You’re a kite dancing in a hurricane Mr. Bond.
You’re an obese eel squirming through a collapsing u-bend Mr. Bond.
You’re a stranded tourist in a war-torn version of Bognor Regis who thinks he’s in Disneyland, Mr. Bond.
You’re Brad Pitt’s stunt-double on stage with Brad Pitt at the Oscars, Mr. Bond.
You’re a two-bit hooker at an annual convention for high-class escorts, Mr. Bond.
You’re a camp kitten frollocking in a circle of bloodhounds, Mr. Bond.
You’re a worn down stub of a Crayola in a suitcase full of exquisite antique fountain pens, Mr. Bond.
You’re a flabby chested football hooligan in an Eggheads final, Mr. Bond.