Grit and Determination

As you may have noticed, it's been a bit chilly lately.  There's snow, there's ice...and there's the usual sense of panic that results in empty shelves at the supermarket and a marked increase in the sales of thermal knickers.

Naturally, that hasn't put Coyote and I off toddling around the country in search of fun and photos.  Only yesterday we headed north and found ourselves on a rather bleak Crimea Pass:

It really is beautiful up there.  If you don't see another car, it's easy to imagine that you're the only people left alive after some catastrophic event involving zombies.  It's like a post-apocalyptic movie set.  Like Anglesey, really...but pretty.  We noticed the snow starting to stick to the road, so when we passed the sign for Conwy County, we spun around and headed back through Blaenau Ffestiniog.  That was strange, actually...because it seems that they've changed the town a bit since we were last there.  Now, the train station boasts a slate monolith that wouldn't look out of place in a stage production of '2001: A Space Odyssey'; and there are some strange sculptures there that, apparently, are called the 'Fat Ladies'.  I'm saying nothing.

On our way back to HQ we got stuck behind a gritter (top photo).  Of course, it can be bloody frustrating crawling along behind one of those as it chucks salt in your face...but it's also very reassuring.  You would think, then, that anyone travelling behind one on potentially icy bends would be happy to wait a little while to pass.  It would seem not...

"Oh no!  I mustn't get salt on my chrome grille...!"

"I must pass this horrid thing before my BOFmobile gets tainted."

"Yes...a nice wide berth I think.  Splendid."

**Turns Rachmaninov CD up to 6...**

"Marvellous! Now home for a bacon sandwich."

It just had to be a BOFmobile, didn't it?  And, for the record, his registration was '58 KEN'.  No further words are required really, are they?

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. 

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.

BOFmobiles Defined!

It's a momentous day here at C & R Towers.  Our campaign to raise awareness of BOFmobiles has reached new heights...

We've been graced with a shiny definition on the intertube oracle that is Urban Dictionary! Needless to say, we're chuffed to bits about this.  So chuffed, in fact, that we might have a packet of BBQ Hula Hoops to celebrate.  Please visit the page and give us a thumbs-up; we'll love you forever and leave you a pair of socks or something in our wills.

While you're there, how about perusing some BOFmobile merchandise?  You could spread the knowledge with a crisp white T Shirt; or swig some warm beer from a stein!  Perhaps you'd like the definition on a mouse mat so you can drag your mouse across it - pretending it's a tank running over one of the chrome-trimmed beasts!  *Crunch...crunch...*

*MEEP MEEP!*

One Brave Cyclist

It was a quiet morning at Penderyn Towers.  I was busying myself with making a space ship out of Lego (I can never find a sixer when I need one) and Coyote was running around pretending his microphone was a lightsaber.  All was as it should be...

...and then we received an email.

A video was attached that had us staring at the monitor, our shocked minds initially refusing to fully comprehend what we saw.  

We don't know anything about the sender except he's a very brave cyclist.  We've dubbed him 'ShadowSpoke' and we're eternally grateful for his incredible mettle.

What you're about to witness will chill you to the core.  You might have to view through your fingers...because the horror contained in this one-minute video is enough to give you nightmares.  Watch as ShadowSpoke is stalked by a BOFmobile and then fully exposed to the glare of chrome as it passes him.  Then watch it again in horrific slow-motion and moody black and white:

You may think that the BOF behind the wheel was being courteous in giving the cyclist plenty of room...but no.  He did that so his BOFmobile could be seen in all its gloss-painted glory.  Fact.

One other thing you should note is that this BOFmobile has Pembrokeshire headlights.  This is a phenomenon we first noticed on our last trip to the Shire of Pembroke (we didn't mean to go there.  We got lost.)  Only one headlight is fully operational.

Full respect to you, Mr ShadowSpoke.  Your bravery is an inspiration; and we know that others will learn from you.  People like you will help us win The War Against BOFs.

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.

Invasion of the CyberBOFs

After discovering that throwing a brick at a Range Rover window was a very effective way of gaining access, we recently repeated the process.  This time, we targeted a BOFmobile that was parked outside Toys R' Us.  We figured that the BOF inside would be so confused by all the bright and fluffy things in the shop that we'd have plenty of time to grab some evidence that we could take back to Penderyn Towers to analyse.

It took a few shots (I think the old lady with the Zimmer frame will recover just fine.  I was more of a runner at school) but eventually we got rid of the rear window.  Coyote reached inside, grabbed what he could and we legged it.  The BOF didn't appear at all; he's probably still there telling some poor, unsuspecting Furby all about his love of vintage cars.

When we got back we realised that Coyote had managed to get hold of some blueprints.  A cold chill ran down our spines as we turned the plans this way and that...so I turned the heating up a notch.  

It was nigh-on impossible to understand what the blueprints were for.  The handwriting was atrocious; it looked like a drunk spider had wandered across the pages in search of a fly kebab.  A lot of the plans were obscured by bacon grease too, so it was incredibly difficult to fathom just what the BOFs were intending to create.  However, we did manage to suss out a few bits and pieces; so we popped down to the local hardware store and bought some nuts and bolts, a floorboard saw and a really big hammer.

Several hours passed.  Sweat beaded on our furrowed brows as we worked through the night; our fingers sore and our hearts pounding.  Then we stopped playing Hungry Hippos set about building whatever was on the blueprints.

A crate of Stella later and we stepped back to survey the creation.  It was terrifying.  More terrifying, in fact, than getting stuck in a lift with Anne Robinson...

It was a CYBERBOF.  We were standing inches away from a robotic (or 'robofic' if you will) representation of a BOF.  We stared into its cold, black eyes and shuddered.  Should we switch it on...?

Of course we bloody well should.

It creaked into life and its eyes lit up like fog lights on a clear day.  We slowly paced backwards, Coyote brandishing a baseball bat while I held a chicken and mushroom slice.  I was peckish.  Its mouth opened and a monotone, soulless voice filled the room:

"Marvellous to meet you.  Have I told you about my home county?"

We both screamed.  Coyote smashed it across the head with his baseball bat, but it wouldn't be stopped.

"Bacon is splendid," the CyberBOF continued; advancing towards us in its Chelsea boots (not pictured.)

There was only one thing we could do to avoid being eliminated.  I cleared my throat, squaring up to its cold frame.  I glared at it, took a deep breath and said: "Have you tried vegetarian bacon?"

The CyberBOF stopped in its tracks.  The cup of boffee fell out of its hand onto the floor and smoke began to emit from every orifice (every orifice.  It was quite spectacular.) "Does...not...compute..."  The voice sounded strangled; as if it was choking on a piece of its favourite cake.

Then it exploded.  We found its head in the garden:

We now keep pens and odd screws in it.

So don't be surprised if you see a CyberBOF; but don't be afraid.  They're easy to disarm with a simple sentence - one that will confuse them into shutdown.  We suggest one of these:

• "Chelsea boots are so last season."
• "I earn more money than you."
• "My Range Rover doesn't have tinted windows."
• "Your home county is a shit-hole."
• "Would you like a hug?"
• "I got a tie like that from M&S!"
• "I accidentally shredded your script."
• "Rachmaninov is overrated."
• "Bacon cake."

Coyote and Roadrunner: Always one step ahead.

BOFmobiles: Harnessing Science

As you know, Coyote and I strive to be one step ahead of BOFs and their BOFmobiles at all times.  This means that we sometimes have to put ourselves in extreme danger in order to bolster our knowledge of these pseudo-posh and downright obnoxious creatures.  We've been known to walk within six feet of a BOFmobile in a car park...we're that determined to glean information because we believe that knowledge is power.  

While we always appreciate your input, please remember that we put ourselves in these perilous situations so you don't have to.  We're trained professionals.  Our War on BOFs has been running for nearly 5 months.  In that time we've been stalked, bullied and thoroughly offended by them - but we know how to handle BOF encounters.  Please don't endanger yourselves and your loved ones; leave the front-line BOF battling to us.

Through some SAS-style manoeuvres (ok; running up to a parked BOFmobile, smashing the passenger window with a brick, delving in and legging it) we managed to acquire some BOF fuel.  It would appear that they don't drink ordinary coffee like the rest of us...oh no.  They drink boffee. There wasn't much left in the cup (because BOFs can't operate without caffeine) but we knew that, by harnessing modern forensics, we'd be able to learn a lot more about BOFs.  What goes into their fuel?  Is it responsible for their obnoxiousness, or does it simply enhance it?  Whatever information we could glean would boost our ammunition.

We took our evidence to a laboratory somewhere in a basement.  You know; like that one in 'Waking the Dead'.  We were expecting a big, glass wall with writing and photographs on it and banks of silent, high-powered computers.  We were expecting a distinguished man with perfectly coiffured grey hair and a dynamically swooshing white coat to greet us with fiery eyes and ardent handshakes.  We were expecting a level of professionalism at least slightly above that of a school chemistry class...

...but we had to make do with a spotty laboratory technician called Derek who wore loafers and horn-rimmed glasses with lenses as thick as re-entry shields.  He sounded like he had adenoids the size of golf balls and carried with him the definite whiff of Digestive biscuits.  However, having blown our budget on Penderyn whisky and strawberries, we were screwed.  Beggars can't be choosers, so we left the evidence in his geeky, capable hands and eagerly awaited the results.

Today, those results came through.

We sat and stared at the findings.  The laptop screen glowed in the darkness and the dense, studious silence was only broken by the sporadic crunching of Smints in Coyote's gob.  We drank coffee.  We ate ham sandwiches.  We stopped for an hour to watch a fascinating documentary about gerbils on BBC Four.

After several more hours we stopped pretending we were clever and called Derek.  He wasn't happy; apparently he was about to level up in World of Warcraft, whatever that means.  After we plied him with the promise of a delivery of Dr Pepper and Wotsits, he agreed to clarify what the little bubbles and lines meant by sending us a simplified version of the diagram:

That made much more sense.  We especially liked the pictures...but think they would've looked better in crayon. 

So in summary, there is a sure-fire way of eliminating BOFs and their BOFmobiles.  We need to stop them eating cake and bacon, bar them from vintage car rallies and ban them from wearing Chelsea boots.  (Actually, getting rid of Chelsea boots all together would be a better idea; but this isn't an ideal world.)  This poses a problem.

Bacon and cake are too readily available, vintage cars last longer than a Van Halen guitar solo and Chelsea boots are, regrettably, unstoppable.  We tried the brainy approach, but science failed us.  ('Boffins', see?  We should've known.)  This leaves us with only one option...

...to carry on annihilating BOFmobiles one by one with the strategic use of land mines, hand grenades and antitank weapons; and by pushing them off cliffs where available.

It's a tough job, but someone's gotta do it.

**LOCK AND LOAD**

One down; hundreds of thousands to go...

BOFmobiles: The Threat is Escalating

Ladies and gentlemen.  Please forgive us, for the news we have to impart is less than positive.

Coyote and I have just spent a typical weekend enjoying some tasty Welsh exploration.  We concentrated on mid and north Wales this time; and were deeply disturbed by what we saw.  It appears that the BOFmobile infestation is reaching pandemic levels.

Over the course of two days, a constant stream of them crept up on us from every angle.  We were even stalked by one in Barmouth.  We think he was after our cake.

Unfortunately, I have a cold.  My usual, finely-honed Roadrunner nose is rather below par...so I couldn’t alert Coyote to the whiff of bacon and Chelsea boot polish that usually warns of an impending BOFmobile ambush. 

That means we were forced to take sharp, evasive action on more than one occasion.  Monty left some rubber at the scene of one escape and we’ve run out of hand grenades.

Please watch the following video.  It doesn’t make for pleasant viewing and you may be upset by the images, but we believe you must understand the scale of terror that we’re all facing. 

With knowledge comes power; and with power comes the ability to stop this dreadful onslaught.  We hope.

WARNING:  Contains graphic images of BOFmobiles and FOBOFmobiles.  Not for the faint hearted. 

We will not surrender.  Our research will continue and we will bring you new information as we discover it.  Until then - please remain calm and vigilant.