On James Bond
A Fleming Fan Praises the Best Bond
I can kick James Bond’s ass. I mean, I can totally kick his ass. According to the SMERSH file referred to in Fleming’s novel From Russia With Love, Bond (the book Bond, natch) is six feet tall and 167 pounds. Bond is scrawny. Like . . . Adrien Brody scrawny. Like . . . scrawny as the pretentious “collage artist” who sulks at the end of the bar on Goth Night, hunched over his Midori that he pretends is absinthe because it’s sort of the right color, and who goes on about how much cooler Lacuna Coil was “before they sold out” as he absently wonders if he should have more detail added to his coi fish tattoo. No wonder Bond loves that Beretta that Major Boothroyd (both the real person and the character Fleming named after him) dismissively called “a lady’s gun” in Dr. No (both the book and the film): Bond’s skinny little Hilary Duff-y wrists can probably only handle the trigger weight of a Beretta.
I’m an inch and a half shorter than Bond and weigh two hundred pounds. I’m pretty sure I can kick Bond’s ass.
Yeah, that SMERSH file also mentions that Bond is good at boxing, knife throwing, and knows a few judo holds. “He looks like a nasty customer,” says one Commie SMERSH pinko official, looking at Bond’s file photo. But if you dig through the novels, you’ll find references to Bond smoking sixty cigarettes a day. On average. In Casino Royale, Bond smoked seventy …