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. Continue Reading
Like half the UK population, and probably one in seven of all of the people on this planet, we settled down approaching nine pm Greenwich Time to watch the only Opening Ceremony broadcast from these islands that the majority of us will witness during our lifetimes. Three and a half hours later, as the last athletes were being herded away from the lit cauldron, we drifted off to bed feeling the same warm glow from that eternal flame, after what turned-out to be an absolute triumph for its creator.
Is this what Jimi Hendrix meant by Purple Haze?
Our personal evening was made all the more enjoyable by a very thoughtful option provided on the red button – the ability to watch the coverage sans-commentary. This had been sought, and found, within nano-seconds of discovering that the BBC’s commentator was Huw Edwards, a news presenter who winds me up simply by sitting in a studio looking into a camera. He doesn’t even have to open his mouth to have me reaching for the remote, so the prospect of several hours of his particular brand of snide commentary, delivered in pseudo-dulcet welsh tones, did not appeal. As it turned-out, experiencing the ceremony in the same way as those lucky 80,000 actually in the stadium was by far the better option.