Wednesday, November 11, 2015
Spectre
I overheard some tourists on safari discussing the new James Bond movie.
“Have you seen it?” they asked me.
“Not yet,” I replied.
“We better stop talking about it so we don’t spoil it for you.”
“How very considerate of you,” I said. “But when it finally appears in the Congo I will have forgotten everything you say, so don’t hold your tongues on my account.”
The manager of the safari camp, who lacks the patience of a gorilla, will shortly be visiting London with his wife so he can watch it at a West End cinema. I have advised him to take his cattle prod with him.
The question on the lips of every Bond buff is whether Daniel Craig has completed his stint in the role. The producer, Ms Broccoli, has muddied the waters by claiming she wants to hang on to him for as long as possible. This is just luvvie talk. Speaking as Danny’s confidante and mentor, I know for a fact that his 007 days are over. Time is the pitiless eroder of all flesh, and Danny is far too sensitive about his appearance to risk another Bond love scene.
“What am I going to do about my moobs?” he asked me the last time we spoke on the phone.
“Cover them up, Danny,” I answered. “If the sweatshirt doesn’t work, try the male brassiere.”
There’s been a lot of idle speculation about who the next Bond will be, with some suggesting he should be gay or black. The most radical idea of all is to make him a woman. And by “woman”, I mean a human born with two X chromosomes rather than a man who’s had his dangly bits cut off. The idea sounds ludicrous on the face of it, but many great advances in art were ridiculed and belittled when they first appeared. Think of the Spaghetti Western, the garden gnome and the merkin.
My own view is that a female Bond might just work, but she would have to be a lesbian. And not just your typical slick-tongued harridan with hairy armpits, but a dyke so delicious that even heterosexual women would find her irresistible. You can’t have a Bond film without dolly birds being seduced, with or without the assistance of a strap-on.
A shortlist of actresses to play Jessica Bond is available in this website, but none of the candidates looks spunky enough to me. They’re all too girly to pistol-whip the bad guys and remove the panties of the bad girls with their teeth.
I would give the part to Amanda Donohoe, the English actress who performed the first lesbian kiss for a prime-time American audience in L.A. Law. Amanda is not a lesbian in real life, but nor is she the kind of lady who lies on her back and waits for the man to do his thing. If she got the part, we’d quickly forget the days that 007 was packing anything more than a Walther PKK in his trousers.
Labels: Amanda Donohoe, Daniel Craig, James Bond, lesbian
Wednesday, September 16, 2015
Queen and country
Pierce Brosnan has made the daring suggestion that the next James Bond should be gay. The idea is not quite as preposterous as it sounds. It would be good to have a Bond who dresses stylishly and knows all the fancy dance steps. A musical production on Broadway would not be out of the question.
Yet no one should underestimate the conundrums and dilemmas of pulling off such an outrageous coup. The thorny issue of sex inevitably rears its throbbing head. As anyone who’s followed the Bond franchise knows, carnal intimacy is no mere recreation for 007. He often has to sleep with women to pump them for information. Sometimes the baddies try to catch him with his pants down, but the attempt invariably fails, leaving them with much egg white on their faces. You know the day of reckoning is approaching when a cocksure Bond thwarts his treacherous assassins. While it’s certainly possible for a gay man to have sex with a woman (think of Oscar Wilde, Rock Hudson and John Travolta), it’s not in the nature of Bond to fake orgasms or shoot with his gun half-cocked. One limp love scene could ruin the entire movie.
Then there’s the question of dealing with the villains, most of whom are men. Despicable blackguards though they are, it cannot be denied that many of them are sexy beasts (e.g. Kamal Khan and his big-turbaned henchman in Octopussy). Could a gay secret agent kill a man in cold blood that he was sexually attracted to? Or would his finger tremble on the trigger as he pointed his lethal weapon? I don’t pretend to know the answer to these questions, but the doubts are sufficient to warrant a thorough investigation. The court calls Mistress Maddie as an expert witness.
Now, the sexuality of crime-fighting heroes is a recurrent topic of conjecture. Batman and Robin were thought to be in the closet by many, although that never stopped Catwoman from trying to bring out the tomcat in the Caped Crusader. Maybe the smell of his sweaty tights interfered with her gaydar. More recently, the actor who plays Spiderman has suggested that his character should by gay or bisexual. Actually, I don’t see how he could be anything inside that skin-hugging costume. Someone should solve the riddle of how Spiderman takes a leak before pondering the question of his sexual urges.
My own view is that the truly dedicated crime-fighter should be asexual, like the late Steve McGarrett of Hawaii-5-0. Anyone can see that James Bond is a ludicrous fantasy figure invented by Ian Fleming, a wannabe action hero who seduced women with champagne and sausages. Personally, I could never trust a public servant who was obsessed about sex. Dirty Harry rarely got laid, and when he did the woman had to practically open her thighs and sit on his face. That’s the way it has to be for a no-crap law-enforcer. You can’t be thinking about poontang when you’re protecting the public from villains and vagabonds.
Labels: Batman and Robin, gay crime fighters, James Bond, poontang, Spiderman
Wednesday, August 05, 2015
Incurable Afflecktion
Ben Affleck has got in a tizzy over allegations that he slept with his children’s nanny:
“The story is complete garbage and full of lies!” he bawled. “It’s shameful and desperate!”
Any man who contests a conjecture so hotly is probably hiding something, but that would be straying into matters of irrelevance. I have no interest in what games Affleck and the nanny played inside the wendy house. What bothers me is the vehemence of the denial, which indicates a lack of etiquette. A man should never imply that having sexual relations with a particular woman is an abomination on a par with massaging the devil’s buttocks. The poor nanny must be feeling like Henrietta of Hagsville.
I remember when my old circus buddy Smacker Ramrod was rumoured to have slept with the daughter of a local farmer, thereby obtaining free supplies of fresh milk, whipping cream and other choice delicacies. The ringmaster publicly confronted him on the issue:
“Ramrod, you sly dog!” he exclaimed. “Have you been procuring fresh produce by rogering the farmer’s daughter?”
Smacker smiled wistfully and sighed, looking into the distance.
“I should be so lucky,” he said.
His answer was the last word spoken on the subject, and when the farmer’s daughter got to hear of it she was immensely gratified. So much so, that the favours she allegedly performed for him were extravagantly enhanced and upgraded.
Another fine example of such gallantry occurred in the film Live and Let Die, in which James Bond seduced a virgin priestess played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour. The downside of this auspicious event was that Miss Solitaire (as she was known) lost her power of prophecy, which is the unavoidable fate of any virgin seer who is despoiled by a sharp-shooting servant of the Crown.
This greatly displeased the crime baron who controlled her. After capturing Bond, he summoned Miss Solitaire to the interrogation chamber and immediately guessed what had happened. In the style of the ringmaster, he put the question to his captive directly, not sparing the blushes of the deflowered maiden who unwillingly witnessed the scene. As one would expect of a British secret agent, Bond was unflappable:
“That’s not the sort of question a gentleman answers,” he replied dismissively.
Everyone knew, of course, that Bond had tutored her in the wiles of the boudoir, but a man of honour is discreet in his utterances about the ladies he consorts with.
One has to pity Mr Affleck for lacking the refinement to respond to an accusation of hanky panky with the decorum befitting a squire of the parish. It is too late for him to learn these niceties? One would like to think that he could acquire such habits if he served an apprentice as a dogsbody of Colin Firth or some other thespian of more notable pedigree. On the other hand, one look at his spoiled, whiny face suggests he is too far gone to be improved by an example of superior manners and deportment.
Labels: Ben Affleck, Colin Firth, hanky-panky, James Bond, Miss Solitaire, nanny
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Licking James Bond
A 26-year-old actress called Karen Gillan has said she wants to lick Daniel Craig’s face. Before you denounce her as a shameless hoochie, take note of her intention to perform this act in a professional capacity. Her dream is to appear in a Bond movie, playing a villainess who would demonstrate her brazen effrontery by slobbering on 007’s cheeks. According to Karen, her father was the inspiration behind this unusual ambition:
“My dad used to tell me when I was younger, ‘You don't want to be a Bond girl; you want to be a villain’. That stuck with me.”
Let’s hope her tongue doesn’t stick to Danny’s face. Knowing him as I do, I am certain he would not find the prospect appealing. That tanned, clean-shaven countenance we admire on the big screen is heavily coated with cosmetics. Licking it off would make him feel naked. Far from promoting her cause, Miss Gillan’s audacious announcement will make Danny very reluctant to work with her. She would have done less harm to her chances by saying she wanted to lick his arse.
There are surprisingly few good licking scenes in big budget movies. Steven Bauer wiggled his tongue at several women in Scarface, but his invitations came to naught. John Turturo licked his bowling ball in The Big Lebowski, but what did that prove? Any fool can lick an inanimate object. The only licking of actual flesh I can remember occurred in The Name of the Rose, when the ugly hunchback licked the leg of the sultry peasant girl. She didn’t like it one bit and cursed him in an obscure medieval language, which may have been French. Another good licking opportunity arose in the same movie, when the apprentice monk played by Christian Slater was ravished by the same peasant girl. But neither tongue got involved in the action – I suppose such things are often forgotten in the heat of the moment.
In truth, it is better to have your face licked by a cat than a human. The rasping feline tongue is admirably equipped for the purpose, whereas the human tongue is made for talking rather than polishing. This doesn’t mean that all humans are good speakers, of course. Britney Spears has a very attractive tongue, yet people have accused her of being too stupid to hold a conversation. Maybe she would be more articulate if she communicated in song.
Britney should nevertheless take heart from Kanye West’s recent statement about her:
“I am not Britney Spears,” he declared profoundly.
He may have meant it as an insult, but she should certainly take it as a compliment. The man has recently been charged with assaulting a photographer, and expects to beat the rap by boasting about his towering intellect:
“I’m the smartest celebrity you’ve ever fucking dealt with!” he told a lawyer in a deposition to the court.
One suspects he was exaggerating for effect. I can’t believe he’s brainier than 50 Cent or P. Diddy.
Labels: Britney Spears, Daniel Craig, James Bond, Kanye West, Licking
Wednesday, January 01, 2014
Fortune cuckoo
A tourist at the safari camp advises me to consult Madame Poot if I want to know what fate has in store for me in the coming year. In a fit of curiosity, I visit her webpage and discover that she will answer questions on-line, which is unusually obliging for a fortune teller. I consider typing in a question about the price of coconuts when a thought occurs to me: who exactly is Madame Poot? After clicking around the website, I find the following biographical details:
Madame Poot is a very old fortune teller, and very different from all other fortune tellers. While traveling through some ungodly desert, the engine of her pink 1970's Cadillac convertible died due to lack of oil, so there is where she lives today. She's seen many things in her life, most of which she can't really remember.
This story is superficially convincing, but there are obvious holes in it. Those of us who have visited deserts know that surviving there is no picnic. The Kalahari Bushmen can do it, but they have mastered all kinds of cunning tricks, like hunting for roots and squeezing the moisture from lizards. I, for one, would be parched as a cuttlefish in such a habitat, so how could an old French biddy live there without turning into something resembling a dried prune? The suspicion which cannot be suppressed is that Madame Poot is actually a computer program, created, in all probability, by a geeky teenage boy. I hope his mother tells him he’s not too old for a spanking.
To be honest, I don’t have much time for fortune tellers. Our local witch doctor used read my palm for a bottle of fermented mango juice, but most of what he told me was piffle. He eventually confessed to being a fraud when I held him upside down by his ankles. If I consulted a soothsayer today, it would have to be someone like Miss Solitaire in Live and Let Die, played by the nymph-like Jane Seymour.
Miss Solitaire, if you remember, used to work her magic with the tarot cards, which are far more intriguing than a crystal ball. She was also the last film character I can remember who was proud to be a virgin, not least because her powers depended on maintaining the purity of her flesh. Her career ended, of course, when James Bond deflowered her. It was a dishonourable seduction achieved through subterfuge and deceit, and predictably turned her into a pouting nymphomaniac who couldn’t foretell the ending of a Doris Day movie.
If all else fails, you can always use a Ouija board to hail passing spirits and ask them for their prognostications. This is what the clowns did in my circus days, although the spirits they contacted were usually as ignorant of the future as they were. The most famous one they communicated with was Liberace’s mother, who still hadn’t found out that her son was gay. The lesson for overly inquisitive humans is clear: ignorance is bliss.
Labels: fortune-tellers, James Bond, Liberace, Miss Solitaire
Wednesday, July 03, 2013
Brain anomaly
An English anthropologist has explained why the human masses are obsessed with celebrities. It seems that their brains are hard-wired that way because of a unique arse-licking gene (a.k.a. “butt-kissing gene”) possessed by homo sapiens. This causes them to squeal with excitement when a famous person comes into view and behave like a fawning toady.
It’s all about prestige, you see. Unlike other animals, humans can acquire status simply by sucking up to superstars and show-offs. Furthermore, the habits of these performers are studied obsessively by aspiring young fame-hunters hoping to further their own paths to glory. Lady Gaga was just a star-struck teenager when she saw Madonna and Britney French-kissing. Look at her now.
In the rest of the animal kingdom, behaviour is driven by fear rather than hero-worship. The hyena respects the pride male to avoid getting its head chewed off; the baboon respects the silverback to avoid getting its lights punched out; the zebra respects the rhino to avoid getting the horn. There’s no need to lick anyone’s butt in the African bush unless you’re trying to make friends.
A celebrity who is wowing the world with his zany antics is Russell Brand, the chirpy English comedian. It is alleged that he recently propositioned a middle-aged lesbian TV personality, although he might well have been joking. Middle-aged lesbians find it hard to judge whether a man is being ironic or genuinely wants to straighten them out. When questioned about his indiscretion, Brand promptly confessed that he couldn’t resist infiltrating lesbian liaisons:
“I won’t rest until every lesbian relationship in Britain has been disrupted by an unwelcome boorish Essex boy," he announced.
Will frisky young bucks now follow in Brand’s footsteps? I hope so. The best way of honing one’s skills is by taking on a nigh impossible challenge. As for the lesbians, there’s surely no harm in reminding them they’re still attractive to men. It would also give them a list of potential sperm donors should they ever wish to reproduce.
Of course, a celebrity is only worthy of emulation if he sticks to his forte and doesn’t bite off more than he can chew. I was sorry to hear that Justin Bieber has started aiming kung fu kicks at the paparazzi. Someone should tell Bieber that it takes years of training to carry out such stunts without looking like a jackrabbit or injuring your buttocks. It also requires spiritual instruction to acquire the demeanour of an inscrutable Chinaman.
A more outrageous case of celebrity overstretch is Victoria Spice’s suggestion that her husband should play James Bond. It goes without saying that Mr Becks is not remotely up to the task – he cannot act and his voice sounds like a cockney version of Mickey Mouse. I doubt he could get through the love scenes without grinning like a chimp. The good news is that he seems content in his current role of being eye-candy for a certain type of woman – (the type that isn’t interested in the quantity of grey matter in a man’s skull).
Labels: cult of celebrity, human brain, James Bond, Justin Bieber, Mr Becks, Russell Brand
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
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.
Labels: chest exposure, Christina Aguilera, Daniel Craig, going commando, James Bond, pussy power
Friday, October 31, 2008
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.
Labels: arse-kissing, Daniel Craig, Gemma Arterton, James Bond
