So as the icy cold grip of unemployment is beginning to tighten, I found myself at home last Friday night, playing FIFA with my housemate. With only one controller. Wearing two jackets. Because I cant afford the heating.
Anyway, I took a break from getting merked on FIFA by twelve-year-olds on the internet so I could spoon baked beans into my grill for the fifteenth consecutive day. The idiot-box was showing a totally excellent commercial for the latest tedious installment in the cyclical festival of onanism that is James Bond.
As I sat in my miserable squalor I realized that everyone else in the world was out having a super time wanking themselves into a coma over James Bond.
What the total fuck is that shit about? Skyfall is Bond’s twenty-third Hollywood outing. Why do I live in a world where the same film can be made twenty three times? And why do the streets still crawl with the kind of people I used to laugh at when I was at school, all trying to live out their childhood fantasies of bumming bitches in casino toilets and shooting cunts with more facial hair than them. It’s a formula, you’re being manipulated. Your hero is taking advantage of your insecurities. It’s a dirty stinking fishing hook and it’s embarrassing.
Hear me out right, James Bond is a suave British super spy who gets all the bitches to rub his sick crotch like all the time and he is well good at a whole load of activities. Like freerunning and skiing and speedboating. And he always has loads of time to get shitfaced and bum even more slick babes. Babes whose actual first names are like Pussy or Christmas. Who, who in the whole world can relate to this? I don’t know anyone who can do all those activities.
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It’s appealing because he sums up all of our shortfalls and failures as individuals and parades around like a swaggering negative of all the things we hate about ourselves. It’s so crooked, it makes me wanna chunder.
Not only is Jimbo totally badass at all the things we can’t do, he also takes all of the shitty pointless things that we’re proud of and makes them cool and useful. Like being British. What, really, do you get out of being British? Massive taxes, no space and pissing rain all over your face every single day. And then you die. And then your estate is taxed. Is it good to be wildly propelled into fiscal oblivion by a bunch of ruddy-faced piss-bastards as they make off with our fuckin cash? Whooping and guffawing all the way to the Caymen Islands branch of their best friend’s bank. That is the reality of being British. What’s attached to a leash that it made itself huh?
And yet we’re all so proud of it. James Bond is a totally bitchin’ spy for MI6. And you can only be that if you’re British right? He makes being British cool. Something to be proud of. He is fictitious though. He has been invented to scratch an itch. To soothe the unbearable incongruity of being proud of something which should really be a source of opprobrium. You do know that right?
It’s not light hearted fun. It’s bleak and it is an indictment on us all. In subscribing to this cabaret of manipulation you sacrifice the last vestiges of your dignity. James Bond fandom is a full, open and public admission of the fact that you would rather be someone else.
Maybe I’m taking it too seriously…
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