by Alan Coren
‘I shot my wig,’ said Bond, gloomily.
M relaxed.
‘No good getting angry with a wig,’ he said. ‘It’s only doing its job.’
‘You sent for me,’ said Bond.
‘In the CIA,’ murmured M, ‘I’d have been retired forty years ago. I would have one of those thermal pools with a thing that makes waves in it. I would have my own genitourinary man coming in on a weekly basis. A TV hanging from the ceiling, mink linings for the cold snap, a hollow cane with Remy Martin in it, a rare dog.’
‘About this job,’ said Bond.
M blew his nose, ineptly.
‘Usual thing,’ he said. ‘MIRV-launching Russian satellite has been brought down by a defecting Albanian inter-galactic tail-gunner in the pay of the Irgun Zwei Leomi. As you would expect, it has fallen down inside Vesuvius: crack KGB, CIA, Mafia, Triad, and IRA teams are already racing to the spot. I promised the PM we’d send our best man.’
‘Oh, good,’ muttered Bond. ‘You don’t think Snuggley might fit the bill better?’
‘003?’ said M. ‘His leg’s gone in for its annual service. No, James, it’s you – bags of parachuting, ski-ing, scuba-diving, unarmed combat, all that, right up your street.’
‘Quite,’ said Bond.
‘Pop along and see Charlie in Special Equipment,’ said M.
‘This,’ said Charlie, ‘is probably the most advanced truss in the world.’
‘It’s snug,’ said Bond. ‘What are all these pockets for?’
‘Spare surgical stockings,’ said Charlie, ticking off his fingers, ‘international pensions book, collapsible alloy crutches, Sanatogen capsules, arch supports, emergency pee bottle, mittens, underwater deaf-aid, thermal liberty bodice, and a handbell in case you fall over somewhere and can’t get up.’
‘Super,’ said Bond.
‘Also,’ said Charlie, ‘we’ve been over your Morris Traveller and, ha-ha, tarted it up a bit. Apart from the fact that you’ll now be able to get it up to fifty-five—’
‘Christ!’
‘—there’s an emergency inertia brake that brings it to a dead stop in the event of the driver having a heart attack, plus two big orange lights on stalks in both wings enabling you to drive it through narrow spaces, a foot-button that throws your window out instantly in the event of nausea, an inflatable anti-haemorrhoid ring set in the driver’s seat that activates at the first scream, and a 3x magnifying windshield that enables you to read road signs without getting out of the car.’
‘Fantastic,’ muttered Bond.
‘Good luck, 007,’ said Charlie, ‘and good hunting!’
He shook Bond’s hand, but gently.
Bond nosed forward out of the roundabout, onto the Dover road.
People hooted.
The Traveller lurched forward, stalled, lurched on again. 007 ground into third gear. He glanced in his mirror, for the tenth time. Somebody was following him. They had been following him since Blackheath, almost two hours ago.
At the next traffic light, Bond got out, and walked back.
‘I don’t sell off the float, grandpa,’ said the milkman.
‘Why have you been following me?’ said Bond levelly.
‘I got no option, have I?’ said the milkman. ‘First off, we’re the only two vehicles doing fifteen miles a wossname, second off, every time I bleeding pull out to overtake, you start wandering all over the road.’
‘Evasive action,’ snapped 007. ‘Don’t tell me you weren’t trying to force me into the ditch. You’re with SMERSH, right?’
The milkman took his cap off.
‘It says Unigate on here,’ he said.
‘Ha!’ cried Bond, and sprang into a Nakusai karate crouch, his left hand a club, his right fingers a dagger.
The milkman got out and helped him up.
‘It’s this knee I’ve got,’ said Bond.
‘Shouldn’t be out, old geezer like you,’ said the milkman. ‘It’s freezing.’
Bond laughed one of his short dry laughs. Once, men had gone white at the very sound.
‘Be warm enough, soon, eh? I trust you’re bound for Vesuvius?’
The milkman looked at him.
‘I got Mafeking Crescent to do, and a bulk yoghurt up the telephone exchange,’ he said, ‘then I’m off home for Pebble Mill.’
‘A likely story!’ cried Bond. ‘What’s under that moustache, you Chinese bastard?’
007 made a lightning grab at the milkman’s upper lip, misjudged the distance, and caught his forefinger in his opponent’s mouth. The milkman closed his teeth on Bond’s frail knuckle, and the agent fell back into the road. As he lay there, a bus-driver walked up, stood on him absently, and said to the milkman.
‘These bleeding lights have gone green twice, sunshine.’
‘Don’t blame me,’ said the milkman, ‘this old bugger stuck his hand in my gob.’
The bus-driver glanced down.
‘It’s this ten pounds Christmas bonus they’re getting,’ he said. ‘It’s driving ’em all barmy. They’ve been smoking on the downstairs deck all morning.’ He bent down, and hauled Bond upright. ‘Come on, uncle, I’ll see you across to the Whelk & Banjo.’
He took Bond into the public bar, and sat him on a stool, and went out again.
Bond took five pills. His hand was shaking, his heart was pounding, there was a tic in his right eye, and his bronchitis was coming back. He ought to get on, it was four clear days to Naples, given that he refused to drive at night and wanted to pop into the clinic at Vitry-le-François for his monthly checkup.
But, then again, was it worth it? The KGB might hit him, the CIA might shout at him if he couldn’t keep up, his surgical skis were as yet untested, and as for swimming the Bay of Naples, he had noticed in himself of late an unsettling tendency to sink. Added to all of which, his SMERSH counterpart was a big Balinese stripper fifty years his junior, and he doubted that his current sexual techniques would persuade her to defect, given that he preferred doing it in his herringbone overcoat these days, apart from the fact that he had last performed a mere eight months before and seriously doubted whether his forces were yet in a position to be remustered.
It wasn’t a bad pub, all in all, thought Bond. He could write out a report from here, elaborating a bit. After all, what could they expect for fifty quid a week after stoppages?
The barman looked up at Bond’s cough.
‘What’ll it be?’ he said.
‘I’ll have a small Wincarnis,’ said Bond. He took off his balaclava. ‘Shaken, not stirred.’
29
Bottle Party
Boozers are being offered the bender of a lifetime: an alcoholiday in the sun. The special attraction is twelve hours’ drinking a day, FREE! Tourists will pay £45 for the trip to the island of Majorca, and for their money they will get unlimited supplies of liquor at a three-star hotel. Tours manager Colin Woolf said: “Our clients will be able to drink until they fall down.”
Daily Mirror
Hotel Borrachera
Playa de Palma
Majorca
38th July 1977
Dear Auntie Thing, Alice, tall woman, big yellow teeth, Well, here we are at the, oops, there’s a blotty, hallo Blotty! Who’s a pretty Blotty then? at the, you know, and we are all having a wonderful O God Almighty these bloody Spanish pens! THESE BLOODY SPANISH PENS! THESE STINKING BLOODY LONG-HAIRED GREASY SPANISH WOP CHEAP LOUSY ROTTEN
Expen the scusil. Thrown pen over balcony, whee goes pen, hope it sticks in Spanish head, ha-ha, serve them right throwing Norman out of El Wizzo Niteclub just because Norman sick on bongo, no business having bongo where people can be sick on it anyhow, how they expect Norman do Knees Up Mother Thing with six bottles of vino sloshing about in him?
Norman lucky didn’t get run over, all mad drivers, also hate dogs, don’t realise thing running out of El Wizzo on all fours is man doing brilliant impression of airedale, Norman now got tyre marks all over his nice El Wizzo tablecloth.
Norman back now, got lice. Also had to share cell overnight with violent criminal, quantity surveyor from Wimbledon staying at posh place in Palma on fourteen-day gin excursion, went mad when barman tried to close bar, bit barman’s ear off. Disgusting putting my Norman in with him, Norman never ate anyone in his life.
Glad I brought up food.
Oh God.
Here I am, Auntie, back again! Where was I, oh yes, glad I mentioned food, food quite good, really, except too much paiella, trouble with paiella is you get shrimps in hair when face falls in it after third bottle, steak days are best except when they overcook it and you bruise your cheek.
Went to see fullbight last Monday where is my cigarette and sat in the sun with these gourds Norman bought where you have to squirt the wine into I KNOW I PUT MY BLOODY CIGARETTE DOWN SOMEWHERE where you have to squirt the wine into your mouth, only after the first couple of gourds Norman squirted it into ear of woman sitting next to him, woman scream blue murders, Norman leap up, woman’s husband leap up, sock Norman in his O JESUS AUNTIE PILLOW IS ON FIRE PILLOW IS BURNING, AUNTIE, AUNTIE, I MEAN NORMAN, NORMAN, PILLOW IS ON FIRE NORMAN.
O GOD AUNTIE NORMAN IS ASLEEP ON LOO WITH SOMBRERO ON MUST CLOSE NOW BACK LATER.
Back now, Auntie, it nearly dark, whole place smelling of foam. Not my fault, threw burning pillow off balcony, woman on balcony below leaning out drying hair in breeze, pillow land on head, hair flare up like chip-pan, woman shriek, people upstairs smell burning, call fire-brigade, fire-brigade come, no hydrant so attach pump to swimming pool supply, drain swimming-pool dry and find two English couples lying on bottom surrounded by bottles, police doctor say they dead two days. Funny thing, Norman wondered why conger line shorter than usual at El Wizzo last two nights.
Meanwhile man downstairs put wife’s head out with fire-extinguisher, woman now not only burned bald but face all wrinkled up from chemicals and suntan fallen off, woman look like old golf ball. Husband ran upstairs, kicked in door, punched Norman in face, Norman fell off loo, now asleep in bath, so everything a bit calmer now.
Poor Norman, got black eye now to go with cauliflower ear received at bullfight after husband of woman with wine in ear sock Norman in his. Terrible blow, after that Norman see four bullfighters sticking four swords into four bulls every time he look.
Everybody know only two bulls and two bullfighters, clear as nose on thing. Two noses.
Anyway, Auntie, after bullfight met very nice English couple lying underneath charabanc, grocer from Birkenhead and lovely wife Arthur. All went out for dinner together, and Arthur danced in soup.
Arranged to meet on beach next day, and great fun burying Norman, falling down in sea, throwing ice cream at boring Swede families, etcetera, until it was time for lunch. Invited couple back to our hotel for five or six bottles. Only when half-way through second course and Arthur asleep on butter dish that Birkenhead grocer suddenly start counting.
‘What is it?’ I ask him.
‘What is two and one?’ he reply.
We think for a bit.
‘Three,’ I say finally.
‘Thought so,’ he comment. ‘We never dug up Norman.’
Rush back to beach, dragging Arthur by foot, Arthur’s arms flailing about knocking things off tables as we cross diningroom, bloody lucky most diners asleep under tables, but one or two Germans, French, etcetera start kicking up fuss when chicken legs start falling in laps, screaming, shouting, terrible thing about foreigners, can’t hold their drink.
O GOD AUNTIE I AM SOBERING UP. IF NORMAN COMES ROUND AND FINDS ME HE WILL GO SPARE, HOLIDAY COSTING HIM FORTUNE HE SAYS, MUST DRINK TWELVE BOTTLES A DAY JUST TO BREAK EVEN, WHERE TELEPHONE, WHERE ROOM SERVICE?
Hallo Mummie, Auntie, fat old cow, fancy giving us a wooden toast rack for a wedding present NO I DON’T BLEEDING FORGET EVEN IF IT IS TWELVE YEARS YOU FLY-BLOWN OLD RATBAG, feel a lot better now, nice bog bittle inside me, good idea having spiders walking all over the wallpaper, keep the flies off, especially green spiders, hallo green spiders wherever you are, I hope your troubles are few, all my good wishes go with you tonight, I was a spider, too, hee-hee-hee-hee-hee, O TOOTH ALMIGHTY I HAVE BROKEN A GOD ON THE BEDSIDE TABLE
hallo norman
Norman did not want me to wake him up Auntie he has hit me with the bidet HOW DID YOU GET THE BIDET OFF THE WALL AUNTIE, NORMAN, BELOVED, HOW DID YOU MANAGE TO why are my slippers floating past?
I have to close now Auntie, the manager has ordered a car to take us to the airport YES I AM REFERRING TO YOU YOU SWARTHY DAGO PIG I WOULDN’T STAY ANOTHER MINUTE IN YOUR BUG-RIDDEN RAT-HOLE FOR ALL THE TEA IN IN IN I DON’T KNOW WHERE SO STICK THAT UP YOUR CASTANET AND FLAP IT HAR HAR HAR.
You know what it is, Auntie, don’t you, you know what it is all right, you know what it is with these bloody people, they’re just a load of filthy anti-British bigots, that’s what it is!
Hoping this finds you as it as it as it thing,
Your loving niece,
er,
30
The Unacknowledged Legislators of the World
The Poetry Society is falling apart. Rows about personalities, about money, about vanishing booze, fights over control and future plans, mass accusations and resignations have all played their part in what one of the poets has described as the war between poetry and bureaucracy: ‘I can’t remember when we last talked about poetry at a council meeting’ he told the Guardian. But wasn’t it always like that?
The meeting convened at 2.30 pm.
Mr William Wordsworth immediately rose to say, in his own defence, that there was a tree, of many, one, a single field which he had looked upon, both of them spoke of something that was gone; the pansy at his feet did the same tale repeat: whither was fled the visionary gleam? Where was it now, the glory and the dream?
Mr Andrew Marvell said that that was all very well, but it did not justify £28.40 return rail fare to Keswick, plus £14.26 overnight stay at the Come On Inne and £19.70 for a steak dinner for two, plus three bottles of Bulgarian Riesling. There were plenty of trees and fields within walking distance of the Society’s premises perfectly capable of raising questions about the disappearance of visionary gleams and similar cod’s wallop. Also, he would like to know why the steak dinner was for two people, and did it have anything to do with the pansy at Mr Wordsworth’s feet?
Mr Wordsworth replied that he had found love in huts where poor men lie, his daily teachers had been woods and rills, the silence that was in the starry sky, the sleep that was among the lonely hills, and you could not get that kind of thing in Camden Town. As to the steak dinner, he did not see what business it was of anybody else’s who had joined him for it.
Mr Marvell said that had they but world enough and time, this coyness, Wordsworth, were no crime, but some of them weren’t bloody paperback millionaires and couldn’t muck about all day nattering, also this was taxpayers’ money and not intended for filling Wordsworth’s poofter shepherd oppos with foreign booze. His, Marvell’s, mistresses never required more than a bottle of Mackeson’s beforehand and a Vesta curry afterwards, never mind a night at the Come On Inne.
Mr Wordsworth said that if he must know, the gentleman referred to was Samuel Taylor Coleridge, exemplar of an imagination, which, in truth, was but another name for absolute power, and clearest insight, amplitude of mind, and Reason in her most exalted mood.
Mr Marvell asked Mr Wordsworth to pull this one, it had bells on. No offence to the Hon Member S.T. Coleridge, but he had recently seen him with an arm round a Chief Petty Officer outside a mi
ssion near Albert Dock.
Mr Coleridge replied that it was an ancient mariner and he had stopped one of three. If the other two were here today, he continued, they would corroborate his story. The sailor had an idea for a poem and was looking for someone to go halves with him. Anyway, he had a long grey beard and a glittering eye and was probably old enough to be his, Coleridge’s, mother. Father.
Mr John Milton rose to enquire about the sailor’s idea: did it have anything to do with Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste brought death into the world, and all our woe?
Mr Coleridge said no, he thought it was about a gull or something, why did Mr Milton want to know?
Mr Milton replied that the had paid good money for the idea about Man’s first disobedience etc. and was buggered if he was going to see it come out in some tatty down-market form, such as rhyming bloody quatrains, before he had had a go at it. He was envisaging something in about twelve books, it could take weeks.
Mr Alexander Pope asked the Council if they intended subsidising Mr Milton’s living expenses while he was knocking out twelve books on fruit. No slur intended, he went on, but he had always considered Mr Milton a bookful blockhead, ignorantly read, with loads of learned lumber in his head. Such laboured nothings, in so strange a style, amazed the unlearned, and made the learned smile. Pardon him, he said, but he spoke as he found.
Mr Milton said Mr Pope was a complicated monster, head and tail, scorpion and asp, and Amphisbaena dire, Cerastes horned, Hydrus and Ellops drear.
Mr Thomas Gray rose to say that this was all very well, but it wasn’t getting the cracked pan in the Members’ Gents repaired, which was why, so he understood it, the meeting had been convened in the first place. Only yesterday, he said, the caretaker had forbade the wade through water to the throne, and shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
Mr John Greenleaf Whittier enquired as to whether the crack was so wide, so deep, that no man living might this fissure weld?