THE estate of Ian Fleming is to commission an author to write a new novel featuring James Bond. We hope the chosen scribe will not forget the famous spy's Scottish roots.
"You shent for me, sir?"
"Yes, 007. Just remind me, where were you at school?"
"Fetish, sir."
"Good place, was it?"
"Okay, sir. There was one goofy little creep with a ukulele I used to enjoy bashing about. Shaw him on telly recently
- he's doing some job in the government now."
"Quite, 007. It's because of your Scottish background I chose you for this mission. You're going back north. Take a look at this photograph."
"That's a nasty-looking piece of work. Classic criminal physhi... physhiog... features."
"That's actually the First Minister of Scotland, 007. It's your job to protect him from a possible coup. The man to watch out for is this chap here - name of McCabe."
"Right, sir. What about my old adversary - that scary Stalinist woman Liddell, with the poisoned needles in her toecaps?"
"She's off the radar now - last heard of in Australia. Quite a few things have changed since you were last in Scotland, 007. You know those Turkish cigarettes you favour - handrolled, monogrammed and specially imported? I'm afraid they're banned. And I'd give fur-farming a wide berth. You take milk and sugar, James?"
"Yes, sir, shaken not stirred..."
