“My hero is Bond, James Bond. I just need to hear that opening blast of brass and I see the gun-barrel, the suited-and-booted siloheutte, the spin and that single, fatal shot of that Walther PPK. This man has being single-handedly saving the world from golden-gunned, claw-handed, cat-stroking wrong-uns since 1962 (helped, only occassionally, from the odd hyper-magnetised-laser-equipped-chainsaw-Omega-wristwatch). And I’ve watched transfixed, every time – a million times. Be it Uncle Sean, George, Roger, Tim, Pierce or Dan, I don’t care, because they’re all Bond. My Bond.
I have the films, the books, the comics, posters, collectibles and postage-stamps. Even the aftershave. How to even put into words my love, respect and awe for 007 of Universal Exports, London. Licensed to Kill and Wisecrack. An ageless legend that has been a constant, and always there for me, martini in one hand (shaken, not stirred) and an exotic girl with an unlikely name on his arm, while the Aston purrs in the background.
I can’t wait to introduce my own children to my hero, and let them dive into his world. Meet men that have metal-mouths, cars that spit out goons, where every pool has a complimentary shark and every elevator a triggered trapdoor.
I have many heroes, but Bond has been, and will always be, the best. Because, of course, nobody does it better.”
Indiana Jones and the extra chair 