Both I and Rakim Patel are contenders for the role of James Bond, when Pierce Brosnan moves on. (Rakim Patel, in case you don't know, is the star of the film Dulhan Hum Le Jayenge, a misunderstood and twisted piece of genius filmmaking that would translate to mean
something funny, if I could be bothered to think of anything). To be honest, I'm not sure if I really want to be Bond; I mean, it's a privilege to be nominated and all, but I have my image to maintain. Would Alan Dershowitz be half the man he is if he played Bond? Would Janet Reno be half the woman she is if she played Bond? You can appreciate my quandary.
All my life I've dreamed of being Bond, but now my dream is rapidly approaching actuality, I hit fear. My coughing has become increasingly more phlegm-ridden, and I am being haunted by what realists would call nightmares about my dog and what he knew, but what I would call the ghost of a dog I beat to death. It's the fear of realising a dream. It's the same fear I felt when I was considering buying my first ever set of headphones. I've learnt to live with the wondrous benefits that headphones have brought to my life, and I'm sure I would adapt in the same way with having to wear a tuxedo with concealed [funny things]. But... But.. But. But however much I rationalise it, the fact remains that I am petrified of realising my dream. I have tried alcoholism, and again resorted to masturbation (with prostate stimulation), in vain attempts to ease my burden, but have been hideously unsuccessful. (Any advice would be greatly appreciated from anyone who's opinion I respect and trust, but I hate every single one of you, and would happily kill you for food, so I don't know why I'm telling you that I'm looking for advice).
My opponent for the role is a worthy adversary. We have been friends, nay, acquaintances for many years and have bumped into each other at big showbiz parties that my dog used to hold at my house. Increasingly in later years, only Rakim, the dog, and I would turn up, but this only brought us closer together, until Rakim contracted a near-fatal allergy to my front door. These showbiz parties then degenerated to what one uninformed (saucy French maid) observer described as me wearing a sequinned dress and drinking alone with my dog. A hideous misrepresentation of the facts: there was an ersatz atmosphere running from kitchen to bathroom that meant it could be a showbiz party without the inclusion of showbiz. It's a bit like Alabama in that respect, and yet in so many other respects, not like Alabama at all.
In all honesty, I think I just miss my dog (blood-stained carpet aside) and am worried that I may miss out on my dream to a long lost friend. How could I speak to him if he got the role? How could I not speak to him if he got the role? Either way I would appear to be nothing more than a common-or-garden cunt. I only do cunt impressions when it's raining.
(Does anyone have nude photos of poet and critic Tom Paulin? You sick puppies).