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.

A Narrow Escape

It was another beautiful day in Wales.  We packed Monty with sandwiches, bananas and Blu-Tack and headed in a northerly direction, aiming for Welshpoo (no L.  That's how it's written on the sign in Machynlleth, so it must be right.)

Of course, we're Coyote and Roadrunner.  That means that it's impossible for us to just go straight to a destination.  We'd much rather go in the general direction of somewhere and see what we can find on the way.  It's much more interesting, you see...because in doing so, we came across a rather tasty urbex location:

We parked up and hopped across the silent road.  A few seconds later and we were over a wall and gate and standing amidst the ruined buildings.  It appeared to be a dilapidated farm; although the buildings were rather grand.  The house (in the photo) was ravaged by time and the elements; most of the windows were smashed and the front room on the ground floor was full of detritus.  The ceiling was on the verge of collapse and the entire area was shrouded in a deep air of melancholy.  It was so eerily quiet...

...until we both stopped in our tracks.  We were behind the house and could clearly hear an engine ticking over on the road.  Someone was waiting for us to come back to the road.

Coyote took the lead and strode towards the car (a Corsa.  The irony!) with an open smile on his face.  The lady behind the wheel of the Corsa was less than happy to see us and rambled on about having had lots of things stolen from the property.  Judging by the amount of make up she was wearing, her Avon catalogue wasn't among the items pilfered.  

There were so many questions I wanted to ask her.  What, exactly, had been stolen from a crap hole like that?  How come she appeared so quickly?  How could she even move her face with so much foundation on?  Sadly, I didn't get the chance to put these burning queries to her as Coyote charmed her socks off and she soon buggered off in a haze of cheap perfume and Corsa fumes.

But, dear reader, this was but a mild inconvenience compared to the sheer panic we were soon to face.  The narrow escape I elude to in the title came later as we were heading back to the warmth of mid Wales.

I had my head buried in my rucksack - probably hunting for Smints or lip balm - and I suddenly felt Coyote tense in the driving seat.  Snapping my head out of the depths of my rucksack and pulling the Blu-Tack off my nose, I peered at him.  His shoulders were rigid and his eyes were fixed on the road ahead like something fixed that's really fixed on something.  'Are you ok?' I asked.  A low growl emitted from his throat and with a barely discernible twitch he gestured behind us.  I turned to look out of Monty's rear window and my blood turned to ice.

**BOFMOBILE AT 6 O'CLOCK!** 

We both descended into complete, concentrated silence as my eyes fell on the nearside wing mirror; watching like a hawk.  One with binoculars.  Coyote maintained a healthy distance between us and the BOFmobile, but we knew we would have to take action sooner or later.  A slight whiff of expensive aftershave crept through the air vents and the first strains of Rachmaninov's Piano Concerto No. 3 began to waft through the windows.  Our heart rates rose and beads of sweat prickled our troubled foreheads.  Evasive action was required.  SHARPISH.

'Don't turn round.  Don't throw any hand grenades,' he put his hand on my arm, 'Put the Panzerschrek down for now, Roadrunner.  We'll be fine.'  Coyote reassured me.  'I'll get us out of this.  Somehow...'

I trusted him.  It wasn't the first skirmish we'd had with a BOFmobile...and we had the upper hand because we were in northern territory; not in Boferston (where BOFmobiles are born).  I did as I was bade and slid the antitank weapon back under the seat; but I still held a grenade in my hand.  One swift pull of the pin and a lob out of the window would see us right if we couldn't find another route of escape.  BOOMBOF.  I smirked at the thought and Coyote shook his head.  'You like blowing things up, don't you?' he asked.  

'Only BOFmobiles!' I answered; the innocent expression on my face not quite washing with Coyote.  'And small, red brick buildings,' I conceded.  Coyote raised an eyebrow.  I sighed.  'Ok, ok.  And MGBs.  Happy now?'

Coyote's retort was nipped in the bud faster than you can say 'sprouts'.  The BOFmobile overtook us.  We dropped down in our seats; knowing that we mustn't make eye contact with the driver at all.  Coyote eased off the gas; we were both fully aware that this manoeuvre might be part of a cunning plan by the BOF behind the wheel to run us off the road so he could bore us to death with his opinion on current affairs and yachts.  (Not that BOFs are cunning, you understand.  They're not really capable of cunning plans unless they've been created for them by a room full of lackeys.  Or unless they stole the cunning plan from someone else.)

But it suddenly all became clear.  The BOFmobile screeched across the road and disappeared up a road towards a large field.  A sign brandished by a senior BOF at the entrance of the event explained everything:

We had been saved.  There was relief, there was celebration and then there were tears.  Once again, we'd been spared the nightmare.

Someone up there's looking after us.  

We think it's Elvis.

In Depth: What is a BOF?

Through this blog we've warned you about BOFmobiles.  We've given you tips on identification and avoidance and even pointers on what to do should you be unfortunate enough to get cornered by a BOF.  However, we feel that this simply isn't enough.

Sometimes, you may be in danger of being caught unaware by a BOF.  His BOFmobile may be in for servicing or he could've got lost during a hunt for a bacon bap.  Should this happen, you need much more information in order to identify and completely avoid a skirmish with a BOF.  This post will endeavour to give you all the information you need so you can spot a BOF at twenty paces and GET THE HELL OUT OF THERE before he starts speaking to you.

Please feel free to print a copy of this page and keep it with you at all times.  The following information could be lifesaving. 

1.  BOF APPEARANCE

Every BOF takes great pride in his appearance.  This doesn't mean that he actually looks good; but he thinks he does.  The standard BOF uniform usually features a pale linen or standard blue blazer with a white, blue or pink shirt.  These will be teamed with a pair of jeans (never, ever tight) and a pair of Chelsea boots (black or tan).  If the BOF is working, he will probably be wearing a tie.  The tie should be the first thing you notice...because it will probably glow in the dark due to its garishness.  BOFs prefer floral or cubist designs but may stray to a Paisley if they're feeling adventurous.

 

2.  BOF DIET

Although BOFs can usually be found dining at expensive restaurants (you know the type - mashed potato and a steak the size of a button for £150), they also supplement their diets with bacon.  Lots and lots of bacon.  It might be smoked or unsmoked; it could be streaky or back.  It doesn't matter.  BOFs can't get enough bacon.  If you see a man between 40 and 50 wearing the above attire and eating a bacon bap...RUN.  Run as fast as your legs will carry you and don't look back until you're in a different county.  Or country.  If you happen to be anywhere near a space programme, hijack a rocket and launch yourself to another planet - just to be on the safe side.

3.  BOF MUSIC

Most BOFs tend to be musical in some way.  They might play the clarinet or the violin...but more often than not they can bash out a couple of tunes on the piano.  (Usually tunes you can play one-handed.  This means they can play and eat bacon at the same time.)  Don't let their musical leanings fool you.  Just because they know how to play a musical instrument does NOT mean that they have good taste in music.  Should you see a man in Chelsea boots eating a bacon bap while browsing Rachmaninoff and Scissor Sisters CDs, SCARPER.  Run to the nearest road and hijack the first car you see.  Drive at reckless speeds until you're at least 500 miles away.  Send an obituary to your local paper and fake your own death, then move to Mexico and start over as a donkey farmer called Juan. 

4.  BOF WORDS AND PHRASES

All BOFs are very proud of their vocabularies.  They believe their minds to be walking thesauruses; but the truth is that they disguise their lack of language prowess with an arsenal of hackneyed words, phrases and topics of discussion.  Typical (often archaic) BOFisms include:

• Splendid
• Austere
• Extraordinary
• Marvellous
• Triumph
• Fellow
• Divine

A BOF's favourite topics of discussion are:

• Their home county
• Food
• Cars
• Their home county
• Yachts
• Money
• Their home county
• Taxes
• Politics
• Their home county

Did I mention the like to talk about their home county?  Well, they do.  A lot.  Should you see a man wearing a garish tie, eating a bacon bap, browsing Rachmaninoff CDs and talking about his home county, LEG IT.  Commandeer the first electric wheelchair you see and tear through the street leaving behind you a trail of maimed shoppers and severed limbs.  Head to the train station and leap aboard the first train that arrives.  Travel to its final destination and then get on the first bus you see.  Eventually, you'll arrive at an airport.  Board a plane (any location is acceptable; as long as it's not France.  BOFs love France) and fly there.  Buy as many firearms as you can and smuggle them back into the UK on board a ship delivering tulips or something.  Then, the next time you see a BOF, you can eliminate him.

>>HERE ENDETH THIS IMPORTANT PUBLIC INFORMATION BLOGCAST<<