Monday, 23 September 2013


It's the end.

The moment hasn't really been prepared for.

I'm pretty much typing this as you read it.















James Bond is a 00 ranked secret agent for MI6. He is ageless and deathless, a mutable killing machine. For some reason, he looks and acts differently some of the time, like he totally started off as this charmingly violent Scottish guy.

Then he went a bit Australian and understandably settled down with Diana Rigg, but that went a bit deady, and then he went Scotch again (like an egg that's had all the breadcrumbs and sausage meat taken off, then re-applied).

Then he had smarmy eyebrows, because mass murder on behalf of a bygone relic of an empire really chimes tonally with smirking sexual innuendos.

OH AND THEN he's all like smooth veneer hiding an impatient, ruthless blunt object.

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE. Irish? Ish. Irishish. Boyish. Boyishirishish. A boyish Irish rogue. A birishrog. Surely that's it?

CHRIST ON A SHIT! Then there's a Bullingdon rugger slugger who'll leave your wife smelling of whiskey and fear but you won't know because he'll have punched you repeatedly in the face and hid your body in a portaloo.


Why yes. It's somewhat de rigeur for an agent licenced to kill. Famously packing a Walther PPK, though initially bearing a Beretta 418 and occasionally favouring the Walther P99 Semi-Automatic (details doubtless noted by everyone ever shot by any of these guns), Bond is an exceptionally gifted murderer. He'll deploy his weapons, gadgets, vehicles and even household furniture to this end. He enjoys it after a while, because if it's your job to kill loads of people I suppose you've got to find happiness where you can.

In many ways, it's dashed useful that he's employed by the state to do all these killings, to keep us all fictionally safe at night. You can't help but get a patriotic erection when watching a James Bond film, even if you're a lady. He's just that manly, provided you don't stop and think about what he's doing for any time whatsoever.

The prose version of Bond seems more dispassionate about killing. He's a hard-drinking, hard-smoking homophobic sociopath. Fleming didn't have to worry so much about making him palatable for a huge audience, so could happily reveal and revel in flaws to a greater extent than the film versions.


Many other agents assist James Bond. M, Moneypenny, Q, a variety of expendable 00-agents. He also tends to meet a woman who will end up saving his life at some point, but who he will never see afterwards even if she does survive.

He also has FBI agent Felix Leighter, who miraculously recovered from being eaten by a shark by coming back with a beard and a different accent. If only everyone in Jaws knew that such a trick existed.


Bond has this habit of traversing time and space at a strange rate, changing his face and personality while remaining roughly the same person with roughly the same modus operandi. Occasionally his colleagues do the same thing, but occasionally they remain the same while Bond changes.

The most logical explanation for this multi-faceted stretching of time is that Bond is either an alien with such powers with a strange and violent attachment to the British was of life. Alternatively, 'James Bond' could be a code name for a group of very similar spy-men who have all worked for MI6 over the years.

Interestingly, many of them would share similar memories and backgrounds, suggesting that perhaps some sort of Jason Bourne-like programming is done to these men. Perhaps the role of James Bond is tinged with tragedy, as men leave everything behind to believe themselves to be a destructive, orphaned killing machine. They will eventually burn out, their fate undocumented, until a replacement can be found...


Six coffins. The flag of Great Britain and Northern Ireland is draped crisply over each one of them. Uniform. Enveloping. Secure.

They sit ready and waiting in a green and pleasant field, graves freshly dug, but no other human in sight.

What happened, you may ask, that caused such a thing to pass?


The silo went underground further than it rose into the sky. Beneath Derbyshire, relics of security bided their time until death. The entities that entreated them to destroy and protect could not bring themselves to do the same. It would be like putting down an old, faithful dog.

Within the caverns, there was a complex of tunnels, cells and dungeons. Dripfed, forlorn, and destitute, it was the last resting place of those who held a name of portent. They now sat slumped, waiting for nothing, that last alluring deprivation that they had meted out to so many.

Area 007 was a melancholy place. Once vigorous men dwelt there now, and their memories were patchy. Internal monologues aren't what they were:

Was it you – the charming, bereft one – or you – the twinkle-eyed playboy – whose wife never made it? You both think it was you? Oh, no matter. I had so many women. I can't remember their names. I can't remember their faces. I can't remember the sensations. So did I really experience any of it?

Today, though, is a day of relative excitement.

There is to be a new inmate.

He comes in, wheeled on an upright trolley, strapped down like a live-action version of Operation. He head lolls, his blonde hair is faded. His eyes are not looking. His little blue pants are stained.

'What happened?' asks an old Bond, his eyebrow creaking upwards.
'Never you mind, grandad,' says one of the orderlies, 'Just eat your gruel and die peacefully.'
'Do you enjoy living in this country, young man?'
'No. Shut the fuck up.'

Cowed, the Bond's smirk collapses. Not enough stamina. No gun to back up his point, no inventions from Q branch to extricate him from an indiscreet lack of dignity. The Q he knew was gone. So was the Q after him, apparently (though nobody had liked that one, he'd only done it for the money). That was two now, after him. They didn't last like they used to.

'Honestly,' said the orderly, 'I don't know why we bother. If it was up to me, we'd just slit your throats and get it over wi-'

The orderly stops speaking, probably due to the serrated blade that is making its way through his throat. It is in no hurry, mainly due to it lacking sentience, but also because its operator is in no hurry either. He does not seem unduly fussed about the large amount of blood he is getting on his jumpsuit, possibly because he takes it off to reveal a smart tuxedo beneath. He adjusts his bow tie. Time has been kind to him.

'You!' says the Irish one no-one really dislikes but no-one really likes either, 'I thought you were dead!'
'I thought he was on the run,' says the Scottish one.
'I thought he was on the run, and then they killed him, and so he was dead, which is kind of what you said,' says the Australian one.
'Gentlemen,' says the newcomer, 'Allow me to introduce myself. My name is O'Brien-ffrench. Conrad O'Brien-ffrench. But I used to be known as...Bond.'
'Why are you here?' says the English sexual deviant Bond.
'Isn't it obvious?'
'No, you'll have to explain it as if someone was listening to this conversation and didn't understand any of it whatsoever.'
'Of course. I was lying low in a BBC Wales drama production in 2009 when I discovered the location of Area 007. I'd heard rumours for years that all the old James Bonds were shunted down here to die in peace, so that the country couldn't be seen to have blood on its hands as usual. Then I bided my time until another Bond was ready to be incarcerated. Fortunately this one was more volatile than most, and our former masters really put him through the ringer, drained him dry. Then, I used the training they had given me against them.'
'Are you here to free us? Is that it?' asks the Scottish one.
'Oh, considerably more than that.'

Before anyone can react, the newcomer brings out a gun and fires it at the heart of the Scottish one. He looks down at his chest, reaches out, and then collapses to the floor with a gasp. Then the newcomer fires at each one of his iterations, before finally turning the gun on himself.


Gathering in the field, members of MI6 and the new 007 await the monarch with trepidation. It feels only right that the person in whose name these men were acting should attend their burial, even if she knew nothing of their previous internment.

The new Bond walks, arm in arm with the monarch.

'I thought you'd look more like Clive Owen or Dougray Scott,' they say to the new Bond.
'Yeah, I get that a lot,' he says. The Prime Minister just said the same thing ten minutes ago.

The brass band strike up. The hymn is Jerusalem. A mist begins rolling in.

'M?' says Bond.
'No, M,' says Bond. 'The forecast wasn't for mist was it?'
'Possibly, later in the day.'
'Was it for mist that started above some dry graves and coffins?'

M stares at the mist. It hasn't rolled in from down the valley, it's starting here.

'Get them out,' he says, 'Get everybody out.'

But it is too late. The guests are already coughing and hacking, attempting to cover their faces with kerchiefs. The monarch is bent double, a thin stream of orange flem escaping the side of their mouth. Bond, panicking, tries to dab it back into their mouth with his gun. When he turns to M for help, he discovers his boss' eyeballs are peeling like suicidal onions, a high pitched burbling noise building as the fluid within tries to escape.

'M!' Bond cries.
'No, M!' says Bond. At least he tries to. His tongue falls free of his mouth and hangs for a second on a tendril of gummy flesh. It hovers like a skilful yo-yo, before pinging back into his mouth with a snap, lodging at the back of his throat. Bond chokes and gags. That was utterly disgusting.

Meanwhile, everyone's sort of melting. For his first big operation as a 00-agent, it's been a bit of a pisser. The monarch is trying to hug their own innards back into their stomach, as they appear to have made a sludgy lunge for freedom. M now looks like someone's done a shit in some jam, and Bond's fairly sure his penis has just sieved itself liquid through his flies.

The last thing that passes through his brain before he loses consciousness is a strange purple liquid that was previously the left anus of the monarch. It is pleasantly warm.

Some hours later, the six Bonds push open their coffin lids, and survey the carnage.

'Well,' says edgy Eighties Bond, 'I think that went okay.'
'What on earth is that?' says racy Seventies Bond, pointing at the stream of multicoloured viscous liquid that is now flowing into the open graves.
'That, I should imagine, is the remains of MI6 and the heads of state. My plan worked.'
'Ow, my head,' saysh the Scottish Bond, 'What the schit jusht happened?'
'Well, I shot you all with a knockout serum that, once metabolised, would be emitted through the human body to produce a noxious and fatal gas. Something Q knocked up years ago to deter homosexuals from using public parks.'

There is a pause while this information is digested.

'Are you saying,' says Australian Bond, 'That we just farted poison over everybody?'
'Poison that does that?' adds the Irish one.
'Yup,' says edgy Eighties Bond. 'There's now a power vacuum, and I think it only right that we should march right on into it.'

Blonde Bond speaks. He has not spoken yet, and his blue eyes betray a deep sadness within.

'I think we should all have sex,' he says.

There is a pause while this information is digested.

Blonde Bond turns to his predecessors and uses his blue eyes and pants to eye-watering effect.

'We are the only people who understand what it is like to be Bond,' he says. 'We've been through it, no-one else. We all have the same unfulfilled sexual desires, and the same outrageous confidence. I think it's quite possible that we've been afraid of this for quite some time.'

All the Bonds ponder these words for a moment and then, gradually, they all smile. Little blue pants are shanked down hefty thighs, and the Blonde Bond spreads his arms wide in welcome.

And so, as the liquefied remains of Britain's hierarchy are joined by a variety of other fluids, James Bond finally meets his optimal sexual partner on a backdrop of Union flags in a very green and pleasant land.



will not return next week.

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