“It’s terribly clever. It fires bullets out the front and perfume out the back. Have a smell. Or was it the other way rou…”
I recently went to see the ‘Designing 007’ exhibition at The Barbican and I may have got a bit carried away with the whole concept (fuelled by years of Sunday afternoon Bond film saturation) and so I have decided, in an epiphanal moment of great clarity and wisely considered life choices, to change careers. I’ve thought about this long and hard (for all of 20 minutes) and I’ve made my decision – I am going to become a Bond girl! It all seems fairly simple to me, I pretty much live the part anyway (albeit in grim East London instead of the sunny Bahamas), I just need to get James Bond or M or Q or some other alphabetised personage to approve my application and I’m set. Here goes!
Bond girl name: Miss Funnyfanny
Age: Classified
Height: Stiletto assisted
Weight: Light enough for a grappling hook made out of a diamond earring, heavy enough to crush anyone who stands underneath said makeshift climbing tackle.
Do you own a passport?: Yes and you don’t need to issue me with a fake one, the photo in this one is me disguised as someone reeeeeally ugly.
Evil archenemy: Gold Minger, aka the girl with the golden gunt. An evil adversary who, along with her pocket sized martial arts expert sidekick, Tam Pon, is hell bent on forcing the world to wear trainers with a suit and chew with their mouths open. A plan so evil, it could only be thought up in a secret lair hidden deep within a bus shelter.
Signature drink of choice: The Anythingtini; a potent combination of pretty much anything, shaken, not stirred, with pretty much anything else, served in a martini glass or a chipped coffee cup or pretty much anything, topped with a slice of pickled gherkin.
Are you willing to supply your own uniform?: Yep, bikinis. Nothing says “Bond girl” like popping to the corner shop for a pint of milk in your bikini. In December. Said bikinis must be just large enough to conceal my giblets, the phone number of a good bikini waxer and a hunting knife. Caution must be exercised when performing gymnastic manoeuvres with a knife hidden in your knickers though, as it just takes one poorly executed high kick and it’s curtains for your *ahem* curtains. Bikinis worn can be any colour, so long as they’re gold.
Are you able to provide your own transport?: Sports car, helicopter, jet ski – all would be lovely but have you seen the cost of parking in London?! I firmly believe in public transport (so long as it’s not the bus) and can often be seen standing on the train while en route to the next rendezvous. Of course, by “standing on the train”, I literally mean on the train. You get a better view from the roof and there’s more space for dramatic fisticuffs with faceless henchmen.
Education: Enough to know when to pretend to be a dumb blonde.
Foreign languages: Totally fluent in French, German, Russian, Polish, Italian and Spanish, but only when drunk. So, quite often.
What professional equipment will you bring to the role: Poison-tipped lipstick, stiletto heels equipped with radio transmitter antennae (just don’t ask how I get the best signal), a tiny camera hidden in a portable telephone which also sends written messages in secret code, such as “lol, u r hot JB. C u l8r”, and a multi-tool knife cunningly disguised as a bottle opener. Ok, it’s just a bottle opener but I’m totally working on integrating it into my bra, along with a laser.
Your fighting style: Slashing people with my razor-sharp wit, eye-poking, shin-kicking, stabbing people in the neck with a biro and if all that doesn’t work, crying until they feel really, really bad and give in. Dirty and underhanded, just how it should be.
Additional skills: As well as being lethal with a stationery set and being able to make an alcoholic cocktail using bleach and a bottle of salad cream, I’m also an ace professional gambler. Well, I’ve been to Las Vegas more than once. Same thing, right? I can also turn a tea towel into a plucked chicken and you have no idea how many precarious situations that has got me out of. As with all experts in espionage, I’m a total pro when it comes to keeping sensitive data from the hands of the enemy – someone once told me a secret in the loos at work and I kept it for a whole hour! Undeniably impressive.
I reckon I’m onto a definite winner here. There’s no way they can say no to me with a skill set like that and then I’ll be looking at a long and lucrative career as a rich and beautiful Bond girl, jetting about the globe, strangling Russian spies with plucked chicken tea towels one minute and decorating the deck of a yacht in the Bahamas the next. Until I start to sag a bit and then I might have to take early retirement, or if things start looking a little bit dangerous and deathy… Actually, thinking about it, I might just apply to The A-Team.
Pretty Feet, Pop Toe 