James Bond For A Day


Awake, fully dressed in rumpled tux and lipstick-smeared collar. Clanging headache. Mouth tastes like bottom of a birdcage. Obviously, a rough night at Casino Royale. Or was it Finton’s Arcade?

What’s this under the pillow? A bra?! Result! But where is she now? Must have nipped out to knock me up a champagne breakfast. Slip back into light slumber.

Rudely awoken by Darren on the vidphone – sorry, Nokia thing. He’s checking I got home okay. Something about having a bra on my head.

On closer inspection, lipstick on collar proves to be kebab sauce... First smoke of the day. Start planning excuses for Major Boothroyd – AKA ‘Alan In Accounts’ – for being very, very late. Consider “Dog ate Walther PPK...”

Whip up scrambled eggs to boost energy levels. Have to change suits twice. ‘Shaken not stirred’, my arse. Mental note: get housekeeper.

Sidle outside. Dodge between the shadowy terrors of the urban sprawl. Spot of bother getting on Tube – went for my travel pass, but it snagged in my jacket. Caused rather lengthy queue. Should probably ditch the ‘light chamois leather holster’ – looks a bit pervy anyway. As several enraged commuters pointed out. Cooled things down by offering a couple of typically delicious quips. Forced to repeatedly apologise to surprisingly strong bloke in a bike helmet. All good for the cover, mind.

Apprehended at King’s Cross. Completely fail to convince large security man not to take away my childrens’ water-pistol sprayed gold. Mental note: lunchtime rendezvous with M at The Lab/Martin at Toys ‘B’ Fun.

‘Shaken not stirred’ proves to be an equally problematic preference at Kostalot Koffee.

Phone minicab for the M meet. Arrives suspiciously fast. Grab driver by neck, forcefully demanding to know who sent him. He decks me with a crook-lock and speeds off. Concerned about blown cover. Get bus.

Return to base with new shooter, can of gold paint, 60 Marlboro Lights and a stencil kit. Fritter remainder of afternoon painting three gold stripes on all the fags and updating killing licence I printed out from an Estonian website. (Tongue out of side of mouth... ‘James Bnod’... Gah!)

Let one go on Tube. Try to convince beautiful woman opposite that the stench is simply non-lethal stun gas from my exploding electric key-finder. Think she buys it.

Ask her out for a drink. She says no.

Ask her out for a drink. She says no, and insists that the exploding electric key-finder thing is a “load of bollocks”.

Tsch. Women! Grab her in a steamy clinch, fix with smouldering eye contact. Tell her she’s coming out for a drink. She’s clearly too stunned to feign lack of interest. Still got it.

Apprehended at King’s Cross again. Eventually convince transport police I’m not “one of them sex pests” (the woman’s words). Forced to hand over killing license. But the joke’s on them because the Tipp-Ex is still wet.

Thrown out of The Fighting Cocks after succession of pretentious orders, aggressive questioning of a not particularly sinister man with a prosthetic hand, and insisting the pork scratchings are poisoned while screeching for a defibrillator. Slink home.

Tune in to Bravo for an hour, scrutinising World’s Most Amazing Videos for covert messages from The Organisation – with breaks to show off implausibly great general knowledge by texting late-night cash-quiz show. Turn in early – appointment with Dr Knowles tomorrow. Told him the voices have stopped, but he still wants me in. He’s bald. I am distrustful.

Can’t sleep in this huge bed alone. Still feels wrong, despite the several years of practice. Reach for copy of Pussy Galore – issue 007, natch...

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