Putting the Rumours to Rest
With increased speculation in the press, I feel it necessary to make the following statement:
After careful consideration, I have reluctantly decided to rule myself out of contention to be the next James Bond.
I know what you’re thinking—this is shocking news. I am, after all, more than qualified for the role. I’m renowned for my charm, sophistication, magnetic charisma and having the poise and awareness of a startled meerkat. I’m also unintentionally deadly with a pair of chopsticks and have an online degree in sellotaping (excluding double-sided tape). So, I can see why you might think I’m the ideal candidate.
Alas, however, this role is not for me. But, before you start a social media campaign and petition, let me explain the reasons behind my decision:
I’m not a fan of vodka martinis — unless they’ve been vigorously stirred (not shaken) and served with a tiny pink umbrella. 🍸
I have an allergy to horses… and milk! And it seems highly likely the next Bond film will feature an intense scene with Bond drinking milk on a horse.
I’m not a great risk-taker; I still struggle to live with the daily risk of being hit by a milk float.
I've never fired a pistol, let alone a Walther PPK. Although, I did shoot my brother with a potato gun when I was 8.
I'm not great with high-tech gadgets. It took me 3 years to work out how to use the dishwasher.
A friend once compared me to a cheap air mattress because I don’t perform well under pressure and get easily deflated.
I struggle with remembering lines. Or, indeed, remembering anything. I have trouble memorising a three-item shopping list, where two of the items are ‘banana’. 🍌
Any stunt involving heights might be tricky. I'm not afraid of heights. I'm not even afraid of falling from heights. I'm afraid of hitting the ground after falling from heights.
My comic timing of one-liner puns is terrible. 🫤
Still, I’ll always strive to leave a lasting impression! (sorry, this should have been at the end of number 8.)
Despite everything I’ve said, I can appreciate this news will come as a crushing disappointment for many—evoking levels of sorrow akin to when the Queen died, or when Liz Truss resigned. But, after an intense session of uncontrolled sobbing, I trust you’ll find a way to pick up the shattered pieces of your now-ruined year.
Alastair