Skyfallen

I’m trying not to get excited about the new James Bond film. Not because I want to appear cool and blasé, but because the movie won’t be shown in the Congo until well into 2013. A prematurely excited gorilla is an undesirable phenomenon in a finely tuned ecosystem. It puts the other gorillas on edge, which can lead to bushes being abused and uprooted.

Longstanding readers of this blog will know that Danny Craig is one of my protégés. He offered to send me a pirate DVD of the movie, but I declined his generous offer:

“You mustn’t violate the copyright just to curry favour with me, Danny,” I said. “I’ll be satisfied with a lock of Naomie Harris’s pubic hair.”

I was joking, of course. A big hairy ape like me has no interest in human tufts.

Film reviewers have been counting the scenes in which Danny takes off his shirt. When a movie magazine asked him whether he minded displaying his chest like a hunk of meat, his response was phlegmatic:

“I don't care how many times I have to do it,” he said, adding: “It's going to be harder and harder the older I get.”

Sad but true. Those perfectly-toned pecs will eventually morph into man boobs, making Danny look like a transvestite on hormone therapy. I advised him to delay the inevitable by stimulating his chest muscles with electric shocks, but unfortunately he’s too squeamish. Only real secret agents can bear having electrodes attached to their bosoms.

The manager of the safari camp is always pestering me with his ideas for the Bond movies. I think he hopes I’ll pass them on to Danny. His latest brainwave is that James Bond should have a nubile sister who appears in the films:

“There ought to be a woman you can fantasize about without having to compete with 007,” he explained.

“Wouldn’t Bond get annoyed if someone shagged his sister?” I asked.

“Not unless he was a total hypocrite,” said the manager. “And besides, why would his sister give a damn about what he thought? She’d be a strong enough character to sleep with anyone she fancied and tell her brother to butt out.”

He might be on to something, but who would be suitable for the part? Obviously, she’d have to be a big name in her own right. Jessica Bond isn’t a role for an aspiring starlet, no matter how impressive her vital statistics. After gently racking my brains, I thought of Christina Aguilera, who has recently won acclaim for her ability to function without knickers:

“I don’t like wearing underwear,” she said on a chat show. “I like to be as free as possible at all times. It’s just who I am. It’s empowering. It’s pussy power!”

How fitting it would be for a fearless commando like James Bond to have a sister who fearlessly goes commando herself. Pussy power is also perfect for the part. I’d be tempted to give Christina the role without an audition and let the director worry about her acting skills.

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Quantum of tookus

Wonderful to see my friend Danny Craig doing his Action Man stuff in the latest Bond flick. How far he has come from the whiny insecure actor who came to see me after signing on with Madam Broccoli.

“I’ll be another George Lazenby!” he wailed. “The critics will pan me and the actresses I kiss will eat garlic!”

“Don’t talk rot, Danny!” I cried. “The critics will worship you – and if any actress dares to eat garlic before you smooch her, stick a funnel in her mouth and pour in Listerine until she chokes!”

Thus reassured, Danny went on to do marvellous things in Casino Royale, jumping about like a Mexican bean and allowing his gonads to be whipped for Queen and country. Quantum of Solace is destined to be an ever bigger hit, not least because of the greater variety of totty for Bond to exert his loins upon. There’s a love scene in the film which I had a modest role in choreographing. During the shoot, Danny phoned me to say that he’d soon be planting kisses on the naked back of Miss Gemma Arterton, his delectable auburn-haired co-star:

“All the way down from her neck, GB!” he boasted excitedly. “Not bad, eh? It beats running like a hare in the action sequences!”

“All the way down!” I exclaimed in horror. “No, Danny, no! James Bond does not kiss arse, no matter how peachy and succulent! You must put your foot down!”

“But I don’t actually kiss her arse!” he protested. “Obviously they’ll cut before I get there or we’ll never get a 12A rating!”

“It doesn’t matter, Danny,” I replied. “Even implying that James Bond smooches butt is an absolute no-no. You must protect the integrity of the character for yourself and future generations of fans. Please insist on starting at the small of her back and working your way upwards.”

“You could be right,” he mused. “I’ll probably strain my neck going all the way down. Going up will give me a better posture and I’ll finish in shot.”

Those of you who’ve seen the movie will know that Danny acted on my advice. His mouth travels up Miss Arterton's spine while remaining a safe distance from her ravishing rump. Having said that, I have my doubts about Bond nibbling a woman's body like a gigolo – he’s obviously not a man for fannying about when he's got a lady where he wants her. I’m not convinced that any foreplay is actually necessary: the mere prospect of being pumped by 007 should bring a woman to within a single penetrative thrust of orgasm. Female agents of a more belligerent persuasion might feel the earth move if he forced them against a wall and stroked their crotch vigorously with his Walther PPK. Not very true to life, admittedly, but very much part of the fantasy. A man who cheats death fives times a day shouldn’t have to fiddle about with a lady’s bits and pieces to get her in the mood.

Although I love the Bond films, I have to say that my females are not the least bit impressed by 007 and his macho posturing. As well as being insufficiently hairy for their taste, his arms are too short for the kind of games they enjoy. They also assume he must be infertile, having mated with countless women without fathering a single child. This makes him little better than a eunuch to a female gorilla. They are intrigued by his gadgets, though, and were very fond of the late Desmond Llewellyn, who played ‘Q’. Age is no barrier to being a babe magnet in the jungle if your equipment is up to scratch.

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