1980. The James household. Clifton is pacing back and forth, never getting too far away from the telephone. His concerned wife Maybelle looks on, concernedly.
Maybelle: Oh sit down, Clifton, why doncha?
Clifton: I can’t sit down, Maybelle, I just can’t!
Maybelle: Look, just relax and -
Clifton: Relax? I can’t relax!
Maybelle: Sit down and I’ll make ya a nice cup of coffee and -
Clifton: A nice cup of coffee? Look, how can I think about a nice cup of coffee at a time like this?
Maybelle: Whatcha mean, a time like this? There ain’t nuthin’ happenin’!!!
Clifton: That’s just it – that there phone oughta be ringin’!
Maybelle: An’ exactly who oughta be ringin’?
Clifton: You know darned well. That Broccoli guy, that’s who!
Maybelle: Oh, about the English secret agent. From England.
Clifton: ‘Sright, the James Bond guy.
Maybelle: But sugar, whyd’ya think he’s gonna call you?
Clifton: Didn’t I help round up a swampful of Black Russians?
Maybelle: Well…
Clifton: And then, sure, didn’t I help chase them Commies in flyin’ cars?
Maybelle: Well, I suppose –
Clifton: An’ then he done two movies without no cotton-pickin’ Sheriff! So I reckon it’s about time I came back an’ -
(The telephone rings and Clifton grabs it.)
Clifton: Hello! …. Yeah, sure it’s me ….. Sheriff? Yeah, I reckon …. Okay … Pinewood Studios, Monday, 9am. See ya!
Maybelle: Oh Clifton, you’re back bein’ the Sheriff in a James Bond movie!
Clifton: Well, next best thing. I’m a Sheriff all right but this is a Superman movie!
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 27,988Chief of Staff
JW Pepper - The best returning character of the franchise (apart from the regulars) terrific performances from Clifton James, as Roger confirmed in his LALD book.
😂😂😂
Yeah, well, sometimes nothin' can be a real cool hand.
England hadn’t changed much since my last visit there. Still cold and damp, and the people were as class-conscious as ever if not even more so. I had found the best place to stay I could afford – my money had begun running down, and everything I had managed to raise on my Vespa had gone on the trip over on the Queen Elizabeth. The ship was magnificent and luxurious, and it was there that I had met Ian.
Even now the sound of his name started my eyes to water, just a little, as I remembered the sound of his voice and the look in his cold eyes. He was certainly good looking, rather like Hoagy Carmichael in a way, but there was something a bit cruel in the mouth. I had gone weak at the knees meeting him in the bar though I managed to hide it well as he offered me a drink.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr ….?”
“Fleming. Ian Fleming. Miss ….?”
“Vivienne Michel. I’ll have what you’re having.”
With a laugh, he signed to the bartender for two more drinks. They looked interesting, but he didn’t explain to me what they were. He offered me a cigarette, then lit one for himself. I was curious about the three gold bands but didn’t ask.
"You're very tanned, Mr Fleming."
"Oh Ian, please", he said, passing me one of the drinks. "Yes, I'm on my way back from Jamaica."
"That sounds beautiful, I've always wanted to go there."
“Do I detect a Quebec accent, Miss Michel?”
“Please, call me Viv. I’m surprised that’s still there, after all the places I’ve been in my short but gaudy life.”
“That sounds interesting. Pray tell.”
We were still there when the bar closed, and it seemed so natural for him to walk me back to my cabin, and when we were there it seemed silly to turn him away as his arms held me gently but firmly and his lips sought mine.
In the early hours of the morning we lay smoking, talking in hushed tones of the things only new lovers talk about. He was a writer, it seemed, and despite his modesty I reasoned that he had been quite successful. I continued telling him about my life, from where I had left off in the bar, and he gently laid a finger on my lips.
“You have a fascinating story, Viv”, he said, “and it deserves a wider audience than just me. Why don’t you write it down?”
“Write it down?”
“Yes, get a typewriter and start telling it your story. You’re a good talker, and it’s been my experience that such people make good writers.”
“Oh, but there are some very personal things, I could never write them down and –“
“I understand that”, he said, “but trust me you can and your personality will come shining through.”
“I could never get it published!”
“Just you leave that with me. I’ll tell some story about finding your manuscript in my office and I’ll get it published, don’t you worry.”
And now it was a month later and I had written it down, all of it. He had been right, my personality had come through. Some of the very intimate details I had at first struggled with, but all I had to do was relax and it came easy. I ended up telling more, much more, than I had at first planned to but somehow it felt so right. I wanted Ian to see it, wanted to see his face again, but …
I had known it couldn’t last. These shipboard romances never do. He was so much older than I for one thing, and he made no effort to conceal the wedding band he wore. Still, he had given me the address of his office. The Sunday Times! It sounded very grand. I clutched my manuscript tightly as I went up the stairs to his office, half of me praying that he would be there and the other half praying that he wouldn’t.
I don’t know whether I was pleased or disappointed that he wasn’t there. I placed the manuscript on his desk where he couldn’t miss it, and walked away knowing that my time with him was over.
Next is a collaboration with CoolHandBond with illustrations by @Number24
1971
The Diary of Bambi.
Monday – Another day, another complaint from Willard. Really, is that man ever happy? I mean, he kept himself deliberately alone in his penthouse for years. What difference does it make us keeping him alone in his summer house? And if he sings “Big Bad John” again I’m gonna wrap that guitar around his dome.
Tuesday – Mr Saxby came to call just to see if everything was all right. He was out of breath by the time he got here, as if he’d just climbed the Empire State Building. We told him there were no problems and not to worry, there’d be no monkey business. I’m gonna go ape if I have to stay here much longer.
Wednesday – One day I’m going to kill that Thumper, I swear it. Puts me down every chance she gets. If she says that no-eye-dear joke to me again I’m gonna do a Fatal Attraction on her.
Thursday – I’m tired of having to use the name “Bambi”. So childish. What’s wrong with Philomena van Pappardelle anyway? And what was Thumper’s real name? Robyn Day, I think. She said she had a younger sister called May.
Friday – Mr Saxby called. Second time he’s checked on us in one week. I’m beginning to think something’s going on.
Saturday - Well, that was a hell of a day. This gorgeous British guy came to rescue Willard. We got into a fight. It was all going well until we fell into the pool and he gave us a ducking. Hmmm, wish it had been a f……..oh, Felix has turned up, he said he can fix anything. Hope he can get me out of custody, I’ve promised him I will stimulate and tease him if he can.
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 27,988Chief of Staff
Mr Mot had been busy enjoying his favourite TV show when his telephone rang. This was puzzling; usually nobody called him. He checked his watch- no, he wasn’t late for work, in fact he had the day off. Oh well, he supposed he had better see who it was.
“Hello?”
“Mot, this is Mr Chang. You have work to do.”
“At this time, Mr Chang? And on my day off?”
“You have work to do. A client requires your services and quickly.”
“But, Mr Chang –“
His protest was cut off sharply.
“At once, Mot. Bring your usual equipment to room … let me see … room 007.”
The phone was slammed down before Mr Mot could draw in breath for another, useless, protest. Sighing, he switched off the television just as his favourite actor was saying “Make it so”, gathered his equipment and headed for the door.
Ten minutes later he stepped out of the elevator and walked along the corridor towards the room indicated, then paused and knocked the door. It was jerked open swiftly and a tall man looked out.
“Well?” said the man.
Mot was struck silent with momentary shock. The man’s dark hair was shaggy and long, as was his beard. It looked like he hadn’t seen a hairdresser in over a year.
“What do you want?”
Mot coughed. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have been sent by Mr Chang.”
“And why would that be?”
The man looked around suspiciously.
Mot attempted a weak smile, hoping to ingratiate himself. “I’m the hotel hairdresser. My name is Mot. Mr Chang must have thought you might be wanting my services.”
The man ran a hand through the mess of his hair and gave a short laugh. “Mr Chang may have a point, there. All right, in you come.”
Mot entered and the man quickly closed and locked the door behind him.
“Is there anywhere particular you would like to sit, Mr … ?”
The man took a chair and turned it so that he would be facing the door. “Just here will do fine.”
“Er … certainly, sir. Now, if you’ll allow me to take this towel ….”
It was unusual for Mr Mot’s clients to want their arms outside of the towel he normally wrapped round them, but he didn’t complain when this one wanted it that way. He reached into his bag and produced a long pair of scissors only to find himself startled when the man seized his arm with a grip of iron.
Mot squealed. The man relaxed. “Carry on”, he said. “Just do it slowly if you don’t mind.”
“Slowly, yes sir, slowly”, babbled Mot, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he began to cut the long, tangled hair. He tried to identify the man’s accent. Not American, or English. Not quite, anyway. Someone might know.
After about fifteen minutes the man said, “That’s enough. Now the beard, please.”
Mot began trimming the beard. He had not attempted the usual small talk he was used to providing with his clients. Something had told him that it would not be appreciated. Finally he put the scissors away and reached for an electric trimmer.
“I’ll do that myself, if you don’t mind”, said the client in a tone that left no doubt that whether Mot minded or not wouldn’t matter. Mot handed over the trimmer and swiftly began packing his materials. The man stood waiting for Mot to leave.
In the corridor he nodded at the masseuse heading for the room he had just left. Peaceful Fountains Of Desire, indeed. He remembered when she had been Brenda from Sidcup. Oh well, back to the television.
Indeed I am, @Westward_Drift! I recently watched the entire series again and loved it (except for the Worf episodes "Worf blah blah Klingons blah blah honour blah blah blah").
@CoolHandBond Bond wasn't in Sidcup! I appear to have broken the second rule of writing which is "Be clear". The "he" in the last paragraph is Mr Mot, not Bond.
However thanks everyone for the comments. I have no idea if I can write one today.
I liked the Riker episodes no problem, though I admit that Wesley could be a bit of a pain but at least he stopped being a regular character after a while (not soon enough, I know).
Eon HQ, in a surprisingly roomy house somewhere in Norway. Cubby Broccoli & Harry Saltzman are interviewing potential writers for their next James Bond film.
Harry: Are we sure about this, Cubby? I mean, she’s not the first name to spring to mind for our kinda thing.
Cubby: She’s been very successful, Harry. I say we give her a listen to, you never know what might turn up.
Harry: Well, okay then. (He presses a button on the intercom, state-of-the-art for the time.) Send in the next candidate, please.
Secretary: (On intercom.) Certainly, Mr Saltzman.
(The door opens and an elderly lady appears. Harry and Cubby automatically rise to their feet without a word, then look at each other and shrug.)
Cubby: Please, Dame Agatha, take a seat.
Dame Agatha Christie: Thank you. (She sits. The two producers sit also.)
Harry: Now, Dame Agatha, I must admit it was a surprise to us that you have offered to write for our James Bond films.
Agatha: One is always looking for a challenge, and a change.
Cubby: Indeed, indeed. Now, my partner and I have had a look through the screenplay which you have kindly sent us.
Agatha: Ah yes. “The Golden Bullet Murders”.
Harry: Yes, and that’s one of the things we wanted to discuss with you.
Agatha: (Stiffly.) Oh yes?
Cubby: You see, Dame Agatha, our film will be based – rather loosely, I have to admit – on a novel by the late Ian Fleming and we had rather decided that it would share its title of “The Man With The Golden Gun”.
Agatha: I know, but I felt that this title rather gives away who the murderer is.
Harry: We know, but Fleming and subsequently us never intended to make too much of a mystery about who the villain in the story is.
Agatha: What, you actually want the people to know right from the start that it’s this Scaramanga character who is going around killing people using a golden gun and golden bullets?
Cubby: Ah… that is sort of what we had in mind, yes.
Agatha: You don’t want there to be any chance that it might be the man Hai Fat? One of the women, Mary Goodnight or Andrea Anders? Nick Nack?
Harry: No.
Agatha: Aha, but surely you want the people to suspect that it might be the American Sheriff?
Cubby: I’m pretty sure that our audience will not be suspecting Sheriff JW Pepper of being an international hit man, no.
Agatha: Then your detective James Pond –
Harry: That’s James Bond, ma’am.
Agatha: - won’t be having the scene at the end where he gathers the whole cast together and announces who the villain is?
Cubby: Ah, no. You see, Scaramanga will be played by Christopher Lee so we’re pretty sure that the audience will figure out that he’s the villain.
Agatha: Oh, I see.
Harry: And you can’t have Margaret Rutherford play James Bond.
Agatha: Aw.
Sir MilesThe Wrong Side Of The WardrobePosts: 27,988Chief of Staff
Comments
1980. The James household. Clifton is pacing back and forth, never getting too far away from the telephone. His concerned wife Maybelle looks on, concernedly.
Maybelle: Oh sit down, Clifton, why doncha?
Clifton: I can’t sit down, Maybelle, I just can’t!
Maybelle: Look, just relax and -
Clifton: Relax? I can’t relax!
Maybelle: Sit down and I’ll make ya a nice cup of coffee and -
Clifton: A nice cup of coffee? Look, how can I think about a nice cup of coffee at a time like this?
Maybelle: Whatcha mean, a time like this? There ain’t nuthin’ happenin’!!!
Clifton: That’s just it – that there phone oughta be ringin’!
Maybelle: An’ exactly who oughta be ringin’?
Clifton: You know darned well. That Broccoli guy, that’s who!
Maybelle: Oh, about the English secret agent. From England.
Clifton: ‘Sright, the James Bond guy.
Maybelle: But sugar, whyd’ya think he’s gonna call you?
Clifton: Didn’t I help round up a swampful of Black Russians?
Maybelle: Well…
Clifton: And then, sure, didn’t I help chase them Commies in flyin’ cars?
Maybelle: Well, I suppose –
Clifton: An’ then he done two movies without no cotton-pickin’ Sheriff! So I reckon it’s about time I came back an’ -
(The telephone rings and Clifton grabs it.)
Clifton: Hello! …. Yeah, sure it’s me ….. Sheriff? Yeah, I reckon …. Okay … Pinewood Studios, Monday, 9am. See ya!
Maybelle: Oh Clifton, you’re back bein’ the Sheriff in a James Bond movie!
Clifton: Well, next best thing. I’m a Sheriff all right but this is a Superman movie!
Typecast much 🤣
JW Pepper - The best returning character of the franchise (apart from the regulars) terrific performances from Clifton James, as Roger confirmed in his LALD book.
😂😂😂
Thanking you, gents.
If anyone hasn't seen "Superman 2", Mr James plays a Sheriff who is our JW in all but name (he's just called "Sheriff ").
1961
England hadn’t changed much since my last visit there. Still cold and damp, and the people were as class-conscious as ever if not even more so. I had found the best place to stay I could afford – my money had begun running down, and everything I had managed to raise on my Vespa had gone on the trip over on the Queen Elizabeth. The ship was magnificent and luxurious, and it was there that I had met Ian.
Even now the sound of his name started my eyes to water, just a little, as I remembered the sound of his voice and the look in his cold eyes. He was certainly good looking, rather like Hoagy Carmichael in a way, but there was something a bit cruel in the mouth. I had gone weak at the knees meeting him in the bar though I managed to hide it well as he offered me a drink.
“That’s very kind of you, Mr ….?”
“Fleming. Ian Fleming. Miss ….?”
“Vivienne Michel. I’ll have what you’re having.”
With a laugh, he signed to the bartender for two more drinks. They looked interesting, but he didn’t explain to me what they were. He offered me a cigarette, then lit one for himself. I was curious about the three gold bands but didn’t ask.
"You're very tanned, Mr Fleming."
"Oh Ian, please", he said, passing me one of the drinks. "Yes, I'm on my way back from Jamaica."
"That sounds beautiful, I've always wanted to go there."
“Do I detect a Quebec accent, Miss Michel?”
“Please, call me Viv. I’m surprised that’s still there, after all the places I’ve been in my short but gaudy life.”
“That sounds interesting. Pray tell.”
We were still there when the bar closed, and it seemed so natural for him to walk me back to my cabin, and when we were there it seemed silly to turn him away as his arms held me gently but firmly and his lips sought mine.
In the early hours of the morning we lay smoking, talking in hushed tones of the things only new lovers talk about. He was a writer, it seemed, and despite his modesty I reasoned that he had been quite successful. I continued telling him about my life, from where I had left off in the bar, and he gently laid a finger on my lips.
“You have a fascinating story, Viv”, he said, “and it deserves a wider audience than just me. Why don’t you write it down?”
“Write it down?”
“Yes, get a typewriter and start telling it your story. You’re a good talker, and it’s been my experience that such people make good writers.”
“Oh, but there are some very personal things, I could never write them down and –“
“I understand that”, he said, “but trust me you can and your personality will come shining through.”
“I could never get it published!”
“Just you leave that with me. I’ll tell some story about finding your manuscript in my office and I’ll get it published, don’t you worry.”
And now it was a month later and I had written it down, all of it. He had been right, my personality had come through. Some of the very intimate details I had at first struggled with, but all I had to do was relax and it came easy. I ended up telling more, much more, than I had at first planned to but somehow it felt so right. I wanted Ian to see it, wanted to see his face again, but …
I had known it couldn’t last. These shipboard romances never do. He was so much older than I for one thing, and he made no effort to conceal the wedding band he wore. Still, he had given me the address of his office. The Sunday Times! It sounded very grand. I clutched my manuscript tightly as I went up the stairs to his office, half of me praying that he would be there and the other half praying that he wouldn’t.
I don’t know whether I was pleased or disappointed that he wasn’t there. I placed the manuscript on his desk where he couldn’t miss it, and walked away knowing that my time with him was over.
Another true story uncovered by Barbel 😁👏 Excellent.
That is a great piece of writing 👏🏻
Many thanks, guys, glad you liked it.
Next is a collaboration with CoolHandBond with illustrations by @Number24
1971
The Diary of Bambi.
Monday – Another day, another complaint from Willard. Really, is that man ever happy? I mean, he kept himself deliberately alone in his penthouse for years. What difference does it make us keeping him alone in his summer house? And if he sings “Big Bad John” again I’m gonna wrap that guitar around his dome.
Tuesday – Mr Saxby came to call just to see if everything was all right. He was out of breath by the time he got here, as if he’d just climbed the Empire State Building. We told him there were no problems and not to worry, there’d be no monkey business. I’m gonna go ape if I have to stay here much longer.
Wednesday – One day I’m going to kill that Thumper, I swear it. Puts me down every chance she gets. If she says that no-eye-dear joke to me again I’m gonna do a Fatal Attraction on her.
Thursday – I’m tired of having to use the name “Bambi”. So childish. What’s wrong with Philomena van Pappardelle anyway? And what was Thumper’s real name? Robyn Day, I think. She said she had a younger sister called May.
Friday – Mr Saxby called. Second time he’s checked on us in one week. I’m beginning to think something’s going on.
Saturday - Well, that was a hell of a day. This gorgeous British guy came to rescue Willard. We got into a fight. It was all going well until we fell into the pool and he gave us a ducking. Hmmm, wish it had been a f……..oh, Felix has turned up, he said he can fix anything. Hope he can get me out of custody, I’ve promised him I will stimulate and tease him if he can.
Not much chance of either of them drowning 🤭🤣
2002
Mr Mot had been busy enjoying his favourite TV show when his telephone rang. This was puzzling; usually nobody called him. He checked his watch- no, he wasn’t late for work, in fact he had the day off. Oh well, he supposed he had better see who it was.
“Hello?”
“Mot, this is Mr Chang. You have work to do.”
“At this time, Mr Chang? And on my day off?”
“You have work to do. A client requires your services and quickly.”
“But, Mr Chang –“
His protest was cut off sharply.
“At once, Mot. Bring your usual equipment to room … let me see … room 007.”
The phone was slammed down before Mr Mot could draw in breath for another, useless, protest. Sighing, he switched off the television just as his favourite actor was saying “Make it so”, gathered his equipment and headed for the door.
Ten minutes later he stepped out of the elevator and walked along the corridor towards the room indicated, then paused and knocked the door. It was jerked open swiftly and a tall man looked out.
“Well?” said the man.
Mot was struck silent with momentary shock. The man’s dark hair was shaggy and long, as was his beard. It looked like he hadn’t seen a hairdresser in over a year.
“What do you want?”
Mot coughed. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir, but I have been sent by Mr Chang.”
“And why would that be?”
The man looked around suspiciously.
Mot attempted a weak smile, hoping to ingratiate himself. “I’m the hotel hairdresser. My name is Mot. Mr Chang must have thought you might be wanting my services.”
The man ran a hand through the mess of his hair and gave a short laugh. “Mr Chang may have a point, there. All right, in you come.”
Mot entered and the man quickly closed and locked the door behind him.
“Is there anywhere particular you would like to sit, Mr … ?”
The man took a chair and turned it so that he would be facing the door. “Just here will do fine.”
“Er … certainly, sir. Now, if you’ll allow me to take this towel ….”
It was unusual for Mr Mot’s clients to want their arms outside of the towel he normally wrapped round them, but he didn’t complain when this one wanted it that way. He reached into his bag and produced a long pair of scissors only to find himself startled when the man seized his arm with a grip of iron.
Mot squealed. The man relaxed. “Carry on”, he said. “Just do it slowly if you don’t mind.”
“Slowly, yes sir, slowly”, babbled Mot, trying to stop his hands from shaking as he began to cut the long, tangled hair. He tried to identify the man’s accent. Not American, or English. Not quite, anyway. Someone might know.
After about fifteen minutes the man said, “That’s enough. Now the beard, please.”
Mot began trimming the beard. He had not attempted the usual small talk he was used to providing with his clients. Something had told him that it would not be appreciated. Finally he put the scissors away and reached for an electric trimmer.
“I’ll do that myself, if you don’t mind”, said the client in a tone that left no doubt that whether Mot minded or not wouldn’t matter. Mot handed over the trimmer and swiftly began packing his materials. The man stood waiting for Mot to leave.
In the corridor he nodded at the masseuse heading for the room he had just left. Peaceful Fountains Of Desire, indeed. He remembered when she had been Brenda from Sidcup. Oh well, back to the television.
A cut scene from DAD found in the vaults of EON.
Not American, or English 🤣
Brenda from Sidcup 👏🏻🤣
What was Bond doing in Sidcup all those years ago? We need to know, Barbel 😂
Someone is a big ST:TNG fan.
Indeed I am, @Westward_Drift! I recently watched the entire series again and loved it (except for the Worf episodes "Worf blah blah Klingons blah blah honour blah blah blah").
@CoolHandBond Bond wasn't in Sidcup! I appear to have broken the second rule of writing which is "Be clear". The "he" in the last paragraph is Mr Mot, not Bond.
However thanks everyone for the comments. I have no idea if I can write one today.
My mistake, Barbel. I used to drive through Sidcup fairly often, that’s why I was interested in Brenda!
The Star Trek references have gone over my head though, I’m not a fan of anything except TOS and the first few movies.
I'd forgotten about Mot from Next Generation! I had to look him up
I'm surprised Picard needed a hairdresser
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
barbel sez: except for the Worf episodes "Worf blah blah Klingons blah blah honour blah blah blah"
_________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
what about the Riker centric episodes? those are the ones I used to kvetch about. and the Wesley Crusher centric episodes
I liked the Riker episodes no problem, though I admit that Wesley could be a bit of a pain but at least he stopped being a regular character after a while (not soon enough, I know).
1973
Eon HQ, in a surprisingly roomy house somewhere in Norway. Cubby Broccoli & Harry Saltzman are interviewing potential writers for their next James Bond film.
Harry: Are we sure about this, Cubby? I mean, she’s not the first name to spring to mind for our kinda thing.
Cubby: She’s been very successful, Harry. I say we give her a listen to, you never know what might turn up.
Harry: Well, okay then. (He presses a button on the intercom, state-of-the-art for the time.) Send in the next candidate, please.
Secretary: (On intercom.) Certainly, Mr Saltzman.
(The door opens and an elderly lady appears. Harry and Cubby automatically rise to their feet without a word, then look at each other and shrug.)
Cubby: Please, Dame Agatha, take a seat.
Dame Agatha Christie: Thank you. (She sits. The two producers sit also.)
Harry: Now, Dame Agatha, I must admit it was a surprise to us that you have offered to write for our James Bond films.
Agatha: One is always looking for a challenge, and a change.
Cubby: Indeed, indeed. Now, my partner and I have had a look through the screenplay which you have kindly sent us.
Agatha: Ah yes. “The Golden Bullet Murders”.
Harry: Yes, and that’s one of the things we wanted to discuss with you.
Agatha: (Stiffly.) Oh yes?
Cubby: You see, Dame Agatha, our film will be based – rather loosely, I have to admit – on a novel by the late Ian Fleming and we had rather decided that it would share its title of “The Man With The Golden Gun”.
Agatha: I know, but I felt that this title rather gives away who the murderer is.
Harry: We know, but Fleming and subsequently us never intended to make too much of a mystery about who the villain in the story is.
Agatha: What, you actually want the people to know right from the start that it’s this Scaramanga character who is going around killing people using a golden gun and golden bullets?
Cubby: Ah… that is sort of what we had in mind, yes.
Agatha: You don’t want there to be any chance that it might be the man Hai Fat? One of the women, Mary Goodnight or Andrea Anders? Nick Nack?
Harry: No.
Agatha: Aha, but surely you want the people to suspect that it might be the American Sheriff?
Cubby: I’m pretty sure that our audience will not be suspecting Sheriff JW Pepper of being an international hit man, no.
Agatha: Then your detective James Pond –
Harry: That’s James Bond, ma’am.
Agatha: - won’t be having the scene at the end where he gathers the whole cast together and announces who the villain is?
Cubby: Ah, no. You see, Scaramanga will be played by Christopher Lee so we’re pretty sure that the audience will figure out that he’s the villain.
Agatha: Oh, I see.
Harry: And you can’t have Margaret Rutherford play James Bond.
Agatha: Aw.
Maybe Kenneth Branagh though…😁
Not the worst choice, but he'd still be at school when this story is set.
Bond and Agatha, that’s an interesting thought! A bit like the oft mentioned Bond and Hitchcock link.