The name’s Bond, James Bond - so get your kit off
- Credit: Archant
Ever had the urge to be Pussy Galore?
Neither have I... even though she was a rare survivor of the 007 experience.
The life expectancy of the average James Bond squeeze is marked in hours. Death by dripping poison, being painted gold and being eaten by piranha are just a few of the more imaginative means of disposal masterminded by one of the deranged megalomaniacs bent on world domination that populate the criminal underworld.
You can understand why the person of James Bond might be attractive to a woman in thrall to such a man. Suave, sophisticated and in touch with his feminine side.... sorry, women’s feminine sides, Bond is also a ruthless killer with fantastic gadgets at his disposal and, one presumes, an amazing bedroom technique. Apart from the ruthless killer thing, what’s not to like?
The joy of Bonding on screen is as much to do with the character and action sequences as the actor, one presumes, otherwise we would never have recovered from the loss of Sean Connery. I have probably mentioned this before but I like my men hairy. Arms, legs, chest... not back particularly but it’s not a deal breaker. So the Bond men for me have been Connery and Brosnan. For them, I could have been persuaded to overcome my natural shyness to submit to their charms, albeit only once and probably ending in death.
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But unfortunately, in order to become the plaything of a fabulously rich nutcase and therefore the target of Bond’s attention, you first need to pass the physical and mental tests. The check list includes: beautiful face; beautiful figure; able to run in a bikini (without battering yourself in the face); and prepared to die for love of a man you just met an hour ago. Searing intelligence is not, it seems, quite as important although Bond does appear to know the location of a woman’s intellect override button.
Needless to say, I would fail such a test miserably. I wouldn’t even make a Moneypenny... my touch-toping is ribbish. And anyway, who wants to be the victim of unrequited passion? After all those years on the MI6 front desk you would have thought she had earned a bit of requitement.
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There’s always M. But she used to be a he and I’m not sure I’d want to be James Bond’s boss. I’d rather be under him. (Careful, Lynne. ED).
The reason for my musings is my trip to the Big City and the London Film Museum, last week. Only 10 months to go and I’ll qualify for a senior railcard. Interestingly, former 007s Sean, Roger, George, Timothy and Pierce already do. The only one who doesn’t is the current Bond, Daniel Craig.
The film museum features a special exhibition of Bond vehicles. These are the cars that come when they’re called, have machine guns housed in the headlights or convert into a submersible. So unlike my own Ford Ka...
The exhibits also included Little Nellie, the autogyro that zaps about like an angry gnat in You Only Live Twice. It was famously piloted by East Anglian hero, wartime bomber pilot Wng Cdr Ken Wallis (1916-2013) who was a great proponent of autogyros. The one in the exhibition bears his name.
As well as the vehicles (eg Goldfinger’s Roller, the crocodile sub,the Lotus Esprit S1) the exhibition (entry £14.50 for adults) has a few little wotnots such as Bond’s passports, his medical evaluation report from Skyfall, storyboards and a letter detailing the cost of hiring certain conveyances. The canoes cost £3 a day. But considering James Bond’s mastery of seduction techniques, you might have thought his cars would be passion wagons. But with my knees and left shoulder it would be a miracle if I even successfully managed to get into the low-slung passenger seat of an Aston martin DB5, let alone negotiate the centre console for a moment of careless rapture with the driver. I’d probably need a 4x4 and a hoist.
But the point, I suppose, is that men with cars like that are a bit dangerous and thus desirable but, not available to women with dicky knees or dodgy shoulders. Not so much Plenty O’Toole (Diamonds are Forever) more Plenty O’Nothing.