The Top Secret Diary of James Bond

December 2, 2006 at 10:15 pm Leave a comment

15st 7lb. People don’t realise how hard it is to be me. They don’t understand the emotional turmoil and heartache.

Take an example: I was infiltrating the Ritz in Paris in case some terrorists might be harbouring. I dropped into the kitchens through an air vent and (would you believe it!) the chefs started spraying me with AK47s. Noting the absence of explosive barrels (typical!) I ducked between the bullets (Matrix style – I love that film), picking them up one by one and dumping them head first into a vat of simmering soup.

I noticed an attractive woman watching me from the restaurant, so I took off my shirt and began composing a quip. After less than ten seconds (!), I took a sip and said, “Too many cooks spoil the broth,” drawing her attention to the analogy between the proverb (in which the cooks spoil the broth indirectly, by their actions, as it were) and the current situation, in which one might say they are having a direct adverse affect on the broth’s flavour. Five words for you: No Action For Little Jimmy. I just don’t understand why women detest me initially, and then suddenly warm to my charms as soon as I put them in a life-threatening situation.

And you’d think once I’d spotted the trend I’d be sorted, but no! I tried holding her out the window by her heels for a few minutes, and after that she wouldn’t even come near me. I guess she didn’t like the rain. Women!


New nemesis (at last!). I phoned for a pizza and the guy didn’t show up for forty minutes. Not wishing to kill the little bugger at such a premature stage in our mutual nemesisdom, I threw some copper coins at his face and quipped, “Keep the change.” He said, “Sorry Sir, I’m late, it’s free,” and gave them right back to me! Oh he’s a good one alright. Mark of a real megalomaniac: doesn’t know how to take a kicking when he’s down.

Bloody corporate responsibilities! As if it wasn’t already enough that MI6 is officially sponsored by Omega, Rolex and Aston Martin (so I have to wear two watches, and spectacularly crash another wankmobile every six days at the most… have you seen the mpg of those things? Every time I get inside a little piece of me dies. I’ve always wanted a Micra), they now have a new multimillion-pound contract with the explosive barrel industry. Apparently in every shootout I’m now contractually obliged to go for the nearest explosive barrel. So I get to the promo event and some bimbo gives me a free can of petrol. Isn’t it obvious I only use Diesel? Do they think I’m some kind of Jeremy Clarkson with pecs instead of manboobs??

Went down the gym. Seeing as the only women I seem to be able to get with these days are empowered feminist stereotypes, I thought it would be a good place to start. You’ll never guess who was there: Judi Dench! Damn Judi Dench! Now my standards are as low as the next man’s, but never once have I stooped that low (have you seen how short she is??). So I took my shirt off and started lifting some treadmills and waited for her to leave out of embarrassment. She just said, “You’re big, but have you got stamina?”!!!

Now I don’t need to justify anything in my own diary. Whatever you think now about your so-called “personal integrity,” Dench-seduction changes all that. She’s bloody irresistible! As far as I’m concerned, you can take all your Halle Berries and Denise Richardses and shove them down where I don’t have to look at them.

Anyhow, suffice to say I slightly misinterpreted her remark and the whole debacle resulted in an incredibly sexy slap for yours truly. I laughed, and then (wait for it!) she kicked me in balls! I kept laughing and giving my best S&M screams and she just kept on doing it! Spent the night in hospital – well worth it, trust me.

15st 8lb. Job done for the week, so got pissed and went clubbing. Too bloody noisy. Kept introducing myself to girls and they kept thinking I was called Bonjay.

Get this: when one of them finally twigged what I was saying, all she could say was, “You’re a bit of a smarmy git aren’t you?” Now I’ve been called a lot of things in my time, most of which set me up conveniently for a good quip. But this was something else. I decided to go into gritty mode. “Would a smarmy git have a body like this, bitch?” I said, taking my shirt off. Next thing I know she’s got her boyfriend to start punching me. Me! I took a few blows to show my manly vulnerability, then shot him.

It didn’t do it for her. I don’t get how to do vulnerable, I wish I could be more like Chris Martin. I met the guy in a hotel the other week. He plays a woman like he plays a piano — all loud banging and wailing and whining until you just want to leave the room. He’s my idol.


Went shopping for caravans. Charged it to HM Treasury. I swear they don’t check anything. Last week I spent £14m on lottery tickets and told them it was because Dale Winton was a terrorist financier and I could bankrupt him if I managed to win the jackpot. Those guys are complete dipshits, trust me. Recent woman crises (see above) meant I had nothing to do between 12am and 4am, so I phoned ITV’s The Mint and tried chatting up the woman with the worst job in the world, by trying to amuse her with retarded answers. She asked for a word starting with TEA_, so I said “tea shirt.” She just smiled and moved on. The next caller said, “tea-nager”.

I’m not a loser.

15st 9lb. Ordered another pizza, ham and mushroom (wood-fired, not oven-baked). This time the bastard was early! He’s unpredictable, dangerously unpredictable. Not to mention short, ugly and arrogant… I think of us as opposites, locked in a timeless struggle of good vs evil. And in love opposites attract, but in high-energy physics they annihilate each other, and I was feeling bloody energetic.

I didn’t say that out loud, obviously – the geeky quips are a real turn off for the ladies. Never sound too clever, it gives the game away. That’s what Oxford teaches you. He looked pretty tough so I played it cool. I paid him, remarked, “It’s late… I bet you’re dying to get home.” Then I watched him leave on his scooter. As he left the drive, I shot the fuel tank – KABOOOOM! Charged the pizza to HM Treasury.


Entry filed under: Misc.

TV Licensing Letter When the language of death disguises reality

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