Monday, 30 April 2012

Log Cabin with Brian and Belinda Boffington-Bly

It seems that the BOFs haven't quite grasped the fact that we don't particularly like them.

We received the following email on Sunday;

Dear Sir and Madam;

It has come to our attention that you are full of admiration for people of our class.  We are delighted with this; because in this day and age our standards are often frowned upon.  It's not our fault that we have bags of cash, 4 houses, a villa in Venice and seventeen horses in the back garden - we're just blessed.

It is thoroughly refreshing when we learn of people like you.  Though you will never have a chandelier in your downstairs guest bathroom, though the thought of a heated pool in your kitchen will only ever be a dream, we think you're wonderful for showing a deep and honest admiration for folks who are much better than you.

To show our appreciation, please find attached a video for your delectation.  We thought you would simply adore to see our little log cabin in Wales!

With all best wishes;

Brian and Belinda Boffington-Bly
This email was sent from my GooseBerry. 

Needless to say, we were gobsmacked.  Not by their palpable temerity and complete lack of understanding...but by the utter hilarity.  Once we'd stopped laughing, we uploaded it to YouTube for your enjoyment.


Thursday, 26 April 2012

Photos: Landscapes

Sunsets, clouds, seascapes, cliffs...nature's finest :)

Photos: Animals

Cute, majestic, funny or random; here are just some of the critters we've snapped while out and about!

BOFmobiles Defined!

It's a momentous day here at C & R Towers.  Our campaign to raise awareness of BOFmobiles has reached new heights...

We've been graced with a shiny definition on the intertube oracle that is Urban Dictionary! Needless to say, we're chuffed to bits about this.  So chuffed, in fact, that we might have a packet of BBQ Hula Hoops to celebrate.  Please visit the page and give us a thumbs-up; we'll love you forever and leave you a pair of socks or something in our wills.

While you're there, how about perusing some BOFmobile merchandise?  You could spread the knowledge with a crisp white T Shirt; or swig some warm beer from a stein!  Perhaps you'd like the definition on a mouse mat so you can drag your mouse across it - pretending it's a tank running over one of the chrome-trimmed beasts!  *Crunch...crunch...*


The Grand Poobah of Pump House

Part 1

Once upon a time, in a verdant western county, stood a small red brick building in the middle of a roundabout.  Known as 'The Pump House', it wasn't an impressive building by any means.  In fact, it belied the grandeur of the man who lived between its walls.

The Grand Poobah of Pump House was a solitary man.  Every day he would walk to the local newsagents to buy the papers; occasionally taking a stroll down to the ferry port to silently watch the great ships arrive and depart.  He made no conversation with passers by; too lost in his thoughts to even realise they were there.  People often wondered what he was thinking about - for though his furrowed brow showed he was constantly pondering, he never uttered a word.

He was a broad-shouldered man; well-dressed in fine linen jackets and silk ties.  His rotund belly was testament to the gourmet food he liked so well; for he was often spotted dining alone in expensive restaurants.  Some say that he only ordered dishes that came on silver platters - and chefs were instructed to ensure there were no sprouts in the building where his meals were prepared. 

At the weekend, he would leave the confines of the Pump House and walk along the coast of his beloved county.  People would smile and bid him a good day; but still he didn't see them.  So wrapped up was he in his cogitating that he didn't have time for pleasantries.

What was troubling The Grand Poobah?  Perhaps it was his loneliness?  Anyone who knocked on his door was greeted with silence; for The Grand Poobah never allowed anyone across his threshold.  He was an enigma. Rumours circulated (as rumours are wont to do) that The Grand Poobah was plotting something; that his thoughts were edged with a black tinge of sinister doings.  Others believed that he was simply a haughty man who had his head shoved firmly up his own arse because he had so much money.  Nobody could be certain, but soon their theories would gain momentum...

Tuesday, 24 April 2012

An Audience With: Coyote and Roadrunner

In a moment of sheer madness, we asked you, our dear and slightly bonkers readers, for any questions you'd like to ask us.  Quite why we decided this was a good idea is beyond us.  Blame it on the Smints.

You tweeted us, you emailed us, you Sellotaped your questions to pigeons and launched them at us using trebuchets made of lollipop sticks and chewing gum (ok; you didn't...but it's a fun image nonetheless) and we were graced with 15 of your finest queries.

The original plan was to carefully ponder over your questions in coming days - with the aid of Auntie Stella and Uncle Penderyn.  However, we realised that this probably wasn't a wise idea.  Last time we tried to do something creative with those two around, the chandeliers and banisters took a proper battering...

So, without further ado, we shall now endeavour to entertain and enlighten you through the medium of answers!

1. Lambs are cute, sheep are ugly.  When exactly does this change happen?  There is no halfway stage.  Has bothered me for years. - From @A470Training in Trawsfynydd

Roadrunner:  Isn’t there a nuclear power plant in Trawsfynydd?
Coyote:  There is...
R:  So; they have nuclear sheep there?
C:  Makes them easier to find in the dark.
R:  I don’t think sheep are ugly.
C:  I do.  They look like short, fat llamas.
R:  Llamas aren’t ugly either.
C:  They are!  Alex Jones looks like a llama.
R:  I thought she looked more like a horse...
C:  Horses aren’t ugly.
R**Gallops around the room, whinnying**
C:  Time for your medication, dear.

2. What are you scared of? - From Matt in Berlin

Coyote:  Broken coffee machines.
Roadrunner:  Huw Edwards.

3. What effect has Twitter had on your lives; both professionally and personally? - From @Stewpot in Bedfordshire

Roadrunner**Walks to bookshelf...**
Coyote:  Where are you going?
R:  To get the dictionary.
C:  Why...?
R**Thumbs through pages**  Pro-fess-io-na...
C:  Twitter is responsible for us two meeting each other.  If it wasn’t for that little blue bird – and a helping hand from Blaenplwyf transmitter – none of this would ever have happened.
R:  It’s certainly helped me flog a few photographs here and there.
C:  You sell photographs?
R:  Sometimes...
C:  I thought you were an astronaut.
R: Only on Sundays.

4. Why did the chicken cross the road? - From Anon in Anonland

Coyote:  Because the light turned green.
Roadrunner:   And because the moon was conjunct with the chicken’s natal Mars in its fourth house.

5. Out of all the places you've been to so far; what's your favourite and why? - From Sammy in Galway

Coyote:  Actually, Loop Head in Galway is a strong contender...
Roadrunner:  ...only equalled by Strumble Head in Pembrokeshire.
C:  They’re both quite magical places; off the beaten path.  Mind you, I quite liked Vivod as well.
R:  And the Elan Valley.
C:  Not so keen on Monkton, though.
R:  No.  It smells.

6. Why did you call it 'Coyote and Roadrunner'? - From @IestynSJ in Wales

Coyote:  You might get a sensible answer here...!
Roadrunner:  ‘Roadrunner’ was already my nickname – thanks to an unexpected event involving a guard dog.
C:  And I’m a genius.  Wile E. Coyote’s a genius; so it seemed to fit.
R:  Is that why you think you’re called Coyote?
C:  It’s right, isn’t it?
R:  Yes.  Yes...of course it is.
C:  What?
R:  Ooh, is that the doorbell?!  **Leaves the room...**
C: We haven’t got a doorbell.

7. What do you both do for a living? - From Oscar in Florence

Roadrunner:  He brings misery to people on the radio.
Coyote: She runs around shooting things.

8. Which of you is best at hide n' seek?  And what's your favourite verse of 'Old McDonald Had a Farm'?  - From @louanndavies in Taffs Well

Roadrunner:  Have we ever played hide n’ seek?
Coyote:  I don’t think we have, no.
**Twelve hours later...**
C:  I think only one of us was supposed to hide.
R:  You live and learn.
C:  Old McDonald, then?
R:  I like the bit about giraffes.
C:  There isn’t a verse about giraffes...
R:  Isn’t there?
C:  No, mun!  GERBILS!
R:  What kind of noise does a gerbil make?
C:  ‘Nee naw nee naw nee naw!’
R:  That’s the Irish Garda, you twerp.
C:  Same thing.
R:  She asked two that allowed?
C:  No, actually, it isn’t.  I’m going to have words with her.
R:  I think she’s playing hide n’ seek.
C: She’ll emerge when she’s hungry.

9. Where in the world would you most like to go? - From LH in Russia

Coyote:  I’d like to find out where Roger Whittaker lives.  I’d go to his house and ring the doorbell.  When he answers, I’ll ruffle his beard and scarper.
Roadrunner:  I want to go to bed.
C:  Oh really?!
R:  To sleep.
C:  Damn.

10. Do you have a favourite joke? - From Kate in York

Coyote:  Yes!
Roadrunner: Me too!

11. Can I buy a hat soon? - From @ceggsxx in Cardiff

Roadrunner:  You can buy a hat whenever you like.
Coyote:  It wasn’t that easy between 1732 and 1867.
R:  No?
C:   No.  The Hat Act placed limits on the manufacture, sale, and exportation of American-made hats.  The act also restricted hiring practices by limiting the number of workers that milliners could employ, and placing limits on apprenticeships by only allowing two apprentices.  The law's effect was that Americans in the colonies were forced to buy British-made goods, and this artificial trade restraint meant that Americans paid four times as much for hats and cloth imported from Britain than for local goods.
R: Oh.

12. Am I really here? Who are you?  Who am I?  Where are we?  Fancy doing something naughty?  Are you sure you're not Trevor? - From @Cymru_Rydd in Cymru

Roadrunner:  Yes.  Me.  You.  There.  Only if it involves Angel Delight.  Trevor Eve looks like a ferret.
Coyote: I like cheese.

13. Have you ever been hopelessly lost on your travels? - From Bice in Capri

Coyote:  There’s no such thing as ‘hopelessly lost’.  All roads lead to home!
Roadrunner:  That was a sensible answer.
C:   It was, wasn’t it?
R: Bravo, Bice!

14. If someone gave you a BOFmobile, what would you do with it? - From Paul in Leominster

Roadrunner**Rubs hands together and cackles maniacally**
Coyote:  We can’t tell you exactly what we’d do...but there would be a very big explosion and the sky would rain fragments of tinted windows for weeks.
R:  BOFmobile goes BOOM!
Coyote:  Calm down...
R:  BOOM!  BOOM!  Make it go BOOM!
C: Have your meds worn off already...?

15. Are you in talks with ACME about sponsorship? - From @IHphoto in S. Wales

Coyote:  I haven’t got spots.
Roadrunner:  AcMe, Coyote...
C:  How do I do that?
R:  What?
C:  Ack you?
R:  What?
C:  What?
R:  Yes.
C:  Probably.
R:  I want a pizza.
C:  Sprouts are green.

Huge thanks for all your questions!  It's been great fun.  If we pass by your neck of the woods, we'll bring you a half-eaten Pepperami and a can of Tizer x

Monday, 23 April 2012

The Roads Less Travelled

"Where does that road go...?"
Every relationship needs a foundation.  A shared interest that brings you together; that sparks your imagination, feeds your creativity and opens your eyes.  We like the roads less travelled.

When we're not growling at Range Rovers or harassing Wynford Vaughan-Thomas, we can usually be found exploring Wales.  We started off by deciding exactly where we were going to go and taking a more-or-less direct route; only straying occasionally when a concrete idea popped into our heads.  However...six months of peeking around corners and following our noses have taught us that sometimes it's just better to strike out in a random direction and see where you end up! 

Oh, we've seen some things on our travels.  A lighthouse keeper made of stainless steel.  A dinosaur in a hedge.  A zombie eating fries.  A Happy Shopper (remember those?!).  Hundreds of red kites feeding.  All of these - and plenty more - spotted during random jaunts around the country.  We've driven through deluges, nearly been killed by chickens and sheep, ploughed through blizzards and chased rainbows...all in the search for new sights and fresh outlooks.

We never know what we're going to see; and that's what makes it fun.  Not once have we failed to find something funny or interesting; we've never come back from a trip feeling as though we'd wasted the day.  The other thing we always aim to do is make people smile.  Wherever we go, we strive to make at least one person laugh...and with Coyote's uncanny knack of crowbarring a grin out of even the sourest-faced gits, this is a target that's unfailingly met!  Just ask him about the time he won a prize in Argos...

To date, we've visited 725 different places in Wales, Eire and England.  Whenever we jump in the car and toddle off in whichever direction, we take a little black book with us.'s not to jot down the registration numbers of BOFmobiles, before you suggest such a thing.  We have a little red book for that purpose...*smirk!*  It's to make a note of each place we pass through:

Thinking about it...this is a bit geeky isn't it?  Oh bugger.  Never mind; at least we have a note of where we've been - so we can avoid the local constabularies should we retrace our steps at any point ;)

Which - with no regard for cohesive links whatsoever - brings me on to coffee.  Coffee is very important to us when we're off stomping all over the country.  In fact, we're slowly becoming quite proficient in the identification and avoidance of shitty coffee; something we're quite smug about.  Allow me to give you a brief critique of the good, the bad and the downright hideous...through the medium of memes: 




Sadly, a meme hasn't yet been created to convey the horror and mental scarring caused by the coffee you're tormented with on Irish Ferries.  It's just wrong.

Who needs hot, sunny countries when you have glorious landscapes and a tapestry of history on your doorstep?  We don't.  As long as we have caffeine and diesel...and Ginsters slices, Pepperamis, Jaffa Cakes, Smints, Lucozade and Square Crisps (salt n' vinegar, please)...we'll continue to lift the carpet on our fair isle.  There are so many things to see; so many facts to learn and so many smiles to find; we're going to be kept busy for quite a while.  

Who knows what lies around the next corner?  We don't...but we're going to find out!


Wynford Vaughan-Thomas on: BOFmobiles

It was a damp, drizzly evening up on the mountain.  Mist rolled languidly across the hills like...mist rolling across the hills.  Languidly.  I prepared for a cold night by - well - not really doing much because I'm made of slate.  Just as I was nodding off, I heard an engine...

Coyote and Roadrunner were back.  I hadn't seen them for weeks; I actually thought they'd finally decided to leave me alone, but no.  They parked up and I watched with mounting trepidation as they strolled purposefully towards me; mischievous smiles playing at the corners of their lips.  What on earth were they going to bother me with this time?

Roadrunner produced two toy cars and unceremoniously stuck them at the end of my ever-pointing finger.  My finger gets tired sometimes, you know.  It's not easy pointing all the time; it really takes it out of you.  If only I could point at something different for once; like a sheep.  Or a tree.  Or...ok.  There isn't much to point at up here, but you get the...point.

But I digress.  Coyote crossed his arms and looked at me with his serious eyes.  'Wynford.  What do you think about BOFmobiles?' he asked.

Hallelujah!  Finally - a subject I can really sink my dentures into!  

Because these two reprobates started their blog with a post about me, I've made sure my spies have kept an eye on what they write.  Therefore, I'm well-versed on the plague of BOFmobiles that is currently trundling through my beautiful country; leaving a trail of bacon fumes wherever they go.  I don't see eye-to-eye with Coyote and Roadrunner on much (mainly because the people who carved me made me boss-eyed and about 3ft tall) but, as much as it pains me to admit it, I approve wholeheartedly of their acrid loathing towards these vile beasts.  They're disgusting.  So potent is my hatred towards them that when I see one coming down the road (inevitably at about 15mph because they're terrified of gradients) I urge the nearby sheep to crap on the road ahead as much as possible.  It's a small protest, but it's effective.

There are just too many of them.  Their tinted windows concealing the horror within; the linen jackets swaying from hooks and the Chelsea boots filling the interior with the pungent odour of polish.  Whenever you see one, you can guarantee that the bloviating bugger behind the wheel is only driving through the countryside because he's looking for a 'quaint' pub that has copper-topped tables and sells real ale from overpriced micro-breweries.  

They know as much about the country as I know about Justine Bieber; and the only thing I know about that warbling twerp is that she needs to get her hair cut.  

Occasionally, the BOFs stop here to have a look at the view.  The sun flares angrily off the chrome trim of their BOFmobiles and the red kites take cover; perching in the nearby copse until I tell them the coast is clear.  They amble towards me...pointing.  That's MY job.  How bloody dare they.  As they near me, the whiff of bacon-laced aftershave and perfume strangles the air and I try to keep smiling benignly.  It's difficult; but having a slate face does have its advantages.  Then they lean on me and pontificate about the scenery.

"Isn't it marvellous?!" they exclaim; their venison-bloated jowls wobbling in the breeze.  (That's right.  It was a BOF who ate Bambi's mother.)  They invariably sweep an arm across the vista and blurt out something about how unspoilt it is...and in the same breath moan about the fact that there isn't a Harrods nearby.  Jumped-up, clueless, blinkered bastards.  There's nothing wrong with Matalan.

But then the sun disappears behind a cloud and they fall silent.  In the blink of an eye they've scarpered to the safety of their BOFmobiles, petrified that it might rain.  They don't like rain, you see.  It means they have to put their wipers on and that would obscure their smug faces for a split second.  Can't have that, can we?!

As they resume their journey down the mountain - now at 10mph because their 4x4 abominations might lose traction on the slightly damp tarmac - the red kites come out of the copse and shit all over their roofs.


Thursday, 5 April 2012

Samuel and Sybil: At the Car Wash

Sunshine doesn't really suit Samuel and Sybil.  They're so used to the greyness of Blaenau Ffestini(g)og that the merest glimpse of the sun makes them turn into lobsters. Foul-mouthed lobsters. But then, lobsters can't such a comparison may not be drawn.

But I digress.  With forecasters across Wales (like the dapper Derek Brockway) predicting a hot, sunny week, they had to take evasive action... they went to Ireland.  Ireland has a lot of rain, right?  Wrong.  This particular week saw temperatures swinging from the rafters.  With feather boas and HUGE earrings; possibly swigging from bottles of Pimms.  Yes.

But still, they seemed to have a good time.  They weren't nabbed by the Garda and they managed to avoid any Guinness-fuelled fisticuffs; so by all accounts a good time was had.

However, they did end up in a car wash.  Naturally, this confused the hell out of them...

WARNING:  Contains epically crude language.  Not suitable for kiddysprogs.  Do not eat.

*Meep Meep!*