Tomorrow Never Comes (When You Want It)

Bond shot an immaculate starched cuff. The button flew off, pinged across the toecap of his patent leather dress shoes and rolled behind the commode. He turned a wry, rheumy eye to the red, digital countdown clock and wondered what he should do with the five minutes that he and the rest of the world had left. He had by now totally given up on trying to find the tiny pozidrive screwdriver that had dropped from his arthritic fingers and impaled a stray contact lens – such a shame that it belonged to his one good eye – and he had taken the battery out of his bomb diffusing watch because it interfered with his hearing aid.

He knew, of course, that this day was always going to come: the day that SPECTRE well and truly pissed on his Get Out of Jail Free card. Finding the right solution with just a snap of some hapless buggers spine had always been his forte, but he knew that these days he would be lucky to snap a digestive biscuit without putting his back out. Was the day he would have spent these three hundred seconds shooting miscreants with barely a glance whilst solving the kind of fiendish puzzle that would have GCHQ throwing itself on the traps. Nowadays all he could think about was making it through without needing a wee. He considered – of course he did – peeing on the bloody clock, but he knew with the certainty of age that all he would actually do would be to dribble down his trousers and drip onto the rush matting. It had become a race: which would pop its bolt first, the nuclear bomb or his prostate? He knew he was going to die, he just hoped it would be with a dry crotch.

Life had brought 007 many changes: arch-enemy Blofeld, twenty years his senior, had been sitting in his urn next to three of his incinerated cats for nigh on thirty years now; Scaramanga had breathed his last in a bizarre supernumerary nipple piercing incident, and Jaws had found himself a bigger boat. Even Q had moved on from exploding watches to fleece-lined trusses and M was almost old enough to be the President of the United States. It all gave a different perspective on life.

Even in his long-distant heyday, Bond slept with only one woman at a time. These days he could sleep with a whole roomful, especially if the heating was on and he had a blanket. His days of fighting against impossible odds were long gone. These days he spent most of his life fighting his pyjama cord. His powers of deduction were mostly used up in deciding where the wet patch came from.

He held an elegantly manicured hand up to his good eye and focussed on the timer. It read ‘90’. Ninety seconds to go to the end of everything. He thought of all the things he used to be able to do in a minute and a half, and then he considered his current options, but he got no further than ‘fart’ and even that took him down to sixty seconds – not even sufficient time to defrost a curry for one. If only he could focus on the problem before him. Forty five seconds to… what did he have to do now? “Focus. Come on, focus Bond. You’ve got thirty seconds to… God that ticking clock is bloody annoying… clock? Fifteen seconds? Oh Lord…” Back in the day Bond would not have given up, not even with one second to go, but let’s be honest, there was so little left worth fighting for since Moneypenny had cashed in her Lidl loyalty card…

Bond tensed, the clock ticked from three, to two, to one and… ‘Beep, beep, beep!’ “Bugger it,” he thought, opening the microwave door. “I’ve overdone the wheat bag again…”

Stream

The ‘stream of consciousness’ post used to be my big thing; these days, just staying conscious is enough. I have shortened my posts, not because I have less to say, but because I have ever fewer who want to hear it and, in relation to the author, least said the better seems to be the way. The tales that I have to tell have become slightly less fanciful, whilst reality has tended to step up to the plate and fill in the gaps. My life, in general, is quieter than a stag weekend in a Trappist Monastery. If I’m honest, there is far less to me than meets the eye.

One of the most notable things about getting on is that you begin to expect far less from life, although you do tend to get even more grumpy when it doesn’t manage to live up to even your most meagre expectations. It becomes increasingly difficult to understand when dramatically lowered aspirations are not attained. The fact that I no longer have any confidence in my ability to become James Bond doesn’t mean that I wouldn’t like to do the audition. I might not look like Daniel Craig when I get out of the shower – to be honest, I’ve never really mastered that whole ‘tying a hand towel round the waist’ thing – but I’m pretty certain I could match him martini for martini given the chance, providing, of course, there was somewhere to wee nearby.

And that’s something in which I bet I could outdo Bond, Q, M and any other letter you might care to choose, on all occasions: location of the nearest Public Toilets. I could probably go on Mastermind. Take my age and factor in a dodgy prostate: there are some things you just have to know. Picture the scene: I am tied to a chair being force fed Timothy Taylor’s Landlord* through a funnel, with Blofeld’s voice grating in my ear, “Very well Mr McQueen, we are going to release you into the local shopping mall just as soon as your bladder has reached what we term ‘explosive proportions’”. I will smile up at him, even as his henchmen push down on my pelvis, because I know that in the dark recesses of the Marks & Spencer’s Food Hall, hidden away between a sandwich bar and a sushi stand, is a long-deserted public loo – decommissioned at the time of the last refit, but still usable once you have the knack of the dodgy flush. Take that Blofeld! The world is a safer place for Shopping Mall cleaners the world over.

But I digress. As I was saying, I no longer allow myself to be dragged away from the main thrust of these little fol-de-rols: short, sharp and to the point, that is what I have become. A social commentator, never deflected from the essential gist of the tale I have to tell.

If only I had one…

*A fine English Ale

A Little Fiction – OldenEye (A Slight Return)

…I walked, crabwise, towards the supermarket checkout, aware that not even M could provide me with a trolley that would go where I wanted it to. The western world would be able to sleep soundly in the knowledge that I, at least, had enough toilet roll, hand sanitizer and pot-noodle to see me through a nuclear winter. I pulled up smoothly at the till and quickly emptied my booty onto the conveyor with barely a pause to wheeze. ‘That’ll be £48 pounds love,’ purred the vixen behind the counter as I flapped impotently at my pockets, searching for a wallet I had left on the kitchen table at home. ‘Unless you want this week’s edition of ‘The Oldie’, you being, you know, old and all…’ I stared, open-mouthed, at the proffered magazine with its photograph of Sean Connery as Bond and the tag-line ‘Growing Old Disgracefully Special’, and recalled that I published the following skit on March 4th last year…

OldenEye

…007 sat back in the deep, yielding burgundy leatherette swivel chair, his chin resting on the pyramid of his fingertips. His once-steely eyes were focussed glaucously on the minister, he could see his lips moving – just – but he did not hear a word he said. His mind was preoccupied with thoughts of how he would get out of the recliner without putting his back out. Again. The minister smiled benignly at the supposed indifference of his senior spy and flipped open the lid of an exquisitely inlaid wooden box. Involuntarily, Bond’s body tensed and he was again thankful for the ‘special’ pants in which his house-keeper had dressed him.

“Cigar, James?”

With an almost deft flick of his finely manicured hand, the super-spy fiddled at his ear, knocking the miniature hearing aid to the floor, where it whistled irritably. Bond struggled to his feet and reinserted the apparatus, back to front, so that it echoed eerily around the office. The minister smiled again. Obviously a little piece of Q’s genius, cunningly designed to foil concealed electronic bugs or somesuch. “Cigar, James?” he repeated.

“No thank you,” said Bond, who had decided not to try the swivel chair again, but was standing at the corner of the minister’s desk, resting his weight on a red telephone and wheezing gently. Having reinserted his hearing aid, Bond was able to hear the minister, whom he was saddened to hear was suffering from some sort of adenoidal problem. “I am very aware of my responsibilities as a role model for the young.” Advancing years had made Bond ever-more conscious of the debt he owed to the planet that he, in his prime, had saved on many occasions from nuclear destruction with little, if any, consideration to the biodegradability of the apparatus he employed. “Now,” he said. “What can I do for my country?”

The minister explained in great detail the nature of the latest threat posed to the free world by Ernst Blofeld and he was almost sure, at times, that Bond understood a little of what he said. Satisfied that he had his most senior agent on the job, the minister waved him away airily and 007 left the room, finding the correct door at only the third attempt.
In the stores, Q issued the special equipment.

“Of course,” he said. “We’ve had to garage the Aston Martin, James. The emissions were simply unacceptable.” Bond nodded his understanding. He had a similar problem. “But we’ve beefed up this electric trike for you. Push this red button here and the booster cuts in giving you a top speed of anything up to eight miles an hour, depending on the wind; three-wheel drive will enable you to continue pursuit across all terrain – providing of course that it’s flat and surfaced; there’s an in-built MP3 player, pre-loaded with Coldplay’s greatest hits and concealed behind the seat here is one of those clever little adapters that allows you to plug your vehicle in anywhere in the world.”
Bond grinned. “And the range?”

“Twenty miles,” said Q. “Fifteen if you use the booster. Should be plenty to get you to the bus stop…”

Bond signed out an e-cigarette that concealed a radio transmitter, a comb that concealed a powerful magnet, and a tube of ointment that concealed the worst of his rash, all of which he stashed away under the cleverly designed hinged seat of the trike. And so, as evening drew into night, James Bond trundled off into the enfolding darkness, unconcerned by the danger that lay ahead and untroubled by the gangs of youths that garlanded his route – mostly because his glasses were steamed up so that he couldn’t see them, and his hearing aid had fallen out in Penge.

…“A virgin martini please, shaken, not stirred…” The barman looked quizzically at Bond, who would have raised an eyebrow in reply, but he was wearing contact lenses and he didn’t have any spares. He moved his face very close to the barman. “Tonic water,” he whispered. “Slimline if possible, with ice and a slice… oh, and put one of those little umbrellas in it will you?” He began to rifle through his purse, searching for the correct change, when a female voice behind him said “Put that on my bill, would you?” The barman nodded and handed Bond his drink. The woman joined Bond at the bar, hoisting herself effortlessly onto the stool. Bond recalled his own battle to mount it with distaste. He could still feel the bruise swelling on his shin. The woman reached out an elegant hand. “008,” she said. “Pleased to meet you Mr Bond.”
“Likewise, I’m sure,” said Bond.
“Won’t you join me for dinner?” she smiled.

The meal was acceptable, although Bond would have preferred something a little more… fried, but the company was scintillating. Memories of conquests-past flooded Bond’s mind and he found himself, almost subconsciously, taking a little pill with his dessert. He knew that he could trust a Rennie to ensure a good night’s sleep. 008 sparkled. Her conversation was engaging, witty, seductive. She laughed and her laughter was like a summer breeze; bright and joyous. He laughed and coughed up a piece of carrot the size of Sheffield. A bubble of sauce escaped his nose. She spoke of life and love in a way that Bond had never considered. She spoke of Keats, Shelley and Chaucer almost as if she actually enjoyed them. In the past, of course, he would have seduced her, but something told him that, delightful though she was, it was just conceivable that she would not welcome the amorous advances of a sexagenarian lothario with sauce down his chin and a full floret of broccoli wedged under his dentures. Besides, she was probably more than capable of rendering him unconscious with a single chop to the throat.

Bond slept peacefully. He knew that 008 had been sent along to shadow him in his pursuit of Blofeld, but he realised immediately that she stood a much better chance of success alone. She was smart, she was beautiful, she was ruthless and, unlike him, she had never once mistaken the hotel ice machine for the urinal…

The Significance of Facing the Consequences

My problem is that I see consequences. Not immediate consequences, we all see those: if I put my fingers into that working liquidizer I presume they would… Oh bugger! and not the ultimate consequence – there is only one of those and I don’t quite see that on its way just yet – but possible consequences. It is what I do: I cannot help it. The range of possible consequences arising from each step along a journey serves only as a discarded shoe over which to trip prior to the next step. The exponential growth of hazard along the way means that I am usually consumed, if not by fear then at least some kind of radical trepidation, before I have had the opportunity to fall down the doorstep. I often do not see journey’s end, just all the crap that lies between it and me. My wife thinks that I am The King of ‘No’ and, whilst I do not agree with her (obviously) I do think that I am almost certainly one of The Lords of ‘let’s just think this through’. I really need to see a logical route through any ‘journey’ before I’m ready to set off. I need to understand the consequences of each action I will take along the way. I am not The King of ‘No’, but I may well be The King of ‘what if?’…

Now, please don’t think that this is some sort of pitch for sympathy – I neither seek nor deserve it. I have grown old with how I am, but I have never found a satisfactory way of dealing with it. If you have any sympathy to spare, please feel free to extend it to those who have to live with me.

At least I don’t spend my entire life constantly striving for more (more, more). I am reconciled to what I have. It is great, and I love it. I think that spending all of your life searching for something else will merely present you with the shortest route to misery. I am not tied to introspection, but I do see myself quite clearly. Unfortunately, although I know ‘what I am like’ it does not necessarily mean that I know what to do about it. (If you do, please feel free to let me know – as long as it isn’t painful.) And I don’t think that I am totally without redeeming features – I think I’m ok to spend a little time with. I am no Nelson Mandela, no Samuel L Jackson: you will not leave my company feeling that you have met somebody special, but I don’t think that I will have offended you. I’m not sexist, racist or homophobic. I seldom, if ever, get drawn into conversation about politics or religion. I don’t think that I exude any particularly noxious odour. I think, in the main, I am bland, inoffensive and unexciting. Human blancmange. I will not affront you, but I may seriously bore you.

In principal, I am very happy to set off on a journey with no idea of where I am going, just as long as I know exactly how I’m going to get there. I am happy to flirt with jeopardy, but never danger. If I was ever to play James Bond (I know, I know, but just hear me out) mine would be the first version to say “Now, let’s just think about this for a minute…” My ‘Bond-girl’ would lie, unsullied, on black satin sheets (about which I would warn her in due course) whilst I mixed her a really good G&T (neither shaken, nor stirred, but with loads of ice) and cautioned her about the inadvisability of mixing with men who keep sharks for pets…

A Little Fiction – OldenEye

“Cigar, James?”

In the stores, Q issued the special equipment.

Bond grinned. “And the range?”

“Twenty miles,” said Q. “Fifteen if you use the booster. Should be plenty to get you to the bus stop…”

“Likewise, I’m sure,” said Bond.

“Won’t you join me for dinner?” she smiled.

The meal was acceptable, although Bond would have preferred something a little more… fried, but the company was scintillating. Memories of conquests-past flooded Bond’s mind and he found himself, almost subconsciously, taking a little pill with his dessert. He knew that he could trust a Rennie to ensure a good night’s sleep. 008 sparkled. Her conversation was engaging, witty, seductive. She laughed and her laughter was like a summer breeze; bright and joyous. He laughed and coughed up a piece of carrot the size of Sheffield. A bubble of sauce escaped his nose. She spoke of life and love in a way that Bond had never considered. She spoke of Keats, Shelley and Chaucer almost as if she actually enjoyed them. In the past, of course, he would have seduced her, but something told him that, delightful though she was, it was just conceivable that she would not welcome the amorous advances of a sexagenarian lothario with sauce down his chin and a full floret of broccoli wedged under his dentures. Besides, she was probably more than capable of rendering him unconscious with a single chop to the throat.

A Little Fiction – The Later Cases of Sherlock Holmes: The Mystifying Instance of the Absent Footwear.