Having dispatched Zorin’s goons, Stacey and James have enjoyed a quiche de cabinet and some wine, and are now discussing her business affairs.
Stacey: So I took this job as state geologist and I've just managed to hold on to the house and my shares.
Bond: And that's what the $5 million were for, your shares?
Stacey: Ten times more than they're worth. Just drop the lawsuit and shut my mouth. I haven't accepted yet.
Bond: So Zorin sent along his gorillas to help you make up your mind.
Stacey: They have. (She displays the cheque.) I’mgoing to put this into the bank in the morning and sell this house. That should give me enough to travel the world, which I’ve always wanted to do.
Bond: But –
Stacey: I don’t care what Zorin wants any more. I’m rich! I can do what I please.
Bond: Now, Stacey, I –
Stacey: Oh yes, thanks for your help. I believe you have a car outside?
Bond: Why, yes, I –
Stacey: So that’s it, then. Bye.
(Surprised, Bond pops one more bit of quiche into his mouth.)
Bond: But –
Stacey: Bye. The door’s over there.
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 27,912Chief of Staff
Another story from ‘Tales That Would Happen In The Real World’ 🤣
It was seasonably cold as Bond parked the car near the small cottage with the well-kept garden which was his destination. He would have preferred the Aston Martin, he thought ruefully, but had to admit that it would have been too conspicuous. The XJS was a good car, though.
He knocked firmly on the door. His intended hostess was elderly and he didn’t want to have to rap again in case his first knock was missed. That proved unnecessary as the door was opened in short order to reveal a small woman with short white hair and faded blue eyes. He knew those eyes were less than perfect these days so he drew breath to speak only to be instantly surprised.
“Bond!” she said. “How the hell did you find out where I lived? Oh, never mind, you’re here now. Get in, quick.”
She looked sharply left and right while bustling Bond through the door before closing it firmly. Bond rather shamefacedly held out the bunch of flowers he had been holding behind his back.
Bond said, “Happy birthday, ma’am”.
“Birthday? When you get to my age you stop counting them. Put those flowers on the mantelpiece.”
He did so, moving aside an attractive gold statuette to make room.
“I thought it might be a good thing if we should see each other again”, said Bond.
She laughed. “In case I kick the bucket soon, you mean”.
“Well, not exactly. I thought we might enjoy a talk, M”.
The small woman bristled. “I’m not M any more, remember? And speaking of which, how is Mallory these days?”
Bond said, “He’s fine. Still thinks you died up in Scotland”.
“And I suppose he also still thinks that you died somewhere off Japan?”
“That’s right”, said Bond. “I believe we both got good send-offs”.
“It’d be a shame to disillusion him, and Moneypenny and the others. Care for a drink?”
She walked over to the drinks cabinet.
“Yes, thanks. Is it still Bourbon?”
“Not as much as it used to be, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”
Bond accepted the drink, thanking his old boss.
“What shall we drink to?” she said.
“The only thing we can,” said Bond. “Enjoying death.”
@boss I was just thinking I'd like to see some of your interviews-with-famous-but-inappropriate-directors expanded into actual scenes from the movies theyd like to make ... and turns out this years Christmas pantomimeis just that!
and it helps that by coincidence I recently watched both Carry On Camping and Carry On Cleo ... I've got the recurring cast of zany characters clear in my head, at least I know all the ones thatve appeared in the exciting adventure so far
The young reporter stood expectantly, shuffling his weight from one foot to another. His editor seemed to be taking an undue amount of time reading the copy which the reporter had been so proud of. Proud of his detective skills and of the writing itself. After what seemed like an eternity the editor put the papers down and looked up at his young underling.
The reporter could no wait any longer. “Well?” he asked. He’d have raised his eyebrows if they hadn’t already been meeting his hairline.
The editor exhaled deeply. In another, earlier time he would have chewed on a fat cigar before speaking.
“It’s good”, he said. “In fact it’s excellent.”
The young reporter glowed.
“You’ve found a story, all right. You picked up on a trail of breadcrumbs and followed it all the way from London to the Highlands. Your work is exemplary, and your writing shows all the qualities we need at this newspaper.”
The reporter stammered a thank you.
“You managed to make a connection between two seemingly separate events – the recent gunfight in Whitehall and a Scottish mansion exploding, taking with it a helicopter and an Aston Martin DB5 which had left London soon after said gunfight.”
“I thought you’d like it”, said the younger man.
“And you’ve hinted that the concurrent underground train crash might also have been connected, as well as an explosion at Vauxhall Cross.”
“Right. I can’t absolutely prove that as yet, but I’m hoping that with a bit more research I can get there.”
The editor sighed. “Yes”, he said, “I’m sure you could.”
Heavily he rose to his feet, took the manuscript the young reporter had painstakingly written over many hours, and tore it in two then two again.
“But – but – you can’t do that!” stammered the young man.
“I’m afraid I have to, son”, said the editor. “Ever heard of a D-notice?”
“A D-notice?”
“An order … no, let’s make that a strong suggestion from HM Government not to publish certain matters. If we defy that, at the very least we’ll end up in court for a long time. At most – well, I hate to think.”
“But they can’t do that … can they?”
The editor sadly placed the torn pieces of the report into the shredder which was attached to his desk.
“It’s more than my job’s worth to find out. Now off you go, and see if you can find a story I’m allowed to publish.”
The sun blazed down on the gardens of the place he had come to regard as home. Warm as it was, Fleming knew it would be even hotter come midday when the brightly coloured birds would be seeking shade from which to continue their shrill songs.
In the dining room at Goldeneye, he sucked in through his holder that most enjoyable of routines, his post-breakfast cigarette. His eye had idly began to run over the drinks tray, deciding whether or not how early was too early, as it had done so many times before when his friend Ivar came into the room grasping the manuscript Fleming had given him to read the day before.
“Ah, Ivar”, he said, “care for a little breakfast? I’m sure Violet could put something together for you.”
“I’m not hungry”, said Ivar Bryce.
Fleming said, “Perhaps a little drink for you? It’s a shade early for me but –“
“You don’t fool me with that “shade early” business, Ian. I know you’re just waiting for an excuse to start for the day.”
Fleming looked mock horrified.
“Why, Ivar, how could you say such a thing? Anyway, I see that you’ve been reading my manuscript.”
Bryce looked down at the papers in his hand.
“I have indeed, and that’s what I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Terrible, wasn’t it? Just that cardboard booby playing Red Indians.”
Bryce shrugged. “No, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. Rather good, as if you didn’t know already.”
“I’m always happy to hear your opinion, you know”, smiled Fleming.
“There’s just one change I’d like you to make, though.”
Fleming’s eye, which again had wandered to the drinks tray, turned sharply to his friend.
“And what’s that?” he inquired.
“It’s in Chapter … let me see … Chapter 25. Bond goes into Vesper’s bedroom, where the moonlight laps at the secret shadows in the snow of her body on the broad bed.”
“Ah yes”, said Fleming, “did you like that part?”
Bryce gave a half-smile. “That was all right. It’s just that you then spend about three and a half pages describing exactly what she and Bond get up to, detailing who is doing what to whom and with what, and for how long before they start squeezing or sucking or licking something else.”
Fleming looked puzzled. “You didn’t like that?”
“It’s not a question of whether or not I liked it, Ian, it’s a question of whether or not the censors will allow it. Remember all the fuss about Lady Chatterley’s Lover? I don’t think your publishers will want that all over again.”
“But it’s an essential part of the story! Look, Ivar, Bond has to make sure that his balls are still working after the thumping Le Chiffre gave them with a carpet beater!”
Bryce said, “Ah yes, that’s another part we need to talk about. But first, those three and a half pages have got to go before you submit this story … what did you call it again?”
Fleming said, glumly, “Casino Royale.”
“That’s right, Casino Royale. Just cut those pages and start again with Bond waking up the next morning. Trust me, this is for the best.”
“Hmph. If you say so.”
He headed for the drinks tray.
“I do say so. Now, about this carpet beater scene …”
Sighing, the police captain entered the crowded room and chased out a few of his subordinates. The doctor had finished for the moment though the fingerprint team were still working away, ignoring as he was the obscene but unavoidable smell of cooked flesh filling the air. He sat down opposite the undeniably beautiful woman holding her head in her hands.
“Now mi belleza, suppose you tell me all about it?” he asked her, and his tone was not unkind.
“I have already told the officer, then the sergeant”, she said, “do I have to tell it all again to you?”
“I’m afraid so”, the captain said, “that is just the way of it.”
It was her turn to sigh. “I came into the room –“
“No, no, from the beginning. How does a beautiful woman like you, who is clearly not from these parts, come to be dancing in a cantina here?”
“I come from Turkey. My lover there was a carpet salesman, a very successful carpet salesman, but he was killed.”
“Murdered over a dispute involving carpets? I find that very hard to believe.”
“Not carpets”, she said. “He was killed on the Orient Express, but I don’t know why. I do know that the Turkish police and some Bulgars came snooping around and I thought it best that I was out of the country. So, here I came. I have been dancing in this place until something better turns up.”
Her eyes met his, and the captain was in no doubt what that “something better” might be. He felt the animal attraction of her, which he could only calm by thinking of his wife and children back home.
“Tell me about the capungo over there”, he said, indicating the bath with its unsettling contents.
She said, “Him I don’t know. All I know is that Senor Ramirez told me that a man would be hiding in my room when I brought the foreigner back here. And in this town one does what Senor Ramirez wants, you know that.”
The captain nodded ruefully. He did indeed know that. Still, he also knew that some of Senor Ramirez’s wealth had been damaged earlier that evening which had brought him and the rest of the force great pleasure.
He said, “Ah yes, the foreign gentleman. My men told me you mentioned him. Tell me everything you can about him.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know much. Tall, dark, handsome. Maybe American or English, but he didn’t sound like that.”
“And he killed that man there?”
“I don’t know”, she said. “One moment I was in his arms, kissing him, then the next I was on the floor rubbing my head and there was this dreadful smell in the room like there is now, and the capungo was in my bath.”
“And this foreigner, he was gone?”
“He was just leaving, but he said something as he left. I don’t think it was important.”
“Tell me!”, said the captain, “everything is important. Tell me what he said.”
“Well, he said “Shocking. Positively shocking” and then he slammed the door. Do you think it is important?”
The captain rubbed his chin, by this time in need of a shave.
“I don’t know, but it may be.” He called to the officer at the door. “Juan! Send a team to the airport at once. We should be in time for all the flights.”
Juan said, “Si, but we have already missed the one for Miami.”
The captain made a face. “That’s a shame, but see what you can do anyway.”
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 27,912Chief of Staff
Comments
1985. Stacey Sutton’s place.
Having dispatched Zorin’s goons, Stacey and James have enjoyed a quiche de cabinet and some wine, and are now discussing her business affairs.
Stacey: So I took this job as state geologist and I've just managed to hold on to the house and my shares.
Bond: And that's what the $5 million were for, your shares?
Stacey: Ten times more than they're worth. Just drop the lawsuit and shut my mouth. I haven't accepted yet.
Bond: So Zorin sent along his gorillas to help you make up your mind.
Stacey: They have. (She displays the cheque.) I’m going to put this into the bank in the morning and sell this house. That should give me enough to travel the world, which I’ve always wanted to do.
Bond: But –
Stacey: I don’t care what Zorin wants any more. I’m rich! I can do what I please.
Bond: Now, Stacey, I –
Stacey: Oh yes, thanks for your help. I believe you have a car outside?
Bond: Why, yes, I –
Stacey: So that’s it, then. Bye.
(Surprised, Bond pops one more bit of quiche into his mouth.)
Bond: But –
Stacey: Bye. The door’s over there.
Another story from ‘Tales That Would Happen In The Real World’ 🤣
Dame Judi Dench celebrates her 90th birthday - BBC News
9th December 2024.
It was seasonably cold as Bond parked the car near the small cottage with the well-kept garden which was his destination. He would have preferred the Aston Martin, he thought ruefully, but had to admit that it would have been too conspicuous. The XJS was a good car, though.
He knocked firmly on the door. His intended hostess was elderly and he didn’t want to have to rap again in case his first knock was missed. That proved unnecessary as the door was opened in short order to reveal a small woman with short white hair and faded blue eyes. He knew those eyes were less than perfect these days so he drew breath to speak only to be instantly surprised.
“Bond!” she said. “How the hell did you find out where I lived? Oh, never mind, you’re here now. Get in, quick.”
She looked sharply left and right while bustling Bond through the door before closing it firmly. Bond rather shamefacedly held out the bunch of flowers he had been holding behind his back.
Bond said, “Happy birthday, ma’am”.
“Birthday? When you get to my age you stop counting them. Put those flowers on the mantelpiece.”
He did so, moving aside an attractive gold statuette to make room.
“I thought it might be a good thing if we should see each other again”, said Bond.
She laughed. “In case I kick the bucket soon, you mean”.
“Well, not exactly. I thought we might enjoy a talk, M”.
The small woman bristled. “I’m not M any more, remember? And speaking of which, how is Mallory these days?”
Bond said, “He’s fine. Still thinks you died up in Scotland”.
“And I suppose he also still thinks that you died somewhere off Japan?”
“That’s right”, said Bond. “I believe we both got good send-offs”.
“It’d be a shame to disillusion him, and Moneypenny and the others. Care for a drink?”
She walked over to the drinks cabinet.
“Yes, thanks. Is it still Bourbon?”
“Not as much as it used to be, I’m afraid. Doctor’s orders.”
Bond accepted the drink, thanking his old boss.
“What shall we drink to?” she said.
“The only thing we can,” said Bond. “Enjoying death.”
That’s an interesting twist, thanks, Barbel 🍸 and maybe a CHB joke in there?
Oh, that's ... er ... not impossible. 😉 Glad you liked it!
@boss I was just thinking I'd like to see some of your interviews-with-famous-but-inappropriate-directors expanded into actual scenes from the movies theyd like to make ... and turns out this years Christmas pantomime is just that!
and it helps that by coincidence I recently watched both Carry On Camping and Carry On Cleo ... I've got the recurring cast of zany characters clear in my head, at least I know all the ones thatve appeared in the exciting adventure so far
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
EDIT: archive.org has 31 of the Carry On films available for streaming or download
Thanks, @caractacus potts, and I'm sure that goes for the rest of the writing team on the Christmas Special as well!
2012.
The young reporter stood expectantly, shuffling his weight from one foot to another. His editor seemed to be taking an undue amount of time reading the copy which the reporter had been so proud of. Proud of his detective skills and of the writing itself. After what seemed like an eternity the editor put the papers down and looked up at his young underling.
The reporter could no wait any longer. “Well?” he asked. He’d have raised his eyebrows if they hadn’t already been meeting his hairline.
The editor exhaled deeply. In another, earlier time he would have chewed on a fat cigar before speaking.
“It’s good”, he said. “In fact it’s excellent.”
The young reporter glowed.
“You’ve found a story, all right. You picked up on a trail of breadcrumbs and followed it all the way from London to the Highlands. Your work is exemplary, and your writing shows all the qualities we need at this newspaper.”
The reporter stammered a thank you.
“You managed to make a connection between two seemingly separate events – the recent gunfight in Whitehall and a Scottish mansion exploding, taking with it a helicopter and an Aston Martin DB5 which had left London soon after said gunfight.”
“I thought you’d like it”, said the younger man.
“And you’ve hinted that the concurrent underground train crash might also have been connected, as well as an explosion at Vauxhall Cross.”
“Right. I can’t absolutely prove that as yet, but I’m hoping that with a bit more research I can get there.”
The editor sighed. “Yes”, he said, “I’m sure you could.”
Heavily he rose to his feet, took the manuscript the young reporter had painstakingly written over many hours, and tore it in two then two again.
“But – but – you can’t do that!” stammered the young man.
“I’m afraid I have to, son”, said the editor. “Ever heard of a D-notice?”
“A D-notice?”
“An order … no, let’s make that a strong suggestion from HM Government not to publish certain matters. If we defy that, at the very least we’ll end up in court for a long time. At most – well, I hate to think.”
“But they can’t do that … can they?”
The editor sadly placed the torn pieces of the report into the shredder which was attached to his desk.
“It’s more than my job’s worth to find out. Now off you go, and see if you can find a story I’m allowed to publish.”
Thank you, Caractacus, glad you like it!
I’m enjoying these new style conversations 😁
Loved the Judi Dench conversation…very fitting 🍸
Thank you, guys. I don't know what's coming up today yet.
1953.
The sun blazed down on the gardens of the place he had come to regard as home. Warm as it was, Fleming knew it would be even hotter come midday when the brightly coloured birds would be seeking shade from which to continue their shrill songs.
In the dining room at Goldeneye, he sucked in through his holder that most enjoyable of routines, his post-breakfast cigarette. His eye had idly began to run over the drinks tray, deciding whether or not how early was too early, as it had done so many times before when his friend Ivar came into the room grasping the manuscript Fleming had given him to read the day before.
“Ah, Ivar”, he said, “care for a little breakfast? I’m sure Violet could put something together for you.”
“I’m not hungry”, said Ivar Bryce.
Fleming said, “Perhaps a little drink for you? It’s a shade early for me but –“
“You don’t fool me with that “shade early” business, Ian. I know you’re just waiting for an excuse to start for the day.”
Fleming looked mock horrified.
“Why, Ivar, how could you say such a thing? Anyway, I see that you’ve been reading my manuscript.”
Bryce looked down at the papers in his hand.
“I have indeed, and that’s what I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Terrible, wasn’t it? Just that cardboard booby playing Red Indians.”
Bryce shrugged. “No, I wouldn’t go as far as to say that. Rather good, as if you didn’t know already.”
“I’m always happy to hear your opinion, you know”, smiled Fleming.
“There’s just one change I’d like you to make, though.”
Fleming’s eye, which again had wandered to the drinks tray, turned sharply to his friend.
“And what’s that?” he inquired.
“It’s in Chapter … let me see … Chapter 25. Bond goes into Vesper’s bedroom, where the moonlight laps at the secret shadows in the snow of her body on the broad bed.”
“Ah yes”, said Fleming, “did you like that part?”
Bryce gave a half-smile. “That was all right. It’s just that you then spend about three and a half pages describing exactly what she and Bond get up to, detailing who is doing what to whom and with what, and for how long before they start squeezing or sucking or licking something else.”
Fleming looked puzzled. “You didn’t like that?”
“It’s not a question of whether or not I liked it, Ian, it’s a question of whether or not the censors will allow it. Remember all the fuss about Lady Chatterley’s Lover? I don’t think your publishers will want that all over again.”
“But it’s an essential part of the story! Look, Ivar, Bond has to make sure that his balls are still working after the thumping Le Chiffre gave them with a carpet beater!”
Bryce said, “Ah yes, that’s another part we need to talk about. But first, those three and a half pages have got to go before you submit this story … what did you call it again?”
Fleming said, glumly, “Casino Royale.”
“That’s right, Casino Royale. Just cut those pages and start again with Bond waking up the next morning. Trust me, this is for the best.”
“Hmph. If you say so.”
He headed for the drinks tray.
“I do say so. Now, about this carpet beater scene …”
Another true-life classic, Barbel 😁👏🍸
Thanks, CHB 😊
I’m seriously having doubts that any of these are imaginary 👀🤭 👏🏻🤣
Theories and stories where Bond survived NTTD are often really bad in my opinion, but this one I really liked! 😀
Much appreciated, guys.
1964
Sighing, the police captain entered the crowded room and chased out a few of his subordinates. The doctor had finished for the moment though the fingerprint team were still working away, ignoring as he was the obscene but unavoidable smell of cooked flesh filling the air. He sat down opposite the undeniably beautiful woman holding her head in her hands.
“Now mi belleza, suppose you tell me all about it?” he asked her, and his tone was not unkind.
“I have already told the officer, then the sergeant”, she said, “do I have to tell it all again to you?”
“I’m afraid so”, the captain said, “that is just the way of it.”
It was her turn to sigh. “I came into the room –“
“No, no, from the beginning. How does a beautiful woman like you, who is clearly not from these parts, come to be dancing in a cantina here?”
“I come from Turkey. My lover there was a carpet salesman, a very successful carpet salesman, but he was killed.”
“Murdered over a dispute involving carpets? I find that very hard to believe.”
“Not carpets”, she said. “He was killed on the Orient Express, but I don’t know why. I do know that the Turkish police and some Bulgars came snooping around and I thought it best that I was out of the country. So, here I came. I have been dancing in this place until something better turns up.”
Her eyes met his, and the captain was in no doubt what that “something better” might be. He felt the animal attraction of her, which he could only calm by thinking of his wife and children back home.
“Tell me about the capungo over there”, he said, indicating the bath with its unsettling contents.
She said, “Him I don’t know. All I know is that Senor Ramirez told me that a man would be hiding in my room when I brought the foreigner back here. And in this town one does what Senor Ramirez wants, you know that.”
The captain nodded ruefully. He did indeed know that. Still, he also knew that some of Senor Ramirez’s wealth had been damaged earlier that evening which had brought him and the rest of the force great pleasure.
He said, “Ah yes, the foreign gentleman. My men told me you mentioned him. Tell me everything you can about him.”
She shrugged. “I don’t know much. Tall, dark, handsome. Maybe American or English, but he didn’t sound like that.”
“And he killed that man there?”
“I don’t know”, she said. “One moment I was in his arms, kissing him, then the next I was on the floor rubbing my head and there was this dreadful smell in the room like there is now, and the capungo was in my bath.”
“And this foreigner, he was gone?”
“He was just leaving, but he said something as he left. I don’t think it was important.”
“Tell me!”, said the captain, “everything is important. Tell me what he said.”
“Well, he said “Shocking. Positively shocking” and then he slammed the door. Do you think it is important?”
The captain rubbed his chin, by this time in need of a shave.
“I don’t know, but it may be.” He called to the officer at the door. “Juan! Send a team to the airport at once. We should be in time for all the flights.”
Juan said, “Si, but we have already missed the one for Miami.”
The captain made a face. “That’s a shame, but see what you can do anyway.”
Oh VERY good 😁👏🏻
Oh, yes, that is excellent 😁👏
Thanks, guys. 😊
The next instalment of
our Christmas Special "Carry On Bonding" tomorrow at The AJB007 Christmas Special 2024 — ajb007
2015. Bill Tanner’s flat.
Q: … and remember, Tiddles gets fed in the morning but not the evening while Fluffy is fed in the evening but not the morning.
Bill: What kind of crazy is it to name a hairless cat “Fluffy”, I ask you?
Q: Never mind. Speaking of which, if it gets cold here are two jumpers I’ve knitted for them, what with them being hairless and all.
Bill: Jumpers. Really.
Q: Yes, really. Now, I have to go and catch my plane. Sorry, Bill, I’d love to tell you where I’m off to but –
Bill: Austria.
Q: (Startled.) What did you say?
Bill: Of course it’s Austria. 007 is in Austria, he must have sent for you to help him in some way.
Q: Er… I can neither confirm or deny the veracity of that statement.
Bill: Yes, well, confirm or deny what you want but I know it’s Austria.
Tiddles: Meow.
Q: No, Tiddles, you have to wait until tomorrow. You remember that, Bill?
Bill: Of course I remember. Now, get on your way.
Q: Yes, I will.
(Kiss, kiss.)
Bill: I’ll see you soon.
(Q grabs his bag and heads for the door.)
Q: Oh, just one last thing.
Bill: And what would that be?
Q: No matter how much they beg, never feed them after midnight. And never EVER get them wet.
🤣 yup…that film is 40 years old 😮
More than half the James Bond films are older than that!
Unfortunately, so am I 🫣😵💫
And I’m older than both of you 😵💫😵💫
Perhaps someday, you will be ready. Until then…
The next part of our Christmas Special has now been posted!
https://www.ajb007.co.uk/discussion/56828/the-ajb007-christmas-special-2024
Two scenes brought to you by CoolHandBond, Harry Canyon, Number24, and me!