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!*

Case Study: The BOFWAG

It was a pleasant afternoon so Coyote and I decided to seek sustenance and head for the seafront.  The usual suspects were there: the screaming children demanding ice cream, the loved-up couples strolling hand in hand, the seagulls carrying flick-knives...

We parked up and sat for a moment in silence (we are capable of that.  Honest.) stuffing our faces with chips - which is probably why we were silent, now I think about it - and enjoying the scenery.  The waves languidly crashed onto the sand and a boat bobbed gently on the horizon.  It was blissful.  But then Coyote's nose twitched.  He'd caught the scent of something...something nasty.  

'What is it?' I asked, watching him slowly scanning the car park.  Suddenly, his eyes narrowed and he coughed.

'Chelsea boot polish.'  He lifted a hand.  I followed his pointing finger and a chill scurried up my spine.

It was a BOFmobile.  A silver BOFmobile.  A tense silence filled Monty as we pondered our options.  Wordlessly, we nodded at each other.  It's our duty to all of you to get as much information as we can - and if that means getting close enough to a BOFmobile to be able to smell the bacon sandwiches, then that's exactly what we'd do.

We crept towards the vehicle; the stench of ridiculously expensive aftershave almost overwhelming us.  Tears began to stream down my face as the fumes engulfed me and Coyote wrapped his scarf around my mouth and nose to save me from collapse.  As we drew nearer, we noticed a woman in the passenger seat and our hearts leapt.  We'd heard of these but never seen one in real life...

A BOFWAG.  A lady on Twitter (thank you, @Makambo67) had told us about these poor, unfortunate creatures; but we'd always assumed that BOFs loved themselves so much that they couldn't possibly maintain lasting relationships.  It seems our assumption was wrong.  See?  If you pass BOF information to us, we can be prepared.  Knowledge is power, people.

Like drunken ninjas, we stumbled into a shelter and silently observed the BOFWAG.  She looked very unhappy.  Her body language conveyed crippling boredom and frustration as she sat next to her BOF husband, reading a newspaper.  We could hear her soul crying; it reminded us of the the agonising howls of an injured animal.  We wished we could help her - free her from her chains...but we knew that was impossible.

What was she thinking?  Was she even capable of independent thought any more?  She looked crushed; a ghost of her former self.  How had she got herself into the situation in the first place?

It's highly probable that she married the BOF before he bought his first linen jacket.  He might once have been a vibrant, soulful man with open eyes and a beating heart...but had somehow fallen into BOF ways.  It would have happened too quickly for her to notice.

She was beyond our help.  However, her suffering isn't in vain - because we can learn from her and, with foresight, might be able to save other women from similar, horrendous futures.

If you think you know a woman who is with a BOF in training, warn her.  For the love of all that is minty, tell her that she might be making a huge mistake.  If you've seen him eating bacon late at night; if you've seen him browsing Chelsea boots online or leafing through his Filofax in a tie shop, please tell the woman he's with.  If you don't, she will be condemned to a future of vapid monologues and you'll feel guilty for the rest of your life.

Have a heart.  Do what's right.