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

Royal Welsh Show 2012

It had been decades since Coyote and I had been to the Royal Welsh Agricultural Show in Llanelwedd.  Always up for a bit of fun and some new sights, we decided that we'd head over there this year and see what was on offer!

The fun started when we got on the shuttle bus.  In a previous life, Coyote was a PSV/PCV driver...so it was quite amusing to see him glaring down the gangway, shooting daggers into the back of the driver's head. "Someone doesn't know his gears..."  I think I did a pretty good job of not sniggering.  Much.

After a short, sweaty hop to the show-ground, we got off the bus and followed the signs to the ticket booths.  £42 lighter we stepped into the throngs making their way from stall to stall in the scorching sunlight.  We had no idea where to start.

"Map?" Coyote suggested.

"Bloody good idea," I agreed.  Off we set on a hunt for a map of the ground...so at least we could figure out where the loos were.

     Eventually we found a stall that had programmes and maps.  For £3 a piece.  We guffawed and toddled off.  There wasn't anything in particular that we wanted to see, so we figured that we might as well just amble around in various directions to see what we would stumble across.

There were sheep.  Lots of sheep...

And Roy Nobles...

And horses...

And Jason Mohammads.

There were also tractors, cows, goats, more tractors, sunburnt people, more cows, drunk people, more tractors and a man who looked suspiciously like Billy Connolly.  It wasn't him though...his beard wasn't purple and he wasn't singing about his wellies. 

After a lot of wandering and wondering, we found ourselves in the shade of some trees at the back of a building elevated above the main show ring.  I trained my lens on the horses and then something at the corner of my eye caught my attention.  A man and a woman were sat above a building directly opposite us.  She was chain-smoking and he was eating something.  She looked like Ivor the Engine and he looked like a newsreader...but I couldn't be sure.  If he was a newsreader, then where did he find the time to train? He must've trained...because never in my life have I seen someone put away so many olives in such a short space of time.  It was deeply impressive. 

By now we were thirsty and starting to turn crispy in the sunshine.  Being Welsh, you see, we're simply not used to such weather.  We're more used to going everywhere in full waterproofs, carrying roll-up kayaks in case of emergency.  After a brief confab ("Home?"  "There's beer there."  "Home it is.") we left the show-ground and caught the shuttle bus back to the car park.  N18, if you're interested...which we know you aren't...but it's the only actual fact you're going to get from this post so I thought I'd share it in the name of blogging integrity.

Coyote then shone.  The car park was full to the brim.  If I'd been on my own, I would still have been trying to find my car as the sun dipped behind the hills...but he made a beeline for Monty.  I was impressed.  More impressed than I was by the day's earlier display of jaw-dropping olive-scoffing prowess.  I was so impressed, in fact, that I made a mental note not to poke his sunburnt bits.

We left Llanelwedd feeling tired but happy.  It had been an experience...but not one we'll repeat.  It could've done with more local produce for sale, more interactive displays, a cinema, a jacuzzi, a squash court...just kidding!  Cheaper bottled water and a free map would've been a start, mind.  

*Meep Sheep!*

Samuel and Sybil: Vehicle Identification

It takes 11 hours to travel by car from Mid Wales to Inverness.  It also takes 11 hours to travel by car from Inverness to Mid Wales.  It's one of the many mysterious synchronicities of life that we simply have to accept.

We're sure that you'll agree when we say that 11 hours is a fecking long time to be on the road.  When you've eaten all the sandwiches and crisps; when you've drunk all the Coke and coffee (this happened by the time we reached Newtown), you start groping for 'I-Spy' subjects...

"I spy with my little eye...something beginning with W."

"Wiper?"

"No."

"Wheel?"

"No."

"Windmill?"

"No."

"I give up."

"Windsock."

"There's no bloody windsock here!"

"There was one about 10 miles back..."

You get the idea.  So it'll come as no surprise when we tell you that Samuel and Sybil didn't take too easily to being cooped up in the car.  Even though they shared the driving, they were like two kids; bickering and fidgeting - paying no attention when we told them to pipe down.  When they were in the back, we had to stop on numerous occasions to give them a proper telling-off, but within 15 minutes of being back on the road, they were at it again.  Samuel even mooned at a passing coach of WI women.  It made their day.

One interesting development came of it, though.  We discovered that Sybil has a fixation with buses.  Not only that...but she seems to have a pathological problem with vehicle identification.  All the time spent travelling to and from Scotland gave Samuel the perfect opportunity to try and educate her somewhat.  Bless his heart, he really did try...

WARNING:  Contains language that makes Gordon Ramsay sound like Mary Whitehouse.  Not suitable for sprogs.  Do not expose to direct sunlight.  Do not eat.

*BUS!*

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.