOF.  We were standing inches away from a robotic (or 'robofic' if you will) representation of a BOF.  We stared into its cold, black eyes and shuddered.  Should we switch it on...?

Of course we bloody well should.

It creaked into life and its eyes lit up like fog lights on a clear day.  We slowly paced backwards, Coyote brandishing a baseball bat while I held a chicken and mushroom slice.  I was peckish.  Its mouth opened and a monotone, soulless voice filled the room:

"Marvellous to meet you.  Have I told you about my home county?"

We both screamed.  Coyote smashed it across the head with his baseball bat, but it wouldn't be stopped.

"Bacon is splendid," the CyberBOF continued; advancing towards us in its Chelsea boots (not pictured.)

There was only one thing we could do to avoid being eliminated.  I cleared my throat, squaring up to its cold frame.  I glared at it, took a deep breath and said: "Have you tried vegetarian bacon?"

The CyberBOF stopped in its tracks.  The cup of boffee fell out of its hand onto the floor and smoke began to emit from every orifice (every orifice.  It was quite spectacular.) "Does...not...compute..."  The voice sounded strangled; as if it was choking on a piece of its favourite cake.

Then it exploded.  We found its head in the garden:

We now keep pens and odd screws in it.

So don't be surprised if you see a CyberBOF; but don't be afraid.  They're easy to disarm with a simple sentence - one that will confuse them into shutdown.  We suggest one of these:
  • "Chelsea boots are so last season."
  • "I earn more money than you."
  • "My Range Rover doesn't have tinted windows."
  • "Your home county is a shit-hole."
  • "Would you like a hug?"
  • "I got a tie like that from M&S!"
  • "I accidentally shredded your script."
  • "Rachmaninov is overrated."
  • "Bacon cake."
Coyote and Roadrunner: Always one step ahead.

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

BOFmobiles: Harnessing Science

As you know, Coyote and I strive to be one step ahead of BOFs and their BOFmobiles at all times.  This means that we sometimes have to put ourselves in extreme danger in order to bolster our knowledge of these pseudo-posh and downright obnoxious creatures.  We've been known to walk within six feet of a BOFmobile in a car park...we're that determined to glean information because we believe that knowledge is power.  

While we always appreciate your input, please remember that we put ourselves in these perilous situations so you don't have to.  We're trained professionals.  Our War on BOFs has been running for nearly 5 months.  In that time we've been stalked, bullied and thoroughly offended by them - but we know how to handle BOF encounters.  Please don't endanger yourselves and your loved ones; leave the front-line BOF battling to us.

Through some SAS-style manoeuvres (ok; running up to a parked BOFmobile, smashing the passenger window with a brick, delving in and legging it) we managed to acquire some BOF fuel.  It would appear that they don't drink ordinary coffee like the rest of us...oh no.  They drink boffee. There wasn't much left in the cup (because BOFs can't operate without caffeine) but we knew that, by harnessing modern forensics, we'd be able to learn a lot more about BOFs.  What goes into their fuel?  Is it responsible for their obnoxiousness, or does it simply enhance it?  Whatever information we could glean would boost our ammunition.

We took our evidence to a laboratory somewhere in a basement.  You know; like that one in 'Waking the Dead'.  We were expecting a big, glass wall with writing and photographs on it and banks of silent, high-powered computers.  We were expecting a distinguished man with perfectly coiffured grey hair and a dynamically swooshing white coat to greet us with fiery eyes and ardent handshakes.  We were expecting a level of professionalism at least slightly above that of a school chemistry class...

...but we had to make do with a spotty laboratory technician called Derek who wore loafers and horn-rimmed glasses with lenses as thick as re-entry shields.  He sounded like he had adenoids the size of golf balls and carried with him the definite whiff of Digestive biscuits.  However, having blown our budget on Penderyn whisky and strawberries, we were screwed.  Beggars can't be choosers, so we left the evidence in his geeky, capable hands and eagerly awaited the results.

Today, those results came through.

We sat and stared at the findings.  The laptop screen glowed in the darkness and the dense, studious silence was only broken by the sporadic crunching of Smints in Coyote's gob.  We drank coffee.  We ate ham sandwiches.  We stopped for an hour to watch a fascinating documentary about gerbils on BBC Four.

After several more hours we stopped pretending we were clever and called Derek.  He wasn't happy; apparently he was about to level up in World of Warcraft, whatever that means.  After we plied him with the promise of a delivery of Dr Pepper and Wotsits, he agreed to clarify what the little bubbles and lines meant by sending us a simplified version of the diagram:

That made much more sense.  We especially liked the pictures...but think they would've looked better in crayon. 

So in summary, there is a sure-fire way of eliminating BOFs and their BOFmobiles.  We need to stop them eating cake and bacon, bar them from vintage car rallies and ban them from wearing Chelsea boots.  (Actually, getting rid of Chelsea boots all together would be a better idea; but this isn't an ideal world.)  This poses a problem.

Bacon and cake are too readily available, vintage cars last longer than a Van Halen guitar solo and Chelsea boots are, regrettably, unstoppable.  We tried the brainy approach, but science failed us.  ('Boffins', see?  We should've known.)  This leaves us with only one option... carry on annihilating BOFmobiles one by one with the strategic use of land mines, hand grenades and antitank weapons; and by pushing them off cliffs where available.

It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it.


One down; hundreds of thousands to go...

Thursday, 16 February 2012

Wynford Vaughan-Thomas on: Promotional Offers

For once, I thought Coyote and Roadrunner had brought me something nice.  As they approached, boots crunching through the patchy snow, I caught the definite whiff of chocolate.  If I wasn't dead and rendered in slate, I would've smiled excitedly.

Two packets were placed at the end of my ever pointing finger...and I was astounded.  It appeared that they were in cahoots with someone; that through some sort of unmentionably black dealings they were acquiring more consumables than they were actually paying for.  I fell silent and glared at them accusingly.

While Roadrunner busied herself with sticking her tongue to the ice on the gatepost, Coyote clocked my disappointed stare and explained to me.  "Sometimes, you can get a bargain," he said.  "You can pay for something, and get a little extra for free."  I raised an eyebrow.  Metaphorically. It's hard to raise one's eyebrow when one is carved from a fine-grained, foliated, homogeneous metamorphic rock that's derived from an original shale-type sedimentary rock composed of clay or volcanic ash through low-grade regional metamorphism.  

He continued to explain, mentioning something about 'promotional offers' and 'retail psychology', but I got distracted by a crow that was trying to crap on my head.  Besides, nothing he could say would sway my view that this bargain mentality is disgraceful.

In my day, you got what you paid for.  A bar of York chocolate cost 2½d and it tasted like a brick of perfumed lard.  In fact, it had no sugar in it.  The only risk it posed to your teeth (if you were lucky enough to have any left after the age of 20) was that you were likely to break them when you bit into it.

We had none of this self-indulgent bargaining.  No wonder modern society has a raging obesity problem.  I see the tourists waddling up to me; their thighs squeaking like two semi-deflated balloons, and I despair.  They get out their cameras and take photos with one hand while shovelling pies into their faces with the other.  Fat bastards.

Needless to say, Coyote and Roadrunner left with the goods...and they were welcome to it.  Perhaps they’ll get so fat that they won’t be able to fit into their MontyMobile and hound me any more.

Hope dies last.  Unless it gorges itself on these revolting ‘offers’ and snuffs it prematurely through coronary heart disease.  Absolutely disgusting! 

I’m off for a pint and some chips.

BOFs Favourite Things

*Click image to view full size*

Wednesday, 15 February 2012

Four Hundred and Fourteen

So far, we've visited 414 places in Wales.  We've seen a one-legged man navigating a speed bump, an antique Lucozade can, a pink rhinoceros, a farting lighthouse keeper, Roger Whittaker, a wooden tie, Val Doonican (and his wife and dog), more BOFmobiles than you can launch grenades at and what we believe to have been a zombie eating fries in McDonalds.

It's been a blast...and who knows where we'll end up next!

For the curious among you, here's an alphabetical list.  We might've passed you on a street!  (We were the ones hastily leaving the scene of the explosion... ;)

Aberaeron, Aberangell, Aberarth, Aberdesach, Aberdyfi, Abererch, Aberffraw, Abergele, Abergynolwyn, Aberhafesp, Aberllefenni, Abermorddu, Abertafol, Aberystwyth, Afonwen, Afonwen (2), Amlwch, Arddlin, Bancyfelin, Bangor, Barmouth, Beaumaris, Beddgelert, Begelly, Belan, Bethesda, Bethesda Bach, Bethlehem, Betws y Coed, Beulah, Birchgrove, Black Pill, Blaen y Maes, Blaenannerch, Blaenau Ffestiniog, Blaenffos, Blaengeuffordd, Blaenplwyf, Blaenporth, Bodelwyddan, Boncath, Bont Newydd, Bosherston, Bow Street, Bracelet Bay, Bridell, Broadhaven, Broadmoor, Bronaber, Bronant, Bryncir, Bryngwran, Brynhoffnant, Brynmill, Brynsiencyn, Buckley, Bull Bay, Cadle, Caergeiliog, Caergwrle, Caernarfon, Caersws, Caerwys, Caerwys (2), Capel Bangor, Capel Curig, Capel Dewi, Cardigan, Carew, Carmarthen, Carmel, Carno, Castlemartin, Cefn y Bedd, Ceinws, Cemmaes, Cemmaes (2), Cemmaes Road, Cerrigydrudion, Chancery, Chapel Hill, Clatter, Clawddnewydd, Cleddau Bridge, Clunderwen, Clynnog Fawr, Corris, Cosheston, Creuddyn Bridge, Criccieth, Croesgoch, Cross Inn, Crosshands, Crosswell, Crugybar, Crundale, Crymych, Cwm Deuddwr, Cwm Llinau, Cwmann, Cwmbrwyno, Cwmbwrla, Cwmgwili, Cwmystwyth, Cwrt, Cyfronydd, Cynghordy, Derwen Fawr, Derwenlas, Devils Bridge, Dinas, Dinas Cross, Dinas Dinlle, Dinas Mawddwy, Dolbenmaen, Dolgellau, Dolwyddelan, Dyffryn Ardudwy, Dyffryn Castell, Dylife, Dyserth, Earlswood,  Eglwys Bach, Eglwys Fach, Eglwyswrw, Eisteddfa Gurig, Elan Valley, Engedi, Esgairgeiliog, Fairbourne, Fali, Felindre, Farchog, Ffair Rhos, Ffos y Ffin, Ffrith, Ffynongroyw, Fishguard, Foel, Foelgastell, Four Crosses, Furnace, Gaerwen, Ganllwyd, Garndolbenmaen, Gellilydan, Gendros, Glan y Wern, Glanconwy, Glandyfi, Glasfryn, Glaspwll, Gobowen, Goginan, Goodwick, Graianrhyd, Greenfield, Groeslon, Gronant, Gumfreston, Gwaenysgor, Gwalchmai, Gwersyllt, Gwesbyr, Gwrych Castle Wood, Gyrn Goch, Happy Valley, Harford, Harlech, Haverfordwest, Heatherton, Hendy, Hermon, Holyhead, Holywell, Hubberston, Jersey Marine, Johnston, Kerry, Kilgetty, Kinmel Bay, Knab Rock, Lampeter, Leighton, Letterston, Limeslade, Llan Ffestiniog, Llanaber, Llanaelhaearn, Llanarmon yn Ial, Llanbadarn Fawr, Llanbedr, Llanbedr DC, Llanbrynmair, Llandarcy, Llanddewi Velfrey, Llanddowror, Llanddulas, Llanddwyn Beach, Llandecwyn, Llandegfan, Llandegla, Llandovery, Llandre, Llandudno Junction, Llandwrog, Llanelltyd, Llanerch y Mor, Llanerfyl, Llanfaelog, Llanfair, Llanfair Caereinion, Llanfair PG, Llanfair Talhaiarn, Llanfarian, Llanfihangel GM, Llangadfan, Llangadwaladr, Llangeinwen, Llangernyw, Llangollen, Llangurig, Llangyfelach, Llangyniew, Llangynor, Llanidloes, Llanilar, Llanllyfni, Llanon, Llanrhystud, Llanrwst, Llansamlet, Llanteg, Llantood, Llantysilio, Llanwnda, Llanwnog, Llanwrda, Llanwrin, Llanwrtyd Wells, Llanymynech, Llanystumdwy, Lledrod, Lloc, Llwyncelin, Llynllys, Llywernog, Lovesgrove, Machynlleth, Maenan, Maentwrog, Maidenwells, Malltraeth, Mallwyd, Manorowen, Mastlebridge, Mathry, Mayhill, Menai Bridge, Merlin’s Bridge, Merrion, Mile End Services, Milford Haven, Milton, Minffordd, Mold, Montgomery, Mostyn, Mumbles Pier, Nantmor, Nantycaws, Narberth, Nazareth, Nebo, New Hedges, New Inn, Newborough, Newgale, Newport, Newtown, Northop Down, Norton, Oswestry, Oystermouth, Padog, Pant, Pant Glas, Pant y Dwr, Pant y Wacco, Pant yr Dylath, Panteg, Pantperthog, Pant y Ffynnon, Pantygwydr, Pelcomb, Pelcomb Bridge, Pembroke, Pembroke Dock, Pen y Ffordd, Pen y Groes, Pencarnisiog, Penegoes, Penlan, Penllergaer, Pennal, Penny Bridge, Penparc, Penparcau, Penrhyndeudraeth, Pensarn, Pentlepoir, Pentre Berw, Pentre Foelas, Pentrefelin, Plwmp, Pontblyddyn, Ponterwyd, Pontllyfni, Pontrhydfendigaid, Pontrhydygroes, Pool Quay, Pope Hill, Port Tennant, Porthmadog, Porthyrhyd, Poyston Cross, Prendergast, Pumsaint, Pwllheli, Pwllhobi, Pwll-trap, Red Roses, Refail, Rhayader, Rhewl, Rhos y Garth, Rhos-hill, Rhosneigr, Rhuallt, Rhuddlan, Rhydtalog, Roach, Roman Bridge, Royston, Ruabon, Ruthin, Sageston, Sarnau, Simpson Cross, Sketty, Skewen, Solva, Soughton, Square and Compass, St Twynnells, St. Asaph, St. Clears, St. Davids, St. Thomas, Star, Staylittle, Stepaside, Steynton, Strumble Head, Sugar Loaf, Swansea, Sweet Lamb, Swyddffynnon, Tafarn y Fedw, Tal y Cafn, Tal y Llyn, Talacre, Talsarn, Talybont, Tan Lan, Tangiers, Tanygrisiau, Tarenig, Templeton, Tenby, Townhill, Towyn, Trawsfynydd, Tre Taliesin, Tre’r Ddol, Trefeglwys, Treffgarne, Trefilan, Tregaron, Tremain, Treuddin, Trevor, Tufton, Tyn’reithin, Tyncelyn, Tywyn, Upper Corris, Warren, Waterston, Welshpool, West Cross, Whitland, Withybush, Wolf’s Castle, Woodstock, Wrexham, Y Ffor, Ynys, Ynysforgan, Ysbyty Ystwyth

*Meep Meep!*

Those Three Little Words

It was Valentine's Day yesterday, so we've been inspired to write something romantic.  Should we write about how much we love each other?  Nah.  How about the bliss of being with the one you adore?  You must be joking.  Perhaps we could tell you why we blame Blaenplwyf transmitter for everything?  That'll happen later.

We didn't mark Valentine's Day.  We don't really see the point of buying pink, fluffy tat in an attempt to show our adoration (unless it's got something to do with Bagpuss; we like Bagpuss.  But then he isn't tat.)  Besides, we're happy with a coffee and half a packet of Smints.  

It's those Three Little Words that mean everything.  We say three little words all the time.  In fact we were chatting on the phone last night and found that we frequently say a lot of things.  We thought we'd share our top 100 phrases in an attempt to raise a smile or two.  This list will also give you an insight into our eloquent, highly educated minds* and serve as a sort of Coyote and Roadrunner quotes page.  Like the ones you get on IMDB but without the adverts.  Or the accuracy.  Or the wit.

* Shurrup.  It's creative licence.  

So without further ado, welcome to...
  1. Fancy a Tuftie’s?
  2. They’re modern trees
  3. Ooh, broken windows!
  4. It’s good, though
  5. Second duvet required
  6. That bastard Kawasaki
  7. Lime poo juice
  8. Ooh!  Blu-Tack!
  9. After you, ma’am
  10. Thank you, sir
  11. You’re in Handset?
  12. You’re charmingly unhinged
  13. Shower of shit
  14. That’s the moon
  15. My face hurts
  16. Look!  Golden arches!
  17. Double Decker Duo
  18. Pentax now rolling
  19. Argh! BOFmobile alert!
  20. It’s a gerbil
  21. Where’s my pills?
  22. Edit that out
  23. Stop squeaking, please
  24. We’re watching you
  25. Fancy a DomiAnos?
  26. Worcester Sauce crisps
  27. Ooh, behave ewerself
  28. You devil, you!
  29. What is Englandshire?
  30. More blue paint
  31. You need help
  32. Screw you, beetroot
  33. Sign says what?
  34. Your dog’s mental
  35. Boring old fart
  36. Where’s the exit?
  37. Hide the rifle!
  38. Onion rings, please
  39. By pure accident
  40. Your dongle’s flashing
  41. Gotta be done
  42. Where to next?
  43. Why ask me?
  44. Lemme tell you
  45. Giz you shoulder
  46. Tits live ‘ere!
  47. I like Pimm’s
  48. What’s a plan?
  49. Hello, Wynnie darling
  50. Opera is goppin’
  51. Fecking tinted windows
  52. Meep and Meep
  53. Let’s rewrite this
  54. It’s a FOBOF
  55. Junction thirty-two
  56. Who are you?
  57. Memory card full
  58. Chicken and mustard
  59. I like cow
  60. Where are we?
  61. Sponsored by Morrison’s
  62. Snog n’ vinegar
  63. You complete pillock
  64. Sounds like gravy
  65. Triangles are square
  66. Nice one, Monty
  67. Want a Regan?
  68. That was close
  69. Post-apocalyptic dump
  70. Where’s the road?
  71. We love Babs!
  72. I’m not allowed
  73. It’s Roger Whittaker!
  74. Time to scarper
  75. Where’s the Zippo?
  76. Three-legged pony
  77. Need poo bags
  78. Must be scented
  79. No entry?  Pardon?
  80. Berocca bomb needed
  81. Hello, Uncle Penderyn!
  82. Too much Dairylea
  83. Arriving in Anglesey
  84. Shortly leaving Anglesey
  85. That was quick
  86. Now entering Pembrokeshire
  87. Now leaving Pembrokeshire
  88. Was that it?
  89. Too bloody royal
  90. Woo!  Speed 10!
  91. Holyhead’s a shithole
  92. Oh no!  BIFmobile!
  93. Two boffees, please
  94. Where’s the loo?
  95. We love sprouts
  96. No bacon, thanks
  97. Dirty arsed sheep!
  98. BOFOGmobile fast approaching
  99. That tie sucks
  100. I love you

Tuesday, 14 February 2012

Calon Cadarn Cymru

As much as we enjoy the craziness, the downright lunacy and the sheer randomness of our adventures; nothing can quite equal the sense of awe we experience when we witness Wales in all her glory.

We're dropping the madness down a cog for this one - because we'd like to share with you a few minutes of peaceful beauty...and prove that we're capable of exercising sanity.  (Just!)

All photos taken in Wales over the last 4 months.  Music by Martyn Joseph.

Enjoy xx

Monday, 13 February 2012

BOFmobiles: The Threat is Escalating

Ladies and gentlemen.  Please forgive us, for the news we have to impart is less than positive.

Coyote and I have just spent a typical weekend enjoying some tasty Welsh exploration.  We concentrated on mid and north Wales this time; and were deeply disturbed by what we saw.  It appears that the BOFmobile infestation is reaching pandemic levels.

Over the course of two days, a constant stream of them crept up on us from every angle.  We were even stalked by one in Barmouth.  We think he was after our cake.

Unfortunately, I have a cold.  My usual, finely-honed Roadrunner nose is rather below I couldn’t alert Coyote to the whiff of bacon and Chelsea boot polish that usually warns of an impending BOFmobile ambush. 

That means we were forced to take sharp, evasive action on more than one occasion.  Monty left some rubber at the scene of one escape and we’ve run out of hand grenades.

Please watch the following video.  It doesn’t make for pleasant viewing and you may be upset by the images, but we believe you must understand the scale of terror that we’re all facing. 

With knowledge comes power; and with power comes the ability to stop this dreadful onslaught.  We hope.

WARNING:  Contains graphic images of BOFmobiles and FOBOFmobiles.  Not for the faint hearted. 

We will not surrender.  Our research will continue and we will bring you new information as we discover it.  Until then - please remain calm and vigilant.

Friday, 10 February 2012

Wales in Pixels: A Team Effort

Believe it or not, Coyote and I are capable of doing serious stuff.  Well...when I say 'serious', I mean 'creatively fun'.  I don't mean 'intelligent and deep' ;)

See - when Samuel's checking the output of his slate quarry; when Petula's busy chasing foxes through her garden and when Boycie and Babs are down the pub having a good old Cockney knees-up, we jump into Monty and toddle off to see what we can see.

Auntie Pentax always comes with us...

...and we hope you'll agree that we make a good team!

Contains no mad ramblings.  Just lots of Welsh goodness :)

*Meep Meep!*

Thursday, 9 February 2012

Birds and BOFmobiles

Ever wondered what happens when Monty encounters a BOFmobile?  Well, wonder no more.  

Along with some blathering about birds, wonky-legged signs, Elliott storage containers and Corgis, here's how BOFmobiles are acknowledged - and serenaded.

Featuring Samuel the Slate, Petula, Gerry, Barbara Windsor and Boycie.

WARNING:  Not suitable for small people or those with shellfish allergies.  Do not immerse in water.

*Meep Meep!*

Coyote and Roadrunner: Mission Objectives

To have mission objectives, one needs to plan.  Planning takes time and effort.  Planning requires deep thought, logical reasoning and balanced forethought.

This sounds like hard work to us, so we don't do that.  In fact, we don't even say the word 'plan'.  We say 'nalp' because, let's face it, most of what we do is arse-about-tit...and that's just the way we like it!  To date, we've visited 383 places in Wales and don't show any signs of stopping. 

Although we don't have a mission objective per se, we do have a list of things wot we want to do.  We'd like to share this list with you all; just so you know what we aim to get out of our terrorisation exploration of Wales:

  • Have a coffee and a wee in every McDonalds in Wales
  • Blow up a BOFmobile with a land mine
  • Eat our own body weights in Smints
  • Revisit the one-legged man in Holyhead
  • Find the Fishguard Nearly Dead Society HQ
  • Cross the water and scare the Irish
  • Buy Sybil the Slate a hearing aid
  • Tame Samuel the Slate's language
  • Spike a BOFs bacon bap with sprouts
  • Drive calmly out of Pembrokeshire
  • Annihilate an Autocue with a baseball bat
  • Find out what people keep in Elliott storage containers
  • Find a dog poo bag that smells of boot polish
  • Replace all Rachmaninov CDs with Scissor Sisters albums
  • Remove the second 'L' from every Welshpool sign
  • Buy an MGB and roll it off a cliff
  • Bulldoze a small red brick building in the middle of a roundabout
  • Get Petula over her Posh People's Tourette's.  CHANDELIER!
  • Set fire to every script in a well-known media building
  • Find the Holy Grail of take out coffee
  • Go to Fuc...Mcflurr...Motherfu...Muckle Flugga lighthouse
  • Draw smiley faces on all Anglesey traffic cameras
  • Replace all blue paint in West Wales with orange Hammerite
And that concludes our mission objectives for 2012.  If you have any pointers to help us achieve any of these objectives, please don't hesitate to get in touch.  We don't bite...unless you ask very nicely.  We really, really want to find dog poo bags that smell of boot polish and would be eternally grateful if you could tell us where to procure a land mine and some dynamite. 

Thank you!

Tuesday, 7 February 2012

A New Threat: The BOFOGmobile

There is a brand new threat on the streets of the country.  Sighted in both south and mid Wales today, a new breed of BOFmobile has appeared.  The BOFOGmobile.

Pretty much identical to the BOFmobile and the FOBOFmobile (tinted windows, chrome decals, slight whiff of bacon, linen jacket hanging over the back seat) the BOFOGmobile is defined by the presence of fog lights.  Not just the existence of fog lights...but active fog lights when it's not foggy.

The headlights will not be live.  Oh no.  Just the fogs.  The day could be so clear that you can see as far really far away and the fog lights will still be blazing.  

Unfortunately, we don't have enough information on the type of BOF that would drive this particular type of BOFmobile.  Working on previous research, however, we have formed a few possible theories:
  • The BOF behind the wheel will probably be nearer 40 than 50
  • He will more than likely work in the media
  • He will not be married
  • Or in a relationship
  • He might have a goldfish called Mozart
  • He probably wears BLACK Chelsea boots
  • He owns a Rolex
  • And an iPhone
  • But he doesn't know how to text with it
These are all speculative theories, you understand.  We need to observe the BOFOGmobiles for a while longer to accumulate some concrete information and evidence in order to formulate tailored avoidance techniques.  But do not fear - we will put ourselves in mortal BOF danger to bring you information as and when we acquire it.  We love you that much.

In the meantime, stay vigilant.

Monday, 6 February 2012

Samuel and Sybil: Seeking Roademption

We really don't know what Samuel and Sybil are talking about half the time.  Here they are, chatting away on a journey between Tywyn and Machynlleth.

They both appear to be losing their hearing.

And their marbles.

WARNING:  Not suitable for mini people or those sensitive to nuts.  Do not eat.

*Meep Meep!*

A Narrow Escape

It was another beautiful day in Wales.  We packed Monty with sandwiches, bananas and Blu-Tack and headed in a northerly direction, aiming for Welshpoo (no L.  That's how it's written on the sign in Machynlleth, so it must be right.)

Of course, we're Coyote and Roadrunner.  That means that it's impossible for us to just go straight to a destination.  We'd much rather go in the general direction of somewhere and see what we can find on the way.  It's much more interesting, you see...because in doing so, we came across a rather tasty urbex location:

We parked up and hopped across the silent road.  A few seconds later and we were over a wall and gate and standing amidst the ruined buildings.  It appeared to be a dilapidated farm; although the buildings were rather grand.  The house (in the photo) was ravaged by time and the elements; most of the windows were smashed and the front room on the ground floor was full of detritus.  The ceiling was on the verge of collapse and the entire area was shrouded in a deep air of melancholy.  It was so eerily quiet...

...until we both stopped in our tracks.  We were behind the house and could clearly hear an engine ticking over on the road.  Someone was waiting for us to come back to the road.

Coyote took the lead and strode towards the car (a Corsa.  The irony!) with an open smile on his face.  The lady behind the wheel of the Corsa was less than happy to see us and rambled on about having had lots of things stolen from the property.  Judging by the amount of make up she was wearing, her Avon catalogue wasn't among the items pilfered.  

There were so many questions I wanted to ask her.  What, exactly, had been stolen from a crap hole like that?  How come she appeared so quickly?  How could she even move her face with so much foundation on?  Sadly, I didn't get the chance to put these burning queries to her as Coyote charmed her socks off and she soon buggered off in a haze of cheap perfume and Corsa fumes.

But, dear reader, this was but a mild inconvenience compared to the sheer panic we were soon to face.  The narrow escape I elude to in the title came later as we were heading back to the warmth of mid Wales.

I had my head buried in my rucksack - probably hunting for Smints or lip balm - and I suddenly felt Coyote tense in the driving seat.  Snapping my head out of the depths of my rucksack and pulling the Blu-Tack off my nose, I peered at him.  His shoulders were rigid and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead like something fixed that's really fixed on something.  'Are you ok?' I asked.  A low growl emitted from his throat and with a barely discernible twitch he gestured behind us.  I turned to look out of Monty's rear window and my blood turned to ice.


We both descended into complete, concentrated silence as my eyes fell on the nearside wing mirror; watching like a hawk.  One with binoculars.  Coyote maintained a healthy distance between us and the BOFmobile, but we knew we would have to take action sooner or later.  A slight whiff of expensive aftershave crept through the air vents and the first strains of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3 began to waft through the windows.  Our heart rates rose and beads of sweat prickled our troubled foreheads.  Evasive action was required.  SHARPISH.

'Don't turn round.  Don't throw any hand grenades,' he put his hand on my arm, 'Put the Panzerschrek down for now, Roadrunner.  We'll be fine.'  Coyote reassured me.  'I'll get us out of this.  Somehow...'

I trusted him.  It wasn't the first skirmish we'd had with a BOFmobile...and we had the upper hand because we were in northern territory; not in Boferston (where BOFmobiles are born).  I did as I was bade and slid the antitank weapon back under the seat; but I still held a grenade in my hand.  One swift pull of the pin and a lob out of the window would see us right if we couldn't find another route of escape.  BOOMBOF.  I smirked at the thought and Coyote shook his head.  'You like blowing things up, don't you?' he asked.  
'Only BOFmobiles!' I answered; the innocent expression on my face not quite washing with Coyote.  'And small, red brick buildings,' I conceded.  Coyote raised an eyebrow.  I sighed.  'Ok, ok.  And MGBs.  Happy now?'

Coyote's retort was nipped in the bud faster than you can say 'sprouts'.  The BOFmobile overtook us.  We dropped down in our seats; knowing that we mustn't make eye contact with the driver at all.  Coyote eased off the gas; we were both fully aware that this manoeuvre might be part of a cunning plan by the BOF behind the wheel to run us off the road so he could bore us to death with his opinion on current affairs and yachts.  (Not that BOFs are cunning, you understand.  They're not really capable of cunning plans unless they've been created for them by a room full of lackeys.  Or unless they stole the cunning plan from someone else.)

But it suddenly all became clear.  The BOFmobile screeched across the road and disappeared up a road towards a large field.  A sign brandished by a senior BOF at the entrance of the event explained everything:

We had been saved.  There was relief, there was celebration and then there were tears.  Once again, we'd been spared the nightmare.

Someone up there's looking after us.  
We think it's Elvis.

Forty Things A BOF Will Never Say

  1. My home county is rubbish 
  2. I dislike Rachmaninov
  3. Would you like to come to my house for a coffee? 
  4. I love housework 
  5. I’m great at improvisation 
  6. I dislike tinted windows
  7. Only creeps smirk 
  8. Vintage car rallies are for old men with beards 
  9. I frequent McDonald's 
  10. I never wear linen jackets 
  11. I always shop at Lidl 
  12. What's a script? 
  13. Sprouts are lovely 
  14. My Chelsea boots are second hand 
  15. I drive a Volvo 
  16. I go to the gym three times a week 
  17. I just can't do a thing with my hair 
  18. I buy my ties at Matalan 
  19. Bacon gives me indigestion 
  20. I can't abide opera 
  21. Happiness is more important than my career 
  22. I'm on a diet 
  23. I'm a vegetarian
  24. I hate politics 
  25. Thrash metal is awesome 
  26. It's vulgar to talk about money 
  27. I have loads of Twitter followers 
  28. The news bores me 
  29. I've always wanted to go skydiving 
  30. I look great in a wetsuit 
  31. I would never plagiarise 
  32. Range Rovers suck
  33. I always support my colleagues 
  34. I never pontificate 
  35. I stopped using a Filofax in 1987
  36. I'm not perfect
  37. Credit where credit's due
  38. I'm more than happy with my salary
  39. This blog is hilarious
  40. Thank you

Samuel the Slate's Quarry

We popped up to Blaenau Ffestini(g)og again today.  Quite why, I don't know.  I reckon Monty has some strange fascination with the place.

Anyway...we bumped into Samuel.  He was filming some kind of introduction for a documentary about his quarry for the BFBC (Blaenau Ffestini(g)og Broadcasting Corporation) and said we could have a copy.

Having watched it, we really don't think it'll make it to BFBC Four.

WARNING:  Not suitable for small people or gerbils.  Not dishwasher safe.

*Meep Meep!*

Thursday, 2 February 2012

In Depth: What is a BOF?

Through this blog we've warned you about BOFmobiles.  We've given you tips on identification and avoidance and even pointers on what to do should you be unfortunate enough to get cornered by a BOF.  However, we feel that this simply isn't enough.

Sometimes, you may be in danger of being caught unaware by a BOF.  His BOFmobile may be in for servicing or he could've got lost during a hunt for a bacon bap.  Should this happen, you need much more information in order to identify and completely avoid a skirmish with a BOF.  This post will endeavour to give you all the information you need so you can spot a BOF at twenty paces and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE before he starts speaking to you.

Please feel free to print a copy of this page and keep it with you at all times.  The following information could be lifesaving. 


Every BOF takes great pride in his appearance.  This doesn't mean that he actually looks good; but he thinks he does.  The standard BOF uniform usually features a pale linen or standard blue blazer with a white, blue or pink shirt.  These will be teamed with a pair of jeans (never, ever tight) and a pair of Chelsea boots (black or tan).  If the BOF is working, he will probably be wearing a tie.  The tie should be the first thing you notice...because it will probably glow in the dark due to its garishness.  BOFs prefer floral or cubist designs but may stray to a Paisley if they're feeling adventurous.



Although BOFs can usually be found dining at expensive restaurants (you know the type - mashed potato and a steak the size of a button for £150), they also supplement their diets with bacon.  Lots and lots of bacon.  It might be smoked or unsmoked; it could be streaky or back.  It doesn't matter.  BOFs can't get enough bacon.  If you see a man between 40 and 50 wearing the above attire and eating a bacon bap...RUN.  Run as fast as your legs will carry you and don't look back until you're in a different county.  Or country.  If you happen to be anywhere near a space programme, hijack a rocket and launch yourself to another planet - just to be on the safe side.


Most BOFs tend to be musical in some way.  They might play the clarinet or the violin...but more often than not they can bash out a couple of tunes on the piano.  (Usually tunes you can play one-handed.  This means they can play and eat bacon at the same time.)  Don't let their musical leanings fool you.  Just because they know how to play a musical instrument does NOT mean that they have good taste in music.  Should you see a man in Chelsea boots eating a bacon bap while browsing Rachmaninoff and Scissor Sisters CDs, SCARPER.  Run to the nearest road and hijack the first car you see.  Drive at reckless speeds until you're at least 500 miles away.  Send an obituary to your local paper and fake your own death, then move to Mexico and start over as a donkey farmer called Juan. 


All BOFs are very proud of their vocabularies.  They believe their minds to be walking thesauruses; but the truth is that they disguise their lack of language prowess with an arsenal of hackneyed words, phrases and topics of discussion.  Typical (often archaic) BOFisms include:
  • Splendid
  • Austere
  • Extraordinary
  • Marvellous
  • Triumph
  • Fellow
  • Divine
A BOF's favourite topics of discussion are:
  • Their home county
  • Food
  • Cars
  • Their home county
  • Yachts
  • Money
  • Their home county
  • Taxes
  • Politics
  • Their home county
Did I mention the like to talk about their home county?  Well, they do.  A lot.  Should you see a man wearing a garish tie, eating a bacon bap, browsing Rachmaninoff CDs and talking about his home county, LEG IT.  Commandeer the first electric wheelchair you see and tear through the street leaving behind you a trail of maimed shoppers and severed limbs.  Head to the train station and leap aboard the first train that arrives.  Travel to its final destination and then get on the first bus you see.  Eventually, you'll arrive at an airport.  Board a plane (any location is acceptable; as long as it's not France.  BOFs love France) and fly there.  Buy as many firearms as you can and smuggle them back into the UK on board a ship delivering tulips or something.  Then, the next time you see a BOF, you can eliminate him.


Wednesday, 1 February 2012

BOFmobiles: Important New Information

It would appear that BOFmobiles are also available in white.  Repeat:  BOFMOBILES ARE ALSO AVAILABLE IN WHITE. 

Up until now, we believed that all BOFmobiles were dark; but we were horribly mistaken.  This FOBOFmobile (Full-On BOFmobile) was spotted in Flintshire at the start of the week.  

Once satisfied that it wasn't just a BOFmobile covered in snow, we approached it with due caution - slowly passing behind it so as not to alert it to our presence.  While it was looking the other way (it was distracted by a man walking out of a cafe with a bacon sandwich.  Might well have been its owner), we parked up and observed it quietly from the opposite side of the car park.  We remained at a safe distance; ready to spin to safety should the BOFmobile's owner spot us.

Note the tinted windows and chrome trim.  Two sure-fire signs that this vehicle - although white and not the usual black, dark blue or dark green - is owned by a BOF.  There's probably a linen jacket hanging up over the back seat and a pair of freshly polished Chelsea boots in the...well...boot.  The upholstery will be immaculate and smell of expensive aftershave with a hint of smoky bacon.  There will be a Rachmaninov CD in the stereo.  There will be a spare Savile Row tie in the glove box.

It has also come to our attention that BOFmobiles may originate in Pembrokeshire.  We spotted this sign while stocking up on poo bags recently:

So please be warned.  Be vigilant.  By sharing knowledge, together we can avoid the BOFmobiles.

Wynford Vaughan-Thomas on: Boxing

It was a chilly Friday afternoon and I was minding my own business, exercising my pointing finger, when that bloody blue car quietly crested the hill.  My heart sank and I watched Coyote and Roadrunner slowly approach the gate by my viewpoint...

...and they carried on!  They drove past!  Coyote honked his horn at me and that was it.  Oh, the sigh of relief was divine.  Well; it would have been...if I wasn't made of slate.  But you get the idea.  I resumed flexing my pointing finger with a smile; it seemed they had finally tired of dragging things up the Dylife mountain road and braving the sub-zero temperatures to create ridiculous blog posts.  What is a blog, anyway?  Is it a big log?  Or something to do with a lavatory?  The mind bloggles.

Alas, my relief was short-lived.  The following day they reappeared and shoved a boxing glove on the end of my hand.  Bastards.

Boxing.  It's not like it was in my day.  Back then (when everything was in sepia), boxing was something that happened inside pubs.  None of these namby-pamby gloves and gumshields, oh no.  Just men - very drunk men - knocking seven shades of crap out of each other after a disagreement over what type of cheese was in the ploughman's.  Bare-fisted, badly coordinated men flailing around blindly, slurring expletives at each other through cigarette-toting lips.  Then when the bartender finally settles the argument by revealing that the cheese was indeed cheddar, they shake hands and buy each other a pint.

Today's boxing: two athletes engaged in a testosterone-fuelled sport that combines stamina, speed, power and grit.  Locked in round after round of muscle-jarring, bone-cracking battle to claim the ultimate prizes...a belt and a purse.  A BELT and a PURSE.  No wonder more women are taking up the sport these days.

I prefer croquet.  Much more masculine. 

The Flatulent Lighthouse Keeper

A long weekend stretched ahead of us like a really stretchy thing that can stretch very far.  Monty's tank was full and we had Smints and Tuftie's coffee, so Wales was our oyster.  Where should we go?  What should we do?  Oh; the opportunities were endless!  We opened the Penderyn and poured a tot to enjoy while we tried to decide what part of our beautiful country we should visit.

We did so much 'deciding' that we spent Saturday morning in bed, nursing our hangovers.  Oops.  Still; it was nothing that Worcester sauce flavour crisps and a gallon of coffee couldn't fix.

Over Sunday and Monday, Pembrokeshire, Swansea and Flintshire got the special treatment.  We took Samuel and Sybil with us...and Petula and Gerry joined us for a few miles too.

Find out what happens when Sam and Syb hear Jamie Owen on the radio.  Be party to Pet and Gerry's first experience of Pembroke Dock.  Hear the flatulent lighthouse keeper.

WARNING:  Not suitable for children or people sensitive to caffeine.  Do not microwave.

*Meep Meep!*