Sure why would there be a problem for a man of bond-007’s stature? I was spell-bound reading about your latest ...
It’s a grey autumn morning at the grey offices of Universal Exports in rain-greyed London. Two grey-suited men, one of them grey-faced, meet in a dingy, grey basement.
"Ah good morning 007. You’re sporting a particularly fetching shade of grey this morning.”
“What about ye, Q? Thanks for the compliment, it’s a special mohair my Hong Kong tailor recommended, I had this two-piece and a matching three-piece suit made up.”
“Sorry 007, I meant your complexion, it seems consistent with the blood-shot eyes, the sweats and the DTs I suspect you have.”
“As ever Q, sharp as a tack. Yeah, I do have a touch of the colly-wobbles. I was visiting my pal Gordon last night and we had a few."
"Jolly good show 007, how are things at Number 10?"
"Oh Christ Q, not that scotch git, Gordon Brown. I meant Gordon Ramsay, the f'ing famous supposedly former Glasgow Rangers professional f'ing footballer who is now a famous broke has-been f'ing cook. The tight so-and-so only had cheap cooking sherry and scotch in the drinks cabinet; I should have taken his advice and stuck with the cheap cooking sherry. I'm not sure which did the most damage, the scotch or the deep-fried Mars bars he insisted on serving at 3:00 am when we were both well locked."
"My dear chap, wounded again in the line of duty. Are there any limits to your bravery? Have a seat 007.”
"Thanks Q. Where’s M?"
“M is tied up this morning 007, she asked me to brief you.”
“Feck it, Q I thought she said she was staying away from them Formula 1 parties, but I’m relieved she’s not here. When I meet her alone these days the randy aul’ cow tries to de-brief me. What’s the new mission?”
“You’re going under cover again 007, but it’s not the Bahamas this time, you’ll be working on a North Sea oil-rig.”
“Tell me you’re kiddin’ Q. I’ll never survive in the North Sea for 30 days with a bunch of hairy sweaty men, it’s just not my thing. Why not ask someone like Tony Curtis or even one of the lads out of the Village People, the one with the hard hat and overalls even has the right gear.”
“Frightfully sorry old bean, but none of them has the “00” clearance this mission needs.”
“That’s grand as far as the qualifications for the job go Q, but as I’m sure you’re aware, the Celtic Tiger in Ireland has had a State funeral and some of those unemployed people will undoubtedly get work on the rigs.”
“Sorry old sport, you’ve lost me. How will that effect the mission?”
“Look Q, as you’re aware I’m a member of a very small, exclusive clique and we all know each other well, right?”
“Indeed 007, a tiny select group old man.”
“All I’ll need is for one of them lads, Hector Ó hEochagáin or Tommy Tiernan, to show up for a well-paid Gig on a Rig, recognise me as being from Naaavan and we’re all fecken goosed - P45-time, Soyonara, Slán agus Beanacht, finis, end-of, QED.
Q, FYI contact M and look at Plan B, ASAP.”