“This never happened to the other fella”
by Pseud O'Nym
Last night I had a ‘Billy Liar’ moment.
For those of you who haven’t seen the classic British film ‘Billy Liar’ – and you really need to take a long hard look at yourselves if you haven’t – Billy is a fantasist who yearns to escape the drab northern town where he lives with parents to seek fame and fortune in London.
Anyway, at one point in the film Billy is outlining his plans to his parents during breakfast, who in a 1950’s provincial way, pour scorn on his ambition. Billy retreats into his fantasy world, where imagines machine gunning them to death over their boiled eggs and toast. I know how he feels. In my mind, I’ve committed the most unspeakably heinous crimes countless times throughout my life. Last night being case a case in point, one where I imagined all manner of gruesome ways to put others out of my misery. That isn’t my line. That belongs to Hugo Drax in ‘Moonraker, one of Roger Moore’s woeful Bond films.
In fact all of Moore’s outings Bond were embarrassing. It was nearly as difficult to imagine him as a hard man who could handle himself, as it was to imagine as him as hard man that ladies would want to handle. What? If you think that was bad, I’ve got some pure filth cuming soon.
Although Moore didn’t have much to beat in Connery, to be fair. As someone who has read all the books, and once as a 14-year-old boy went to a Bond convention, I think I know what I’m talking about here. Actually, come to mention it, the Bond in the books is as different to the Bond in the Connery/Moore/Dalton/Brosnan films as to be an entirely different character. The Bond in the books is a bit of a sadist, a bit unsure of himself, there are hardly any gadgets – other than those you’d expect a spy to have – so no invisible cars and he is far from the walking S.T.D he is in the films. In the books, if memory serves, he only beds fourteen women and marries one, who is then murdered.
In fact, the book ‘The Spy Who Loved Me’ was only published after Fleming’s death, written as it was, from the woman’s point of view. For some reason, the heroine finds herself in a motel and is being terrorised by some mafia types. Bond, by chance, is staying there, learns of this and does what Bond does. After all, what good is a licence to kill if you don’t kill anyone? Fleming was conflicted by this departure from the norm and fearful of the public’s reaction, stipulated publication posthumously.
Until Daniel Craig rescued the films from disappearing up their own Q branch, the best Bond film was by quite a wide margin the superb ‘On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.’ Quite faithful to the book – by then the films were only using book title and characters names and making the plot up -, having an actor who looked the part, fantastic action sequences – a simply amazing ski chase – a fantastic Tracey, who Bond marries – and, lets face it who wouldn’t marry Diana Rigg? A heartbreak of an ending, and by far, the best score of any Bond film ever. Takes the one from the dismal ‘Spectre’ outside and pisses all over it.
My theory is that after a really good Craig Bond, there follows a really bad one. After ‘Casino Royale’ – again, faithful to the book – there followed the eminently forgettable ‘Quantum Of Solace. And after excellent ‘Skyfall’ the execrable ‘Spectre’
Sorry but I can never resist a stroll down Tangent Street. and besides. it bothers me, the people think the Bond in the books is the quip loving, bed hopping, stuffed shirt he was in most of the films. Always has.
Back to last night.
After various homicidal imaginings, I repaired to my room, where I decided that perhaps getting pissed up on beer wasn’t the most sensible thing to do, given the mood I was in. I then wisely fell asleep. Unwisely, I woke up at about 1am, and even more unwisely, decided to use my exercise bike. Not that using the bike is a bad thing, but more that exiting my room into the kitchen my eyes fell upon an open box with some of that evenings fish and chips on the cooker. Yes that would be the kitchen with the mice. Just inviting the mice to have their fill. Remember that filth I mentioned earlier. Here it cums. I looked at the open box and it put me in mind of a cottage – not one with a white picket fence – and someone waiting with their mouth open by a glory hole.
There’s a fourth wall break at the end of the ‘OHMSS’ pre-credit sequence which accurately sums up how I feel about myself some of the time. I think of me as two distinct personages; pre-brain injury me and post-brain injury me. The story I tell myself is that whilst I wasn’t happy all the tine, I certainly wasn’t as unhappy all the time.