Is James Bond an alcoholic? Well, according to the British Medical Journal, yes. This, of course, is the 007 of his originator Ian Fleming, not the metrosexual version proffered by the current film franchise, who will soon have him poncing about saving the planet in a Prius, complete with solar-powered stun guns and a humane spider trap. Nevertheless, this new version is most-likely the more successful secret agent, not the original. He was a lush.
The report, compiled by several researchers who studied all fourteen original Bond novels, found that “after exclusion of days when Bond was unable to drink…” (presumably when he was unavoidably tied-up in a meeting contemplating a laser approaching his genitals) “…his weekly alcohol consumption was over four times the recommended amount.” Their conclusion: “The level of functioning as displayed in the books is inconsistent with the physical, mental, and indeed sexual functioning expected from someone drinking this much alcohol.” OK, but try telling Mary Goodnight that he wasn’t the Man with the Golden Gun.
Obviously, the report is a spoof to entertain the Journal’s Christmas audience who doubtless need a bit of a fillip before they have to cope with the upcoming rush of revellers suffering from their own form of festive haze. Well done chaps, Ho, Ho, Ho and all that!
Unfortunately, our increasingly-temperate media cannot let such a rich source of hectoring pass by without giving us another of their interminable lectures on the perils of the demon drink. ‘Science confirms Bond is an alcoholic’ screams Time magazine. ‘Yes, Mr Bond, we expect you to die – from booze!,’ shrieks USA Today. ‘Bond at Risk of early death,’ warns CNN. And of course, our own darling BBC weighs in with ‘James Bond is an impotent drunk.’ It is interesting to note the present tense in all of that, considering that Fleming wrote the novels over fifty years ago.
Thankfully, The Independent adds some much-needed gravitas: ‘Despite his alcohol consumption, he is still described as being able to carry out highly complicated tasks and function at an extraordinarily high level. This is likely to be pure fiction.’
What all of it? Surely not! You mean his car wasn’t fitted with an ejector seat? That he didn’t escape from that tank of man-eating sharks with a knowing wink and a merry quip about indigestion? But the submarine pens under the hollowed-out volcano – surely they are true? The house that rises up from under the sea? Plus, of course, all those gorgeous girls with names like Pussy Galore, Honey Rider and Dr. Molly Warmflash. Just gotta be true, don’t you think?
To suggest that Bond couldn’t function after a few Martinis is also pushing it. We’ve all encountered stories of people waking-up to discover the results of a heavy evening, with no recollection of what produced them. But the worst of those was probably the chap who found a double decker bus in his drive, coupled with a vague recollection of driving home from the pub when he hadn’t taken the car out in the first place. But discovering next morning that you have stolen a space shuttle and parked it a few hundred miles away, vertically, next to a diamond-encrusted death ray – you could dine-out on that one for the rest of your life!
Of course, Bond really is a fictional character – a figment of a real Naval Intelligence officer’s imagination. Having read numerous thrillers over the years, I’ve noticed that their heroes do tend to achieve the impossible, through superhuman accomplishments, despite the odds or, indeed, the critics that would prefer us all to read Proust instead. It’s called Escapism. Unfortunately, nowadays there really is no escape.
I’m afraid that, this time Mr Bond, they have you surrounded by your most dreaded enemies – highly-trained nannies and elite do-gooders.
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