We've been to Eire, England, Northern Ireland (by mistake) and explored pretty much every nook and cranny of Wales...but we've never seen as many BOFmobiles as we did when we recently wound up in Scotland.
It seemed that every bend revealed tinted windows; that every roundabout flashed chrome and that every mile of monotonous motorway bombarded us with the whiff of bacon. It got difficult. Very difficult.
Eventually, we started to lose our tenuous grips on what's left of our diluted sanities. Instead of merely wincing when a BOFmobile trundled past, we began to make noises. Strange noises. Noises that somehow seemed apt for the 'hunting, tooting, fithing' ilk.
We've dubbed this curious reaction 'The BOFmobile Beough'. Might be an idea to turn your volume down a tad.
We've dubbed this curious reaction 'The BOFmobile Beough'. Might be an idea to turn your volume down a tad.
WARNING: Contains a naughty word. Not suitable for mini people or machine-washing.
*BEOOOOUGH!*
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