The Courier & Advertiser (Fife Edition)
Bond on the front line in battle against rhubarb
JAMES BOND, now an octogenarian, is part of the new secret surveillance community and something fishy has come up on his computer screen... Eva Eyeful, head of Info-Hoovering, hovered behind Bond and peered at his screen. “What have you found, 908786543?” she asked, using the agent’s new operational number. (The infamous Double-0 section had been disbanded).
Bond had highlighted a message on his monitor. It read: “Eggs, caster sugar, one orange, double cream, Grand Marnier, olive oil, tinfoil, frozen Blairgowrie raspberries.”
Ms Eyeful scoffed. “Bond,” she grated, “this is nothing more than somebody’s shopping list. It’s perfectly innocent. We’re not in the business of monitoring people’s shopping requirements unless they include Semtex, landmines or rocket-propelled grenades.
“These are ingredients you’d find in anybody’s kitchen. Apart from the Grand Marnier, maybe. That might be useful to an arsonist. You add it to flambé dishes like crepes suzette, light a match and then — pouf! Is that your concern, 908786543?”
Bond shot his cuffs: not literally, they’d taken away his pistol, remember? His eyes took on a humorous wrinkle. This becomes easier to achieve when you’re in your eighties.
“There’s something you’ve overlooked, Ms Eyeful,” he said, “or perhaps your basic Volatile Materials training was deficient.”
Eva Eyeful’s sneer became an outraged snarl. She wasn’t used to being treated with disdain by washed up, recycled, secret agents. She’d sort him out later. There was bound to be a circular saw in the building somewhere. Or a bowler hat with sharp edges.
“What you’re looking at here,” snapped Bond, “are the ingredients for a bombe surprise. You might think it’s just a sickly kind of pudding but I can assure you it’s lethal. And I, Ms Eyeful, should know.”
Flashback to Diamonds Are Forever. The year is 1971 and 007 is in his hotel suite with his squeeze, Tiffany. Enter Mr Wint and Mr Kidd, sinister pair posing as room service waiters, bringing that very pudding. One advances on Bond with flaming kebabs. Bond sets him on fire with a bottle of brandy. A real bomb with a timer is found in the pud. Bond tosses waiter and pudding off the balcony and into the swimming pool. There’s an almighty explosion and James Bond survives (although he doesn’t look like Connery any more) to make Live & Let Die, The Man with the Golden Gun etc etc. Eva Eyeful spat: “Very good, 908786543. Obviously you had fast reactions in those days.” She aimed a playful jab at him with the knife concealed in her right shoe. Quick as a flash, Bond upended her with an impossible movement of his knee, wrenched off her shoe and threw it at the wall where it stuck, quivering.
“Not bad old man, not bad,” grated Eyeful, as Bond massaged his knee joint. That instinctive, disabling leg-twist, learned at the hashmagaf of a Korean kamishlogashi master, had started the blasted arthritis playing up again.
Later, a detachment of the SAS, acting on the instructions of the Super Secret Service, carried out a pre-dawn raid on an ordinary, redbrick, terraced house in Epsom, Surrey. There they discovered that a Mrs Abigail Deepleigh-Innocent, 73, had indeed concocted a bombe surprise for her latest chap, found through an internet dating site, a Mr Hammersmith Suet-Tooth, 81.
Unfortunately, however, this spectacular pudding turned out to be completely benign, harbouring no explosive substances whatsoever. The SAS personnel decided, on a brief show of hands, to take it with them to Hereford and eat it. It was delicious.
Back at Info-Hoovering, Bond continued to scan his monitor screen in pursuance of national security. Mrs Deepleigh-Innocent was simply an unfortunate aberration in the imperative for watchfulness. Keywords with ominous possibilities flowed across his vision. Then came this: “Rhubarb, red onion, caster sugar, white wine vinegar, coriander seeds, star anise, ground allspice, raisins, lemons.” He recognised the combination instantly. Flashback one month: Rhubard chutney. Woman in Oxfordshire has door blown off her fridge as chutney ferments, producing build-up of methane which explodes. This is true!
Once more, Bond pressed the alarm button on his desk. “Bingo!” he shouted. “Here we go again!” As members of Cobra, the Cabinet security committee , were alerted and the Tornados of 617 squadron were put on standby at Lossiemouth, a housewife in Methil decided she didn’t want chutney, after all. She’d use the rhubarb to make crumble.
She cancelled her shopping list and the country breathed again, thanks to the vigilance of 908786543 and the Super Secret Service.