Licensed to drive very slowly

From Compass magazine


Liverpool Council has proposed sticking an X certificate on any film with smoking, which would rank all the classic Bond movies alongside pornography and Kung Fu violence. What future, then for 007 in the modern world? We present James bond, as approved by Liverpool City Council.



‘Ah, morning Mish Moneypenny, you’re looking as beautiful as Lake Geneva on a summer morning, perhaps I could treat you to a Swiss roll a little later.’

‘That’s enough, James, M wants to see you right away.’

‘Ah, Bond! Come in. Now, we have a bit of a problem with our diplomatic relations.’

‘Yesh, I heard rumour that SPECTRE has been interfering with MI6’s communications channels.’

‘No, no, no, Bond. Bit of an internal problem, it’s about Miss Moneypenny and sexual harassment.’

‘Sexshual harassment? I admit there might be a little, ah sexshual frishon, but I wouldn’t say she’s harassing me.’

‘Bond you’re stuck in another era. And put out that cigarette, please, this is a non-smoking building.’

‘Are you telling me sir that you’ve brought me back to base because of this?’

‘Well, partly, yes, but we do have a problem with SPECTRE. They’ve been buying up muesli factories using legitimate front companies and are selling products with extremely high salt levels. The entire population of the civilised world will suffer early and agonising deaths.’

‘Yikesh!’

‘We need to send you out to Monte Carlo, where we believe Nokiablokov is setting up meetings to distribute a new brand of cereal. Heavy on salt and sugar. Go and see Q, and he’ll sort you out with what you need.’

‘Morning Bond. Off on your travels again? Well, this little treasure is perfect for nipping in and out of the streets.’

‘It looksh like a teapot on wheels.’

‘You’re behind the times, Bond. The G-Wiz AEV (Automatic Electric Vehicle) is twice winner of the Best City Car award from the Environmental Transport Association.

‘Turbo-charged I preshume.’

‘Bond, Bond, we don’t turbo-charge our vehicles any more. There’s the environment to think of. It does have a range of 60 miles, though, and is exempt from car tax.’

‘Where’sh the button for the machine gun ports and the ejector seat?’

‘The boys over at Health & Safety aren’t going to countenance an ejector seat. And you must know it’s Foreign Office policy to have not links with the arms trade. We can issue you with this very high-powered catapult, though.’

‘I might as well cycle, Q.’

‘Ha ha, very funny, Bond. But good show, keeps dangerous emissions down, what. Moneypenny has your tickets.’

‘Here you are, James. Carbon offset has been paid. See you in court.’

Shot of plane landing at Nice airport. Cut to a casino. Inside a one-eyed Russian with a pile of chips looks menacingly at 007 as he takes a seat at the roulette table. A beautiful blonde places a hand on Nokiablokov’s shoulder, but looks at Bond. ‘Martini, shaken not shtirred, and whatever she’s having,’ he tells the waitress. ‘I’m sorry sir, it is management policy not serve anyone who has had more than three drinks.’ ‘Then get me the management,’ says Bond, sparking up a Morland’s. ‘And it’s strictly no-smoking, sir.’

The wheel spins and the Russian wins. He picks up his chips, and Bond tails him to the cashier and through the lobby. The G-Wiz is brought up to the forecourt. With the ‘Please fasten your seatbelt sign flashing’ he sets off in pursuit of Nokiablokov’s limo, but headlights fill his rear-view mirror. Bond puts the accelerator to the floor, cut to speedo showing 35mph. A speed-camera flashes. Bond is overtaken.

We cut to a huge underground bunker and technicians surround Bond’s G-Wiz.

At a desk in a control room is Blofeld, with the Russian and the blonde behind him. ‘Very ecological Mr Bond but too late, I’m afraid, the planet will soon be mine.’ Technicians in neo-communist uniforms adjust machinery churning out packets of ‘Sugar Pop Pops’ and ‘Spicy Salty Popcorn’. ‘The helpless fools who fall for these products will soon be craving sugar that only I can provide them with.’

‘You have the scruplesh of a boa constrictor, Blofeld.’

‘And you Bond, are history. Take him to the room we reserve for special guests, if you don’t mind Mr Nokiablokov.’

As Bond is being led down a raised gantry, he produces the catapult from his pocket, fires off two coins that fell guards in the distance, pushes Nokiablokov away, grabs the girl and they dash onto a small underground train pulling trucks of Sugar Pop Pops. They whiz down a shoot and out into the open, climb onto a tandem that’s waiting in a village and make their escape. The mountain explodes in a cascade of cereal.

Bond’s mobile rings. ‘I’m on my way shir,’ he answers. ‘I think we can say that we’ll all be back to having our oats again.’

This article first appeared in Compass magazine
Simon Hills is associate editor of The Times Magazine and author of Strictly No! How We’re Being Overrun by the Nanny State