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.