Mr Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

Holly Goodhead!

Since Daniel Craig's gonna be up for the role of Mr Superspy himself by the end of this year in the much-anticipated Casino Royale, the cable tv's seen fit to televise a James Bond marathon with a different movie each night. While Xander Cage might have been touted as this new millennium's brash tough guy, I'm sorry but for me it's always been the polished, understated Bond with the License to Kill.

And since my doting couch potato parents and I are dedicated fans of that cool Brit fella that's hardly shaken and rarely stirred, we've been catching it every once so often as he thunderballs through the screen with his usual savoir faire. Perhaps even a touch of nostalgia watching the hero power his way with the aid of supposedly futuristic gadgetry that seems a tragic neanderthal throwback to the stone age these days. Still, misogynist or not, Cold war dinosaur or not ( or whatever foul epithets the ice-cold, pseudo-tough biatch M might throw at him ), James Bond always entertains.

Surely most budding young heterosexual boys must have had some desperately wet dreams about taking the role of the slick, suave superspy, driving that awesome pimped ride, waving that fantastic weapon to nail all the bad guys - and yeah, also nailing some of the bad girls who're trying to get onatopp :P Obviously I've given up on any such prepubescent dreams of getting octopussy. For one thing, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do with the femme fatale likes of Pussy Galore or Kissy Suzuki other than tying them up to keep them quiet - or sending them to the wilds of Russia with love.


Have you been a bad spy? A really really bad spy?
And to be frank - this is for your eyes only of course, living the straight life can get awfully boring especially since I've always had that secret penchant to be the man with the golden gun. I've always had this wicked fantasy of being one of those ubiquitous, oft-silly two-dimensional crime bosses with stereotypical one-liners. Not only would I hire oversized henchmen with decapitating bowler hats, shockingly razor-sharp teeth and brains the size of a peanut, I would dress in the most garish white suits with the prerequisite bling-blings and my ever-present fluffy white Persian.

Since I've always had a malevolent view to a kill, my secondary diversion ( apart from keeping a bevy of gorgeous, subservient Chris Evans / Brandon Routh clones on that clandestine isle of MenmEnmeN ) would be my private menagerie of nastier pets comprising vicious man-eating piranhas or beady-eyed, Jurasssic-inspired velociraptors who'd chomp up spies before they could even think of living twice ( or even recalcitrant cronies who didn't perform ). Forget about dying another day.

Can't just live and let die of course since the ever-dutiful spies ( on her majesty's secret service! ) were planning to foil my maniacal, diabolical and highly improbable plot to take over the civilized world as we know it. Of course before I eagerly fed them to the proverbial sharks, I'd take the time to scare the living daylights out of them by detailing each and every delicious, tantalizing portion of my nefarious murder plan - not to mention spilling the beans on that hush hush top-secret Moonraker base I'm building in my bid to conquer the world. And even the universe since the world is not enough!

Oh. That is unless the aforementioned superspy resembles the ever-luscious Brandon Routh, then I'd hypnotize him with my seductive goldeneyes so that he'd become the spy who loved me. Doesn't mean I wouldn't torture him a little with some goldfingering first to make sure he's shaken and stirred :)

God, when did I become Dr No, that Master of Evil?