The world of 007 was rocked to its explosive core this week following the shock news by James Bond movie franchise producer Barbara Broccoli that the next Bond will be a more “sensitive” one in keeping with today’s woke values.
In this word exclusive, the Fin’s counter-espionage correspondent and occasional Hollywood blockbuster screenwriter, Ms Rowena Broccolini (no relation), reveals top secret excerpts from the next Bond script, Quantum of Woke.
The attractive young woman in the sari that had accidentally fallen open just enough for him to catch a fleeting glimpse of a curved cleavage the colour of burnt ochre stared at Bond with her pale green eyes the colour of the sea and smiled, her lips parting just long enough to reveal her pearly whites and the momentary flash of a sparkling diamond embedded in her front tooth.
007 froze, his senses on high alert. Was this a cunning ploy designed to trap him into smiling back at her? The diamond in her tooth, was it a blood diamond? What damage had its extraction from the earth done to the pristine eco-environment of the Congo? How should he react?
Bond’s HR Diversity, Inclusion and Sensitivity Training immediately kicked in. If he touched the girl without her permission he’d be in all sorts of strife with M. But Bond knew that if he didn’t – ever so tentatively – put his hand on her thigh, or at the very least run his fingers down the soft fleshy underside of her arm, his cover would be blown.
The seconds were ticking by, and Bond felt the familiar tingle of excitement tingling on the hairs on the back of his neck. What should his next move be? Should he simply feign disinterest in this young lady’s obvious allures? But what if it turned out she was a transgender woman? Would she take his refusal to be swayed by her unambiguous sexual overtures as a transphobic micro-aggression?
Bond felt a stiffness in his pocket and remembered he still had the ultimate weapon in his trousers – a dozen rolled-up copies of His Majesty’s Official Consent Forms, codename: “thunderballs”.
Bond grabbed the woman and pulled her onto his lap, but then he remembered that might be deemed as a sexual assault.
Q had insisted he have them on his person at all times. Bond had objected at the time, reminding Q that his majesty himself, as one of his first duties following his coronation, had ordered the entire British civil service to avoid using photocopiers wherever possible in order to both save electricity as well as to save the trees. The King had explained how the trees themselves had told him in one of their weekly conversations how painful and disrespectful it was to chop them down merely to feed the voracious bureaucratic habits of MI6.
Bond needed to buy himself time to think. He gently broke the young woman’s gaze, glanced down – carefully avoiding looking at her breasts – and with his spoon slowly stirred his decaffeinated, dairy-free Martini-flavoured affogato, the ice tinkling against the glass. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced … Miss … ?” he intoned, seductively raising one eyebrow.
She smiled back. “My friends call me Woke Galore,” she purred, leaning heavily on the word “friends”. Bond frowned. And in that instance he noticed her eyes glance surreptitiously over his right shoulder.
Was she warning him? What “friends” was she referring to? Was that code for a group of vicious assailants who were about to spring out from behind the curtains and kidnap him and torture him in a basement down below by strapping him into a chair and applying electrodes to his private parts in order to find out what he already knew about the plan by SMERSH (now re-branded as the World Economic Forum) and its evil boss Ernst Blofeld – who had undergone extensive plastic surgery before returning to his Swiss lair in Davos with a new mysterious identity – to take over the world with “The Great Reset”?
In the mirror up behind the bar, Bond caught a faint flicker of light, a momentary reflection. In one swift move he spun around and at the same time his instincts kicked in and he grabbed the woman and pulled her onto his lap, but then he remembered that might be deemed as a sexual assault, so he quickly let go of her again and was just about to apologise when he felt something come down on the back of his head and everything went black.
Several hours later he came to. He was in the cellar. He could feel the electrodes on his gonads. He could hear a thick German accent. ‘Vy haf you not done as I insisted and electrocuted double-oh seven?’ There was a pause.
“It’s those damn solar panels. We’re in a blackout again.”
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