Thank You - Part Two!

Seems it's a week of milestones!

Today marks our 100th day as bloggers.  That's 3 months, 9 days...or roughly 14 weeks...or 2,400 hours...or 144,000 minutes...or 8,640,000 seconds.

Whichever way you look at it, it's a fair old while.  In that time, we've had 7,125 views and you continue to give us your laughter and support...so THANK YOU!

*Meep Meep!*

BOFmobiles: Soporific Soap

Have you ever noticed how most BOFmobiles are spotless?  Not just your average spotless...but 'so clean they make your eyeballs explode' spotless?  Well, until recently this had baffled us. 

You see, BOFmobiles don't come out in the rain.  On our many jaunts around the verdant land of Wales, we've noticed that infestations of BOFmobiles dramatically drop in numbers when the skies open.  It's almost as if the BOFs think their vehicles will shrink if exposed to the rain.  Perhaps they think precipitation will melt their cars.  "Someone left the BOFmobile out in the rain..." that kind of thing.

So how do they stay so blinging shiny?  We'd never seen one at a car wash...until last weekend.

As usual, we were toddling around hunting for randomness.  The sun was shining and we'd seen plenty of BOFmobiles, but we weren't disturbed because we were armed to the teeth with sprouts.  BOFs don't like sprouts.  They start crying and run into the nearest overpriced clothing boutique if you throw one at them.  Bear that in mind; it's always a wise idea to carry a few sprouts for self defence.  

I was rummaging in the glove box for Blu-Tack to make a model of a gerbil with when Coyote suddenly caught the whiff of a Cornetto.  Remember those?  That advert with the bloke who warbles "Just one Cornettoooo, give it tooo meee!"  You'll be singing that all day now.  My pleasure.  But I digress...

...he veered off through a village, hot on the scent of retro ice cream.  However, thoughts of frozen treats suddenly vanished from our minds when we came across a gobsmacking sight...

A BOFWASH.  Suddenly it all made sense.  They have special machines to clean their BOFmobiles.  Deftly reversing onto the forecourt and hiding behind a Biffa bin, we paused for a moment and took it all in.  Initially it looked like an ordinary car wash, but no...

The suds were brighter than ordinary bubbles; they clearly contained Chelsea boot polish.  Instead of the scent of soap, a whiff of crispy - possibly streaky but could have been prime back - bacon emanated from the newly buffed BOFmobile...and the rotary brushes elegantly span to the strains of Rachmaninov's 'Symphonic Dances'.  You'll notice that the brushes are red and green.  These colours clash horribly and are therefore a natural preference for BOFs. 

With our newly-acquired knowledge, I took a quick ninja photograph and Coyote span out of the garage - leaving a bit of Monty's rubber behind.

So now we know the secret of their unnatural cleanliness.  Having mulled it over for a while, we've figured that we can use this knowledge to our advantage.

With some deep planning (drawing on newspapers with crayons), we've realised that we could rig every BOFWASH in the country.  All we'd need to do is fill the aftershave-laced water reservoirs with puréed sprouts!  That would make the BOFs abandon their vehicles and we could all drive, walk and cycle in peace - like the good old days.

So now we're waiting for a large consignment of sprouts from Brussels.  We only have a Bamix hand blender and a potato masher, mind...so it's going to take a while to produce enough purée to put our plan of salvation into action.  We'll get there, though; you can count on us.

  Until then; stay vigilant - stay safe.

Thank You!

This is the 50th post on our blog.  We thought we'd take this opportunity to say a huge 'thank you' to those of you who have shown interest, commented and inspired - because without you, the fun wouldn't be as bright!  We've had readers from across the globe; and knowing that our lunacy is making people happy - even if it's just for a split second - then risking getting sectioned is more than worth it.

If there's one thing we want to do - apart from eat Square crisps and drink Penderyn - it's make people laugh.  Every time we post something here, it's to raise a smile.  If we raise happy smiles, that's brilliant.  If we raise pitying, baffled smiles...that's still brilliant!  A smile is a smile is a smile, and god knows there aren't enough of those around these days.  We always have a ball shooting the videos and taking the photos - and we hope that some of that wafts across to you...like the bacon-laced exhaust fumes of a passing BOFmobile.

We got lucky.  Fate smiled on us and she continues to do so; so it seems only just that we share some of the happiness that we've been blessed with.

But that's quite enough of the sugar-coated, mushy stuff.  Gives you diabetes.  What we mean to say is...

To everyone who reads our blog,

To everyone who smiles;

To everyone who comes with us

As we clock up the miles

To those of you who see the photos,

To those who watch the vids;

To those of you who don't mind

That we've flipped our lids...

To all of you we owe a debt

Of happy gratitude;

For a sense of gladness in our hearts

You truly have imbued!

On the flip-side...it's all your fault.

You encourage us too much.

We were never quite so bonkers;

Well, not insane - as such.

See, you've made us grasp the merits

Of being happy loons

So thanks for that, you lovely lot...

We'll see you very soon :) 

Samuel and Sybil Wait for a Train

It was a dark, nippy evening.  Coyote had parked Monty in a hedge somewhere and we sat patiently waiting for a BOFmobile to pass so we could try out our new stinger.  We made it out of tights and drawing pins.

Meanwhile, in a dark and deserted Tonfanau, Samuel and Sybil also waited patiently...for a train.  A train that only arrives once a day.  At 1924hrs precisely.  Give or take half an hour.

Did it turn up?  Did they manage to catch it?  Were they arrested by the BTP?

 Watch and see...

WARNING:  Contains language.  It's probably English, but we're not sure.  Not suitable for gerbils.

*Meep Meep!*

BOF Bacon Collection

Rain lashed the pavements and the wind howled through the perfectly pruned trees that lined the street.  Coyote and I trundled slowly through, Monty's wipers doing a fabulous impression of the Techno Viking.  We were hunting for Smints, but we felt uneasy.

All the houses were three-storey Georgian affairs.  Their bijou handkerchief gardens all had immaculately coiffured lawns and rose bushes; ornate iron garden furniture stood gleaming against the red brick frontages.  This wasn't our territory.  This was the territory of...

THE BOFS.

Coyote floored the accelerator and aimed for a handbrake turn at the end of the cul-de-sac; we couldn't stay here any longer.  God knew what fate we would face if we were to get trapped!

As we approached the end of the road, something caught my attention.  I gently placed a hand on his arm.  'Wait.  Look...'  I pointed to a house to the right and Monty slid to a halt.  'Are you thinking what I'm thinking?' 

He nodded, grinning.  There was one house that had a shed.  Not an ordinary shed, you understand...oh no.  A BOF shed.  It was the size of a garage; built from Canadian cedar with a thatched roof.  The heavy double doors were ajar.

A quick risk assessment told us that we would be safe to have a little shufti.  If there's one thing we've learnt about BOFs, it's that they don't venture outside when it's raining.  Perhaps they're scared they'll shrink or something.

So Coyote deftly hid Monty behind a row of gold-plated wheelie bins and - doing our drunken ninja impressions again - we stumbled along a wall to the shed.  What would it contain?  The excitement bubbled in our chests like Guinness-induced indigestion.

We saw it as a kind of urbex; we would pop into the shed, have a look and leave.  BOFex, if you will.  Of course, it was highly likely that we would be disappointed.  The shed might contain shelves and shelves full of Chelsea boot polish, Rachmaninov CDs and books about sailing.  But still - the opportunity to learn more had handed itself to us on a silver platter and we weren't about to pass it up.

The doors swung silently on their brass hinges and we both stood in silence; our jaws hanging loose as we gawped inside.

Bacon.  Not actual bacon - but bacon things.  Bacon cushions...bacon popcorn...bacon toothpaste.

We already knew that BOFs are partial to pig; but this was just incredible.  We took some photos to review back at Penderyn Towers; just to prove to ourselves that we hadn't been hallucinating.

Do you like bacon?  BOFs do.

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.

Bacon Cake

IT EXISTS.

(Thank you, @Jinks67!)

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.

Madness in North Wales

Having decided that they weren't too keen on their apartment, Samuel and Sybil went for a drive up north.  They took a brief detour to Samuel's nirvana - the Inigo Jones slateworks - and all was going splendidly. They weren't banking on seeing quite as many BOFmobiles as they did, though...

...and when one of them had the temerity to honk his horn as they passed, Sam and Syb took exception.  

We're still not quite sure how it happened, but it seems that as they busied themselves with waging guerilla warfare on the rude BOF in question, Petula and Gerry managed to nick their car.

It's ok though.  The effort of riddling a BOFmobile with bullet holes made Samuel and Sybil rather tired, and they were actually asleep on the back seat.

They woke up.  

We doubt Petula and Gerry will ever steal a car again.

WARNING:  The language contained in this video makes Gordon Ramsay sound like a finishing school prefect.  Not suitable for younglings or those allergic to clouds.

"FOBOF!"

Samuel and Sybil's Apartment

This weekend, Samuel and Sybil decided to have a break - away from the bright lights and rich, diverse culture of Blaenau Ffestini(g)og.  They packed their factor 50 sun cream and Welsh dragon beach towels...and headed for the tropical climes of the Dyfi Valley.

They sent us this video of their accommodation.  We're not sure they liked it; but we must admit that we were mightily impressed with their eloquent and insightful commentary as they guided us around their Lapwing apartment.

Phil and Kirstie should be worried.

WARNING:  Contains disgraceful language.  Do not expose to kiddywinks or use near naked flame.

"BOG!"