![]() No wait, why would he walk straight into the villains’ lair, where he would be heavily outnumbered by bad guys? Bond chewed his pen but he couldn’t think of a reason, so he forgot about it. And to think they actually paid screenwriters to come up with this stuff! And she could tell him where the bad guys were meeting in Rome so he could eavesdrop on their evil plans for world domination! No need for any more scenes with the widow – she’ll have done her bit by showing her stocking-tops. Yeah, have her played by an Italian sex-bomb. There had to be babes… Aha! How about he got to have sex with the widow of the guy he killed in Mexico? That would work. The word BONDGIRLS stared up at him unblinking from the checklist. That would do.īond went back to chewing his Montblanc. Then drop in on Q and get some whizz-bang gadgets, like nailclippers which turned into a bazooka, or a seeing-eye dog which was really a panther in disguise, or…. Wait, what? There was more? Yet more categories to tick? Was there no end to this ticking nonsense? Well then, insert some boring scenes in London and the headmaster scolding him and threatening to remove his tuckshop privileges. You should try it sometime,” which would hint at all the tragic personal sacrifices he, James Bond, had made throughout his career, including being forced to give up smoking and cut out the smarmy sexist remarks. His fans would adore that clever nod to one of his finest hours, The Case of the Fake Fabergé Egg.ĭIALOGUE? Oh, anyone could cobble that together! Just have Moneypenny say, “It’s called life, James. There was MORE? Oh, for heaven’s sake, what did they take him for? They would have to rope in the usual chanteuse, of course, or if there were no girls available how about a boy singer with an unnaturally high voice? Oh heck, how about a falsetto, or maybe even a castrato? He’d have a go at jotting down some sample lyrics later, but probably something along the lines of “Hey girl howdya like some fun With double oh seven and his gun?” Accompanied by a recurring octopus motif! Bond mentally patted himself on the back. Then he noticed the other words staring up at him. He couldn’t imagine why everyone always made such a fuss about it. What more could an audience want? This checklist lark wasn’t so hard after all. It had everything – explosions, local colour, fisticuffs and dancing skeletons. That would take care of the first half-hour or so. BIG EXPLOSION! Tick! Then he could have a fist-fight in a spinning helicopter, just inches away from the heads of the crowd. He could be in Mexico during Day of the Dead to kill someone and blow up a building! That would work. ![]() DAY OF THE DEAD! Everyone loved dancing skeletons. ![]() ![]() ATibet? Bali? Mexico! But what did they do in Mexico? Drug cartels? Mexican Waves? Montezuma’s Revenge? Aha! He had it. What the hell? He missed the old days, when he’d been able to offload all this boring paperwork on to Moneypenny. He stared down at the checklist, and the printed words stared back up at him, as though challenging him to respond. So, even though he was dying for a cigarette, he contented himself instead with chewing the end of his Montblanc Meisterstück with handcrafted gold nib. He wasn’t in a hurry to go through that shit again. The memory of it made his eyes prickle with humiliation, even now. Then they’d made him wear a nicotine patch. James Bond would have given his left kidney for a smoke, but the last time he’d tried to light a cigarette in his custom-made bachelor pad it had set off the alarm and M had sent round a team of experts to take the place apart and destroy every tobacco product they could find, including an old packet of Boyard Maïs he’d completely forgotten about. ![]()
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