Now, the thing about James Bond movies is that they’re an
exercise in so thrilling the audience with dastardly deeds, thrills and spills,
bad guys and good coming to gut-wrenching conclusions, and glamorous women
taking showers-for-two, that they fail to notice occasional plot holes the size
of Jupiter. In tonight’s offering, for example, it was never explained how
James managed to be shot in the chest, fall several hundred feet into a gorge from
the roof of a moving train, plunge into a raging torrent that would easily have
despatched an elephant, get carried over the most gigantic cataract, and then
turn up in a quiet beach-front bar sipping pina coladas and musing on whether
life would be better spent with pipe, slippers and the Big Book of Daily Mail
Crosswords.
4 Across: The sound a
gun makes when you pull the trigger. Four letters. B-blank-N-blank.
That one should keep him guessing for as long as it takes to
empty a bottle of 20-year-old Speyside malt.
Ah, well, at least it gave me something to make a bit of a
post about. I’ve had nothing to say lately, and since I have no Big Book of
Daily Mail Crosswords to keep me occupied during the long autumn evenings,
writing is about the only vital component available to me. Watching a James
Bond movie couldn’t quite compete, although it was interesting that M died in
tonight’s blockbuster. I gather that doesn’t happen in most of them.
(I have written quite a lot of emails to the priestess this
week, though. The possibility still exists that she might be coming to visit
for the sole purpose of establishing once and for all what colour my eyes are.
Why she doesn’t just ask I can’t imagine.)
No comments:
Post a Comment