I bought a new laptop recently. Seeing as I am severely challenged in the technological sphere, I did what every good technophobe does – I threw money at the problem. In this case, I gave some moolah to my brother and told him to go to and do the business in PC World or some such place. He came back very happy and told me he’d made a deal to get me 8 gigs of RAM.
Naturally, this meant nothing to me. Not until someone pointed out that you couldn’t really get any more memory than that on a laptop. And then my eyes lit up.
Eureka! More memory that you could throw a stick at! Finally, I had the power I needed – my time had come! Sweet justice at last! It was time to become a Bond villain!
Now, before anyone gets all judgemental on me, let me explain.
I have good, sound reasons for thinking my future lies in the Bond franchise. I really like a man in a suit, I think everyone’s spying on everyone else all the time, and I like to gamble. Since the demise of the Fianna Fail tent at the Galway Races, I’ve been at a severe loose end. There’s really nothing else for it but to jump on the Broccoli Bandwagon.
And as for the villain bit, well it’s obvious isn’t it? There’s no point in being a Bond girl. History tells us it’s not a good gig. You’ll either end up trussed up in a hammock with a bad case of sand hair, strewn across a bed covered in oil or floating off on a space station with a seven foot tall fifty year old who still needs braces. And if, on the rare occasion, you do persuade Meeester Bond to fall in love with you, you’re a goner. Might as well paint a target on your back and tell him how you want him to get his revenge.
No, I want to be the baddie. And not the sidekick to the baddie either. I’ll have the whole shebang, thank you very much. The big lair inside an extinct volcano, loads of little guys with red jumpsuits and yellow helmets who’ll do anything for me, including testing the nuclear rocket launcher while I watch on a big screen from the shark room. My very own herd of faithful little LEGO men. I’ll spend my Bond sojourn criss-crossing the globe in sleek planes and sleeker hair, double-crossing Bond in the casino with my p-p-poker face and collecting photographs of his traumatised little face as he realises that I am the big catch he’ll never be able to bring in. He hates me, then he loves me. It shouldn’t work, and yet it does. Just like that song with Pavarotti and Celine Dion.
Sure, there’ll be some downsides. My milk phobia would leave me slightly vulnerable but I’m safe until Bond starts drinking cappuccinos instead of martinis.
Besides, maybe the baddies are just misunderstood heroes. Take the most famous of them all – old Auric Goldfinger. Sure, he was a bit of a nut with the whole “Do you expect me to talk?” “No, Mister Bond, I expect you to die!!!!” thing, and the painting-every-girl-gold-part was a bit extreme, but hey, at least he didn’t expect her to pay for her taxi home. I blame the parents myself. I bet young Auric spent most of his childhood sitting cross-legged in front of films like this:-
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I <em>mean</em>! How could he not turn out to be a crazy megalomaniac with a “liust for gold” after that? It’s enough to drive you potty, what with all the tough-looking men and the cigar smoke and the dictators and the music. De-ne-neh-neh-neh-neh-nehhh. It’s so serious!!!!! Can you feel the tension?!!? And if not, then you’re not trying hard enough. Just remember – if the fiery furnace don’t getcha then the black dust will. It’s all trauma and devastation while that guy sings like a loon and Roger looks on moodily. And all just to put a charm around a lady’s neck. (Too right; us ladies need our charms, although I prefer mine on a bracelet). Nope. There was no hope for Auric after that. True, he got a bit confused between Roger Moore/Sean Connery but it’s an easy mistake to make.
I just hope that someday, after my many years of pillaging and rampaging as a bona fide Bond villain are behind me, someone will drag in Dr. Phil to do the research and discover that all I wanted was to be loved. That, and to extort the GDP of a small country in return for agreeing not to put a shield around the sun. But then he’d tell me from underneath his moustache that I DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO CLAIM THE NATURAL RESOURCES OF OTHERS FOR MY OWN PERSONAL HAPPINESS. Sheesh. Some people are so touchy when a gal tries to be entrepreneurial. Time to set the LEGO men on his Texan ass.
Given the programmes I watched as a kid, I think I have a pretty good idea of how my Bond film would turn out, so here’s a preview:-
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Now if that isn’t worth a good gig or two, I don’t know what is.