BOFtulism - Be Aware

Our 100th blog post was supposed to be an interview with some bloke off the radio, but we've recently discovered a terrible infection that could threaten mankind and, you know, we thought we should tell you about it and stuff.  We're nice like that.

BOFtulism (medical term: B0R1NG) is a particularly virulent virus that doesn't discriminate.  You, your partner, your children...you're all at risk.  It would appear that it began in the depths of Pembrokeshire, but for some reason it is now starting to spread across mainland Great Britain.  Scientists are currently testing the contents of a Mansel Davies tanker that may have transported contaminated produce across the county border, thus putting the rest of the United Kingdom at risk.

The virus - while not fatal - can be permanently debilitating.  It strips the sufferer of all higher-functioning cognitive processes; effectively leaving them void of humour and empathy.  In severe cases, the sufferer may pursue a career in politics or journalism.

We've spent weeks researching this virus with our Fisher Price chemistry lab (it's missing a conical flask and a dropper, but that's ok; we used a vodka bottle and a turkey baster instead) so we can hopefully help you and those you care about avoid contracting it and, should the worst happen, treat it quickly.  Below you'll find lists of virus hotspots that you must avoid, along with symptoms and treatment.  Please read this information carefully and print it out for future reference.

BOFtulism: Where to Avoid

The B0R1NG virus thrives in particular environments.  Through exhaustive scientific fiddling about, we've compiled this list of the areas you should avoid in order to considerably lower your chance of infection:

• Range Rover salerooms
• Opera houses
• Waitrose
• Sainsbury's
• Harrods
• John Lewis
• Boardrooms
• Golf clubhouses
• Yacht clubs
• Squash courts
• Estate agencies
• Political assemblies
• Media buildings
• Local business award ceremonies
• Anywhere that sells Chelsea boots
• Any restaurant where a steak costs more than £10
• Pembrokeshire

BOFtulism: Symptoms

There are several obvious symptoms that you should be aware of.  B0R1NG manifests itself in exclusive symptoms currently linked to this virus alone. 

• Slight drooping of the right side of the mouth; resulting in a left-biased smile
• Minimal loss of hearing; causing the sufferer to raise their voice
• Muscle spasms in the dominant hand. The sufferer will seem to be pointing in an obnoxious manner
• Cravings for salt and fat.  Bacon is usually feverishly sought
• Repetitive references to their home county
• Reluctance to be impulsive
• Uncontrollable dribbling when sighting a Porsche
• Sudden, deep interest in politics
• Territorial tendencies; the sufferer will not let you into their house
• Irrational fear of sprouts

In males: 

• A desire to wear horrendous ties
• Flirting with considerably younger women
• Hoarding of linen shirts

In females:

• A desire to bleach hair blonde
• Development of a non-existent food allergy
• Repeated use of the superlative 'amazing'

If you spot one or more of these symptoms in yourself or someone else, you must act quickly.  BOFtulism progresses at an alarming rate.  Quicker, in fact, than a greased-up pig being thrown down a park slide.  A park slide that's got Vaseline all over it.  The following treatment techniques are in order of level of infection - the first being for mild symptoms and the last for rampant infection.

PLEASE NOTE: The final treatment is extreme and should only be carried out in a controlled environment.

1. Play a Roger Whittaker album continuously for 3 hours
2. Avoid reading The Financial Times for 2 days
3. Withdraw bacon from the diet for 4 days
4. Remove all mirrors from the house for 4 days
5. Only shop at Asda or Tesco for 4 days
6. Avoid operas for 7 days
7. Place an embargo on news programmes for 7 days
8. Only use public transport for 7 days
9. Avoid exclusive restaurants for 10 days
10. Avoid golf, squash or sailing for 10 days
11. Prohibit visits to the home county for 10 days
12. Administer a sprout sandwich once every 4 hours for 14 days

If all of these treatments are tried and the B0R1NG virus is still present, consult your nearest exorcist.  We haven't tried this method of eradication yet, but it's next on the list.  If you get there before us (which is highly likely as we'll be getting drunk this weekend), please drop us a line and let us know how it went*.  

Stay healthy.

*Exorcisms are carried out at your own risk. We hold no responsibility for broken beds, ruined crucifixes or stains to upholstery caused by demon vomit.

THE PRIZE BOF QUIZ!

Over the course of the last year, we've been trying to educate you in The Ways of the BOF.  We've recently been wondering if any of you have paid any attention at all...

...and have decided that the best way to find out is to roll out a pop quiz - or a 'BOF Quiz', if you will!  

This will both help us determine if our tutoring techniques are any good and, we hope, make you smile a bit.  But don't think this is a test without rewards...oh no!  You could WIN A PRIZE!  Yes!  A PRIZE! (Don't worry; it's not a sprout.  That picture was the only thing I could come up with at short notice.)

We can't possibly divulge what the prize is, but if you submit one of the first 5 correct sets of answers, we'll send you something excitingly exclusive*.  We only have limited supplies of this item, but you're more than worth it if you prove you've got what it takes to be a BOF Warrior.

So, without further Apu from The Simpsons...eyes down, look in!  (And no cheating at the back.  We can see you.)

THE PRIZE BOF QUIZ!

Q1 - Which of the following is a BOF's glove compartment most likely to contain?
A) Travel sweets

B) Discarded receipts

C) £500 cash for on-the-spot fines

D) Vehicle log book

Q2 - What is a BOF's favourite colour?
A) Purple

B) British Racing Green

C) Navy Blue

D) Neon Yellow

Q3 - Which of these musicians does a BOF prefer?

A) David Bowie

B) Leonard Cohen

C) Rachmaninov

D) Roger Whittaker

Q4 - Which of the following is a BOF's favourite type of footwear?

A) Flip Flops

B) Crocs

C) Loafers

D) Chelsea Boots

Q5 - What musical instrument is a BOF most likely to play?

A) Bass Guitar

B) Trombone

C) Piano

D) Bagpipes

Q6 - A BOF's favourite food is...?

A) Cabbage

B) Bacon

C) Caviar

D) Fillet steak

Q7 - Which of these counties is favoured a BOF?

A) Shropshire

B) Pembrokeshire

C) Worcestershire

D) Staffordshire

Q8 - A BOF drives a...?

A) Reliant Robin

B) Nissan Qashqai

C) Mazda MX5

D) Range Rover

Q9 - What does 'BOF' stand for?

A) Blindingly Old Fellow

B) Big Old Flump

C) Bloody Ouchy Finger

D) Ssh...it's a secret

Q10 - Which letter of the alphabet does a BOF's name commonly start with?

A) X

B) Q

C) J

D) Z

***END OF TEST***

So - how did you do?!

Send your answers to us via Twitter (@Goleudy or @MarkTheTravel) and if you're one of the first 5 correct submissions, we'll send your hard-earned prize to you in the post.  First class, of course.

Good luck! x

DISCLAIMER: We hold no responsibility for any confusion, bafflement, disappointment or complete disgruntlement caused by the prize item.  Please keep prize item away from children and gerbils.  Prize item is not suitable for dishwashers, microwaves or shredded as a salad garnish. *Prize item is only 'excitingly exclusive' if you don't live in Pembrokeshire.

A Coyote and Roadrunner Christmas

Hello, folks!  We hope you all had a lovely Christmas - and that you're slowly making a dent in the mountain of leftover turkey in the fridge.

Our Christmas was fun.  We drove down to Cardiff on Christmas Eve because Coyote had to do some of that 'work' stuff.  The studio was nice and warm, and I pottered about looking at all the pretty and tempting buttons while he did his wizard bit; cueing everything in and fiddling with faders.  Then something caught my eye.  Something so wonderful, so brilliant that I just have to share it with you.  It was the chair...THE CHAIR!

Yes; they have BOF chairs at the BBC!  Excellent.  *Chuckle!*  (For the record - they're great for whizzing about in.  Nice coasters.  Brakes are a bit dodgy, though.)

Several hours passed and I got a kiss from Derek Brockway, which was nice.  Coyote tried to explain to me what all the different bits of the mixing desk did, but it was like trying to explain quantum physics to a chimp. Here's the pro in action! 

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Then we drove over to Swansea where we collapsed into bed and fell asleep to dream of cheese twirls and 4ft orange windsocks. We then had a gorgeous Christmas dinner (with epic gravy that was epic) courtesy of Coyote's mum...and put a Santa hat on a very unimpressed Maisie:

That evening it was back to Cardiff for more radio wrangling.  I spent a while swearing at a vending machine that didn't want to part with its goods and then we watched Eastenders while scoffing Celebrations.  Other chocolates are available...but not in POTS 1 because we ate them all.

Then we drove back up north.  Dear reader, something incredible happened on that trip back.  We didn't see ONE BOFmobile.  Not a single one.  We were on the road for about 2.5hrs and didn't see a single glint of chrome.  It was blissful.

It's been a great Christmas.  Next up - the New Year!  Let's hope 2013 is a lucky one for all of us :) 

xx

Waltzing Warriors

It's nearly Christmas.  At this time of year, people are usually running around like blue-arsed flies, trying to find a bottle of perfume for Great Aunt Edna or guiltily opening Christmas cards from people they've forgotten to send to.  Not us, though.  Oh no.  

Earlier this year, an opportunity far too good to pass up presented itself to us.  If we went through with it, we could infiltrate the BOF community on levels we'd never imagine in our wildest dreams.  We could see BOFs, their BOFWAGs and their BOFspring during leisure time!  Dare we...?  Dare we step into the lair and order tickets to see André Rieu and his Johann Strauss Orchestra?!  It was a big gamble...

So we spent half an hour chasing down £200 worth of tickets - all in the name of fun.

December the 18th arrived and we jumped in Minty.  I wasn't sure if I was allowed to take a huge, in-your-face lens with me...so I popped a baby lens onto Auntie Pentax and hid the big bugger in my bag - ready to snap on when the house lights went down.  I'm a bit cunning like that.  Like a fox...only less hairy.  Wax strips are wonderful things.

But I digress.  The first obstacle we had to overcome was crossing the border.  It was ok for me because - although I have a Welsh soul and would fight to the death to defend our daffodils - I was born in England to English parents.  Coyote, however, is as Welsh as a rugby match in a slate mine with leek soup at half time.  It wouldn't be easy for him.  I watched him closely as we crept past the sign for Englandshire.  His pulse raised a little and a small sweat broke out on his forehead...but it would seem the gradual exposure to my Worcestershire ways had made him immune enough to survive.  We could relax.

It was easy enough to get to the NEC.  We parked up and walked towards the fleet of shuttle buses that were to convey the audience to the LG Arena.  It was then that we realised what we'd got ourselves into.  We were suddenly cast adrift in a sea of beige and purple; a cloud of Chanel hung over the gathering crowd and I got smacked in the face by a Hermes scarf as we boarded the BOF bus.  But there was no going back.  We would see this through no matter what happened; no matter what fate would befall us, we were going to face it head-on with a grin.  

£4 for 2 bottles of water later (it was Radnor Hills water.  That was just taking the piss, frankly) we wandered into the arena and found our seats.  Surveying the scene, a shiver traced down our spines...

Look at them.  BOFs.  BOFs EVERYWHERE.  We were sat in a room with 11,998 BOFs.  I started to shake; Auntie Pentax rattled in my hands and Coyote had to steady me as my breathing became erratic.  'It's ok,' he soothed.  'They can't see us.  Just don't make any sudden movements and for god's sake don't mention bacon.'  I hunched down in my seat and swallowed hard; the bitter taste of extortionately expensive water sliding down my throat.

André and his orchestra marched through the crowd to the tune of 'Seventy-Six Trombones' and suddenly the atmosphere changed.  The BOFs began to applaud and some of them even stood up!  Yes - they actually creaked to their feet and - with a cacophony of approving 'beough!'s - they watched as the Dutch violinist strode towards the stage, grinning smugly in the knowledge that he was making about £400,000 an hour.  I toyed with the idea of asking him if he'd lend me a tenner, but I didn't want to risk drawing attention to us...we were doing well.  I nearly blew our cover when a beige-clad BOF behind me dropped his water, though.  I reached down and picked it up, dutifully lifting it back to him.  He thanked me and said, 'I thought it was my wallet!' I grinned and replied, 'If it had been your wallet, I wouldn't have handed it back.'  I blinked...and quickly added 'sir' with a sickly-sweet grin.  That was a close call. 

It was a tricky first half.  While we were protected by our bubble of natural BOF loathing, something started to happen to us.  While the kettle drums boomed and the violins washed over us, we found ourselves swaying to the music.  Not only swaying, but clapping and stamping our feet, too!  What was going on?!  We're seasoned BOF Warriors!  How could we be behaving the same as them?!  The interval arrived and we hastily beat a retreat, searching for a small oasis of calm where we could gather ourselves and mull over the happenings of the first half.

Taking our seats for the final leg, we braced ourselves.  We wouldn't get sucked in this time.  We would sit quietly and observe.  We had been tricked once - and once was too many.

But...but...the soloists!  The tenors!  The bagpipes! The sweet, sweet music and the theatre of it all...!

People were dancing in the aisles; smiles on every face as the music filled the vast arena.  We couldn't help ourselves - we were swept up once more in a sea of festive joy.  And do you know what, dear reader?  We couldn't care less.  We let ourselves be drawn in by the spirit of the occasion; allowed ourselves to be at one with the BOFs...just for three hours.

And then the moment came.  Seven encores later, the man himself looked straight down your humble narrator's lens:

That knowing look.  He was fully aware of what he'd done...and he was proud.  We should've loathed him - seen him as King of the BOFs...but we couldn't.  This was André Rieu - a man who had, against all odds, succeeded in making Coyote and Roadrunner enjoy an evening of beige.  He'd brought people together.  He deserved, and now has, our respect. 

"What I have never understood is this.  If ceasefires can be held on Christmas Day, then why can't they be held all the time?  If I was Prime Minister, I would give all the soldiers violins instead of guns.  But then I am no good at politics." 

~ André Rieu, December 18th 2012. 

The Humble, Gentle Sprout

I am a humble, gentle sprout,

I mean no ill or harm;

How can I be of any threat?

You can fit me in your palm!

I am a simple, healthy veg,

Little sister of a cabbage.

I do not wish to hurt or maim;

I am not wild or savage...

Until...

I see a BOFmobile. 

Chrome glinting in the sun.

Then my placid air wears thin

And my calmness comes undone.

I feel a rage build in my stalk,

My leaves begin to twitch;

Darkness creeps throughout my veins

And my layers start to itch.

I see the tinted windows gleam;

I note the linen jacket.

Chelsea boots of finest hide

That cost a fecking packet.

Filofax on the passenger seat

Listing several dinner dates;

Financial Times in the back

With circled shares and rates...

Then...

I know what I must do.

I have to make a stand.

Protect the innocent from the BOFs

And purify our land.

I leap towards the windscreen,

War-cry booming from my soul.

No more pacifistic thoughts;

My heart as black as coal.

I hit the target with a SPLAT

Obscuring the BOF's vision;

He swerves onto the muddy verge

And I cackle in derision.

Then night falls upon me;

I'm broken; start to fade.

But as my purée clouds the glass

I know my point's been made.

I may have been a single hit;

A solitary message,

But I will not be the last to fight

And instil a fearful presage. 

How can I scare a BOF, you ask?

Make them shake and twitch their snouts?

It's simple, oh dear reader:

BOFs are terrified of sprouts.

For all their grand bravado,

Their armour has a chink.

They're too intent on following trends 

And worrying what others think.

Sprouts, of course, are not well-liked

And folks are quick to state

That sprouts are something they abhor;

They deeply, truly hate.

So naturally, a BOF will follow

The consensus of the masses;

Not wishing to daringly deviate

From their piers and higher classes.

And that, O brothers, is how we fight.

Give the bourgeois bunch a clout.

The BOFs will never beat this nemesis:

The 'humble', 'gentle' sprout...

Fifty Shades of Beige

Henry flicked the light switch by the door and a slow grin crept across his lips.  She was waiting for him.  Wordlessly, he walked to her and ran his hand over her cool curves as she stood motionless in the dim studio.  'You're perfect,' he whispered;  his hot breath on her slender frame.  His eyes fixed on her, he rounded her and slapped her behind with his palm.  The sharp sound echoed through the room and she yielded slightly with the force, moving closer to the glass desk.  A deep, languid laugh rose in his throat as he walked to the desk and sat down, his eyes drinking her in as she stood stock-still in front of him - just as he liked it.  He could control her; do with her as he wanted...but not tonight.  Tonight he had more pressing matters, and she would wait.

     Coldly, he stood and left, not losing pace as he switched the lights off and left the studio.  The heavy doors sighed closed behind him and he smiled.  She would be still be there later.

'Good evening, Mr Beige!' Terry beamed as he watched him breeze through the security doors.  He received no reply. 'Miserable bastard,' he muttered to his weary colleague behind the reception desk as Henry vanished down the steps outside the building. 

'Aye.  You'd think with all that money he'd be happy as a pig in the proverbial.' Chris sighed, not lifting his eyes from his newspaper.

'What was he doing here anyway?' Terry pondered. 'He's not due in 'til Monday.'

Chris finally looked up and gazed at Terry from beneath his bushy eyebrows.  'The man's a workaholic.  Whereas we'd grab a day off and handcuff it, he sits at home thinking of reasons to come in.  Each to their own, I suppose.'  He shook his head and returned to the sports pages.

'Hasn't he got a bird?' 

'Yeah,' Chris chuckled.  'But women don't earn you money!'

Holding a copy of The Daily Telegraph over his thinning hair, he marched down the path with his linen jacket flapping behind him like a flappy thing that flaps a lot.  His highly polished, Chelsea-boot clad feet clacking on the wet tarmac, Henry Beige scowled at the leaden sky as he ducked into the car park and unlocked his bloody enormous black Range Rover.  His skin tingled as the soft, buff leather of the driver's seat creaked under his corduroy-wrapped thighs.  Rain pattered on the roof and the automatic wipers - with chrome bits on them -  kicked in as he guided his BOFmobile onto the main drag.  His heart thumped heavily in his chest, gaining pace as he imagined the scene waiting for him when he got home.  While the other half was away having her hair done or playing polo or having Botox in her bum or whatever it was she was doing, this cat was going to play.

The automatic garage door - with chrome bits on it - opened and he drove through and parked.  With a cursory glance he made sure it was closing behind him as he unlocked the heavy oak door that led to the hallway.  Once inside, he clapped the lights on and stood in the arch that led to the kitchen.  Warm light from the under-unit LEDs bounced off the chrome sink and draining board.  The chrome toaster shone, reflecting the glint in Henry's eyes.  The kettle - also chrome - glowed...as did the chrome coffee machine, the chrome juicer, the chrome sandwich toaster, the chrome percolator, the chrome fruit bowl, the chrome tea caddy and the chrome tea towels.  Hold on...no.  The tea towels weren't chrome; that would be silly.  But Henry liked chrome.  That, essentially, is what I'm trying to convey here.
     Undoing his tie - which didn't have chrome on it - he padded into the kitchen.  Beads of sweat prickled his forehead as anticipation built in his body, heightening all his senses.  She sat on the work surface, beckoning him.  Even he couldn't resist her.  Henry; the man who liked to command.  His fingers trembled as he reached out to her, her skin glistening as he embraced her naked softness.  'I've been waiting for this all day,' he almost growled.  His passion grew as she hovered for a moment near his lips; teasing him, pushing him into realms of desire that no man could escape from.  She was a temptress...but he was Henry Beige.  He would not let her take the reins.
     He grasped her firmly; her flesh tender and warm in his hands.  'Don't try to dominate me,' he hissed.  'You're mine.  I'm going to destroy you.'  Forcefully, he lifted her to his mouth.

Finally, he was satisfied.  He turned his back and walked out, slumping onto the black leather sofa in his study and sighing contentedly before leaning towards the mahogany table and pouring himself a brandy.  He could still taste her on his lips and fingers.  He sipped at his brandy and suddenly remembered the vision of delight that was doubtlessly still waiting for him back in the studio.  If he drank the brandy, he couldn't return tonight.  He weighed up his options.  No - she wouldn't go anywhere.  Besides, he might get indigestion if he went out now. That was the best plate of belly pork his maid had ever prepared.  And, as alluring as his studio paramour was, it's not as if an Autocue had anywhere else to go.

He belched and switched the TV on.  The Antiques Roadshow.  Splendid. 

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. 

Hot New Game: BOFahoy!

Do you get bored on long car trips?  Do you easily tire of 'I-Spy' and 'The Numberplate Game'?  We do.  That's why - after months of intense research and design* - we've developed 'BOFahoy'!

*Possibly not exactly the truth.

The rules of the game are simple.  When you're on the road - be it your regular commute to work, a skip to the shops or an epic road trip to the arse-end of nowhere, keep your eyes peeled for BOFmobiles heading towards you.  If it's safe to do so, give the approaching BOFmobile a friendly flash of your headlights and wave at them.  The object of the game is to get them to wave back.  If you're successful, shout "BOFahoy!" and adopt a smug look until the next one comes along.

Most BOFs drive with one hand on the steering wheel and the other poised thoughtfully on his chin, scratching his nethers or eating a bacon sandwich.  That's why this game can be a bit tricky.  Getting a BOF to wave at you if you're not driving a BOFmobile is a bit like getting champagne out of a sprout.

Of course, no game is complete without a scoring system!  It's pretty straight-forward - allow me to illustrate:

CATEGORY 1 - THE FREELANDER:

Not really menacing enough to warrant more than a point, both the Freelander and the Freelander 2 are baby BOFmobiles.  Usually seen parked across two spaces in the middle of a town; or parked opposite an ice cream parlour in Tywyn with a toy pig on the dashboard. 

WAVE WIN = 1 POINT

CATEGORY 2 - THE OLD BOFMOBILE:

Gnarly old crates that are owned by wannabe BOFs.  Usually missing several bits of trim from the doors; they're normally found at the head of long lines of traffic - holding everyone up as they tow rickety horse boxes through the countryside.
WAVE WIN = 5 POINTS

CATEGORY 3 - THE COMMON BOFMOBILE:

Low on chrome, high on obnoxiousness.  These can be found parked on double yellows with their hazard lights on (BOFs know hazard lights as 'Park Anywhere' lights) and are often spotted riding the bumpers of old ladies in Metros.  Also found repeatedly driving around town looking for the nearest Harrods, Waitrose or Selfridges. 

WAVE WIN = 10 POINTS

CATEGORY 4 - THE FOBOFMOBILE:

Chrome.  Tinted windows.  So much bling that you can see them from Uranus.  Think 'Common BOFmobile' but with added arrogance.  FOBOFmobiles are often found where nobody should be; like driving along private beaches with their speedboats in tow.  Also frequently seen parked in golf clubs or outside extortionately expensive harbour pubs.  Like salmon in reverse, they head downstream to Pembrokeshire to breed.

WAVE WIN = 20 POINTS

CATEGORY 5 - THE EVOQUE:

*Twitches.  Breaks out in a rash and vomits.*

WAVE WIN = 50 POINTS

(Extra 100 points if it's a snot green colour)

So there you have it!  A game for all ages; but it requires patience and nerves of steel.  Go on, have a go!  We've been playing for months now and are nursing a measly 20% success rate.  Can you do better?  Let us know...

(Remember, don't be disheartened if you don't get a wave.  Just bask in the knowledge that the non-waving BOF will be wondering who the hell you were for the rest of the day.)

*Meep Meep!*
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!NEW ADDITIONS!

We've added two new point-scoring vehicles to the mix to spice things up a bit:

1: THE MANSEL DAVIES LORRY

Often spotted harassing innocents as they trundle along the backbone of Wales, these big buggers can really boost your score.  Based in Pembrokeshire (spiritual home of the BOF), these egregious wtankers are frequently seen forcing cyclists into puddles and putting the fear of god into drivers at roundabouts.  We're not entirely sure what they carry...but having given it careful thought, we've decided it's probably bacon purée.

WAVE WIN = 200 POINTS

2:  THE POSER PORSCHE

(This obviously excludes the Cayenne; because it's ugly and smells of wee.)

Picture the scene: It's raining, so the BOF really doesn't want to take his BOFmobile out, does he?  Hell no!  The rain water might dull the chrome!  So he turns to his standby car - the Porsche.  Just a little run-around for rainy days and weekends, you understand.  Also ideal for trips to the stables because, let's face it, who wants to get horse shit on £400 Range Rover tyres?  Exactly.  Said Porsche probably has a private registration and hay on the passenger seat.

WAVE WIN = A HUGE, ENORMOUS, GARGANTUAN 500 POINTS

The BOFmobile Beough

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.

WARNING:  Contains a naughty word.  Not suitable for mini people or machine-washing.

*BEOOOOUGH!*

BOF Bay

Last Sunday, Coyote and I took a jaunt along the Llyn Peninsula.  It was a glorious day; the sun shone gently on the verdant hills and floated lazily on the clear waters of the various bays and harbours dotted along the timeless coastline.

Somehow - call it an error of judgement - we ended up at Morfa Nefyn golf club.  We padded about a bit, marvelling at the allotted car parking spaces for the golf club bigwigs:  President, Vice President, Vice Vice President, Vice Vice President's Secretary, Vice Vice President's Secretary's Dog...and so on.  Just as we were running out of things to snigger at, I noticed a mound of earth jutting out from the hedge at the back of the car park.  Before Coyote could compare me to a mountain goat, I bounced up and looked down upon a stunning site:

"That's beautiful," Coyote commented as we gazed at the pretty harbour.  "Let's get down there!"

On the third unmarked, loose chipping-riddled road, we turned back from another dead end and drove for a mile with the wing mirrors tucked in.  We wouldn't give up, though.  Oh no.  Somewhere down there was a beach that was crying out for Coyote and Roadrunner's footprints!

Long story - involving abandoned cars, surfers, scary farmers and the slowly-dawning realisation that there was probably a road through the golf club that would've got us there in three minutes - short, we parked up on a narrow road by the beach.  Coyote made use of a BOFmobile (yes!  It's possible!) by parking behind it so that any car barrelling down the road would smash into its ugly bumper instead of injuring Monty.  Clever Coyote.

A quick change of footwear later and we were strolling hand-in-hand along the shore.  The cool breeze played around us as soft waves licked at the sand; it truly was a gorgeous day.  Just then, Coyote stopped in his tracks.  He sniffed the air and I watched as his eyes widened.  Before I could ask him if he'd caught the whiff of a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, a FOBOFmobile cruised past us.  Wordlessly, I swapped lenses on my camera and waited for the evidence to present itself.  We weren't disappointed.

Churning up the sand, the gleaming monstrosity came to a halt...in bay 1, of course.  The BOF emerged, his Wellington boots crunching the shale as he purposefully gathered items from his vehicle.  While he busied himself with this task, his BOFWAG paid as much attention to him as she would a woodlouse.  The BOFdogs trotted around, lingering over scents on the ground.  Probably trained to hunt down bacon sandwiches.

A few moments later and the BOF strode ahead with a set of oars on his shoulders.  As you can see from the photo below, his BOFWAG was the last thing on his mind:

Following at a safe distance, we tracked them to the harbour around the corner.  There, the BOFWAG disappeared into the hills with her trio of BOFdogs - leaving the grinning BOF to take to the water in his dinghy. We're pretty sure he was humming Rachmaninov as he rowed across the harbour:

We surveyed the vessels moored just off the shore.  Which one was his?  Not the fishing boat, that's for sure.  Nor the dredger.  How about the elegant Drascombe?  No...that would require a sparse knowledge of  actual sailing.  BOFs don't have time for that.

With a few more strokes of his oars, our question was answered.  Of course, it had to be the pretentious Cobra RIB with the smelly Mariner outboard. 

Slowly, the BOF rose to his feet and attempted to board his nautical steed...

...then he stumbled (probably weighed down by the size of his own ego) and tried again...

"Blast!"  One more go...

Quite how I managed to take these photos I'll never know.  I was doubled-up with hilarity and my legs were plaited...but we triumphed!

With a lot of grunting and an extraordinary amount of needless effort, the BOF finally managed to clamber aboard.  He spent an inordinate amount of time faffing around (probably setting his webcam up and trying to remember how to start the damned thing) and eventually steered out of the harbour:

Did he tear the sea up in his souped-up inflatable dinghy?  We'll never know.  We'd seen quite enough and decided to cross back over the beach before the tide cut us off.

To this day, we hope there's a FOBOFmobile bobbing about somewhere in the Irish sea.

*MEEP MEEP!*

A Warrior Steps Up!

It seems that our post about the BOF Desk (below) has rather rallied the troops.

As you know, we live in Wales.  We haven't done too well with the weather over the last few days; and a lot of folks are struggling with the aftermath of raging rivers and furious floods. After a weekend of rain and misery, it was a delight to come back to an email that had us beaming from ear to ear...!

An anonymous BOF Warrior has taken it upon themselves to step up to the front line and physically attack a FOBOFmobile.  As its chrome glinted horridly in the acidic street light, this Warrior sidled up like a hooded ninja and marked this vehicle for all to see.

THE TARGET:

MID-ASSAULT:

VICTORY!

We don't know where or when these photos were taken.  Nor do we know who this brave Warrior is...but we salute you.  You're the first to risk your arse by branding a BOFmobile.  If you're ever in our neck of the woods, please stop by.  We'll pin a badge to your hoodie and make you a cuppa :)

*Meep Meep!*

The BOF Desk

With readers across the globe, the BOF Warrior army is growing.  As the ranks swell, so does the influx of information and evidence.  We've been sent photographs of BOFmobiles from Italy; BOFwags in Kenya and BOF sightings from Tenby to Trinidad and Tobago!

We thought we'd seen it all...but no.  An anonymous email arrived recently that had us stunned into silence.  No words accompanied the photographic attachment...but no words were required.

What you're about to see is so shocking that you may need a brandy to recover.  We didn't think BOFs could possibly get any more obsessed with their BOFmobiles - but this proves otherwise:

* We've taken the liberty of concealing this BOF's identity with a strategically placed sprout.  If we didn't, we'd get into trouble.  Again.

Not content with terrorising people on their commutes to and from work, it seems that BOFs also need to be surrounded by chrome while in the office.  We believe that the bling lights flash every time the phone rings, the indicators blink into action when a new email arrives and the headlights blind anyone who dares enter the office without express permission.  The car horn is used when the BOF requires his PA to supply a bacon sandwich.

And so The War on BOFs rages on.  Please keep your information coming; we need everything we can get in order to put a stop to this ridiculous, tinted frippery.

In the meantime, we're off to buy more sprouts.

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.

TALLY HO!