Thursday, 13 September 2012

This Time, It's Personal

Up until recently, the BOFs were fairly safe.  To us, they were a breed to be quietly loathed from a safe distance.  However, our semi-pacifistic approach to the linen-wearing, Chelsea boot-polishing, bacon-scoffing ilk has been blown out of the window.  This is the dawn of a new war.

The other day, Coyote was pootling about minding his own business.  The sun was shining and the birds were singing (they like Roger Whittaker songs); everything was right with the world.  Monty was purring happily and Limmy - our dashboard dwelling guard sheep - was enjoying the gentle ride through the countryside when BAM!  A Freelander thundered past hogging the narrow road, taking Monty's offside wing mirror casing with it. 

We are not happy.  Thankfully, Monty will be fixed when he goes to be manhandled by an oil-covered gog in Dolgellau on Saturday; but that's not the point.  The point is that a BOF broke Monty.  

As yet, we're not sure how we're going to seek revenge.  All we know for sure is that the BOFs have now crossed the line and justice will be served.  No longer will we merely shout 'BEOUGH!' and laugh when we see one.  Oh no.  They've unwittingly driven into our battle zone and we will find a way to avenge Monty's injuries. 

In fact, it seems that Limmy's already on the case...

We might have to rein him in a bit, actually.  As much as we like his line of thought, we're not quite as violent as he is.  He had a harsh upbringing, you see.  He was born in the wilds of Mid Wales and had to fight to be King of the Sheep.  He's seen sights that would scar the strongest minds; he's fought in battles that would end the life of an ordinary sheep in the tap of a hoof...and he came out on top with battered horns.  When he moved to Limerick he formed a bloodthirsty sheep Mafia that drove Terry Wogan out of the city in a cloud of blinding fear.  Limmy is a hard case.  As much as we love him and are relieved that he's on our side, we do have to watch him.  He may be small in stature, but his loathing for BOFmobiles exceeds even our black disdain; in fact, we think he must've had a bad experience with a BOFmobile in his past, but he won't talk about it.  He doesn't talk about much, really.  Probably because he's a clay figurine. 

Plotting continues.  Coyote and I have five days coming up in which to formulate our retaliation.  Revenge - however it's sought - will be sweeter than a sleeping marshmallow puppy on a bed of candyfloss. 

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