Last night many of you will have been shot by a spy in formal attire and will have both loved it and paid for the privilege. You will have sat in the dark, even at the beginning, just seconds from a delicious end, watching that ageless white dot as it skipped across the screen and then framed the sashaying silhouette of Daniel Craig. You will have gasped as he wheeled and nailed you, delighting in the scarlet waterfall of your "blood".
Don't shoot me, but I'm not a fan, even though it seems everyone is running around like Chicken Licken, squawking about the new Bond film as if the sky really was falling.
It's not easy to show dissent. Bond is so much part of every Union Jack and Jill's life that it's almost impossible to stand unmoved, but I must.
Villains living in hollowed-out volcanoes with a private army and planning permission for a monorail? Nah. I know many women would happily eat Danny up with a spoon, but I'm immune to his snug blue trunks. Nevertheless, I suspect the reason for the recent films' success is that DC is the first Bond since Sean Connery to make women crave a game of I Spy.
Me? I prefer the Bourne films. That guy’s a better fighter and can’t even remember his name, never mind repeat fifty per cent of it to anyone who’ll listen. And that has to be a plus.
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