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Posts Tagged ‘Sean Connery’

Today is my cousin K’s 30th birthday.

Having a birthday in that No Man’s Land between Christmas and New Year’s for thirty years can’t have been easy for him.

It’s a little like receiving a big box from Nokia the day before the night before Christmas. Well, actually it’s not at all like receiving a big box from Nokia the day before the night before Christmas, but I had to bring up the big box from Nokia somehow and, since I’m in that No-Man’s Land between Christmas and New Year’s, I’m struggling to find an elegant way to do it.

In the interests of full disclosure, the big box from Nokia contained a gorgeous case. And that gorgeous case contained a beautiful pop-up book. And that beautiful pop-up book contained a shiny new Nokia handset for yours truly. Apparently, Nokia have sent all me this because they really really want me to try out their new personalised satnav app ‘Own Voice‘, where you can record your own voice to give the instructions. My plan, of course, is to get my husband to do his bad Sean Connery impersonation so that when I’m trying to do a hook turn in the middle of heavy city traffic and the SatNav tells me to “Turn right here, Misshhhh Moneypenny”, I have full license to use the ‘C’ word in the car. And for the record, that C word is not ‘Connery’.

Anyways, Nokia is now to be officially known on this blog as ‘The Only Finnish Communications Corporation To Give The NDM Free Stuff This Christmas So Far’. Just in case you were wondering.

But I digress.

Last night, I went to my cousin K’s surprise 30th birthday party. In lieu of an actual gift, I arrived bearing a photo of my husband with K’s name written on his flexed bicep in dark red lipstick, with a heart with an arrow drawn through it.

Yes, my husband is all class.

Of course, I chose to show my cousin K this photo just as he was having a little emotional moment post-discovering the fact his sister, brother and parents had all flown interstate just to be at the party. It’s amazing how quickly tears will dry up when faced with such a vision.

Later in the evening, after one or two drinks, K’s siblings (and my cousins) encouraged me to text a copy of the photo to K, which I did with one single accompanying word: “Hot!”.

My, how I laughed. But it’s amazing how quickly that laughter dried up when I discovered that my cousin K hadn’t received the aforementioned text two hours later and I became struck with fear that I’d keyed his number incorrectly into my phone and had therefore just emailed a photo of my semi-naked husband with a man’s name written on his bare skin in Cherry Desirable lipstick to a complete and utter stranger.

Luckily, it turns out I hadn’t. The number I had in my phone for K was correct and the photo was just taking the scenic route through the ether to get to him. And so, an awkward conversation with my husband where I had to explain how such a photo got out into the public realm was avoided. Just as the arrival of The Silent Red Ninja on Christmas Eve over four weeks late got me out of another awkward conversation with my post-vasectomy husband (“Darling! It’s a Christmas Miracle!”).

And no, I’m not sure what this blog post is really about, where it is supposed to be going or how I’m going to end it. I think I need my so-called-husband-as-Sean-Connery to come to the rescue, quite frankly.

PS. In case you were wondering, this is what happens when you try to write a post from scratch after only four and a half hours sleep.

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Click on over to Box Ted to see what that zany talking cupboard is up to this week…

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Ever since I went and saw “Quantum of Solace” with my friend, The Mild-Mannered Lawyer, any time I’ve heard mention or thought of Daniel Craig I’ve come over all giddy, much like a post-School Carnival Mr Justice but without the projectile vomiting. 

Listen, I’m not a Bond fan – not by any stretch of the imagination. I think “Q of S” was the third Bond film I’d managed to see in its entirety. And I wasn’t even particularly interested in seeing it, except the Mild-Mannered Lawyer sold it to me as being “Bourne-esque” and we all know the thing I have for Matt-Damon-as-Jason-Bourne (which is distinctly different from plain old Matt Damon, independent of the Bourne franchise). And by god, she was right to make me see it. I’m thinking ol’ Danny Boy might be about to push Matt-Damon-as-Jason-Bourne off his throne entirely, except I’ve promised my husband I’ll one day write a blog post entitled “The Porn Ultimatum” or “Soft Bourne” based on my M-D-a-J-B fetish. Perhaps he’s hoping I’ll get it all entirely out of my system and Move On. Yuh, right. 

So after all the poo-pooing that went on when Daniel Craig was cast as Bond, I can say with confidence that he puts the double “Oh!” in 007. But whenever I start raving about his Bondness, the Bond Old Guard get all defensive and say that Sean Connery is the Best Bond Ever and it would take more than Daniel Craig driving around in an Aston Martin with this look on his face that resembles Tiddles McGee’s when he’s eaten something not entirely to his taste to beat Connery. I was willing to take their word for it but then my husband showed me the trailer for a 1974 film Connery made called “Zardoz” (Click here to see it), which had been sent to him in an email with the subject title “Not every film he did was good”. Which was putting things mildly. 

From what I glean from this gloriously trashy trailer, the art department loved their paper-mâché and went crazier with their flour glue and newspaper strips than an DIY Mum during Birthday Party season (see “The NDM Guide to Making Piñatas“). Call me a crazy DIY Mum, but the gigantic “Floating Head of Death” that features in this film looks like one Mo Fo of a piñata, except that, instead of sweets, it appears to be full of human skulls and guns. Which could prove to inflict quite the Psychological Scar upon a six year old birthday boy. Especially since the Floating Head comes with its own voice over that spouts stuff like “The penis is evil… The penis shoots seeds, and makes new life, and poisons the earth with a plague of men, as once it was… But the gun shoots death, and purifies the earth of the filth of brutals… Go forth and kill!” 

Which, granted, are not lines spoken by Sean Connery in the film. Thanks to a quick imdb.com search, I can see that his character (Zed) says less controversial but equally baffling things like “Can you unknow what you know of me?” and “Stay behind my aura!”.  And when you combine these lines with him rolling down hills in his Burt Lancaster moustache and Nearly-Nude costume, you wonder how ever he managed to get a knighthood let alone go on to make another Bond film. 

You see, “Zardoz” was made between Connery’s final two Bond films, while he was still officially carrying the mantle of James Bond. So while it’s not strictly fair to compare “Zardoz” to “Casino Royale”, I’d like to submit the following photos as evidence in the Battle for the title of “Ultimate Bond”:
bondversusbond

Of course, to its (dis)credit, “Quantum of Solace” has its fair share of baffling lines and complete-suspension-of-reality plot points. Hell, I don’t even know what “Quantum of Solace” even means but I Just. Don’t. Care. Daniel Craig can jump on my car bonnet from a great height while still managing to say the line “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance” any time he wants. As long he doesn’t then go on to shoot me. (Having said that, I might have then gone on to slip in some sordid Zardozian reference, say, something along the lines of “unless he was shooting seeds”, but I’m clearly Better Than That. Unlike that Sir Sean Connery.)

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A person could drive themselves mad pondering the “What ifs…” and the “If only I hads…”. For example, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I’d left that open pack of cocktail franks at the back of the fridge for another six months. Or if only I’d stopped at just one piece of chocolate rather than the whole ruddy block last night, whether my “apron” would feel a little less inflated this morning. 

My husband no doubt has had some “What ifs” on his mind since we caught up with The King and his lovely wife (The Queen?). The King and my husband had worked together for a major British newspaper when we lived in London and The King had gone onto Great Things, whereas my husband had been dragged kicking and screaming back to the colonies by his wife, along with his four month old son, who also did a good line in screaming and kicking all that long long journey home. It all could have been so different, though. In our final months in the UK, my husband had gone for a promotion at work and we agreed that, if he got it, we’d stay in the UK and if he didn’t, we’d go to Australia where he could languish away in a dead-end academic job for five years before finally getting himself a “proper job” where he’d get to wear a fancy-man suit, start a campaign for “International Sean Connery Impressions Day” and end up running from his desk to throw up no less than six times the morning after a big work party. Well, we didn’t know that’s what Australia had in store for him at the time, but that’s what ended up happening. Fact. 

If you ask him what life might have been like for us had we stayed in London, he would no doubt paint you a picture of himself cycling about on his trusty bike through the beautiful green parks of that fair city, putting in a hard day’s graft on a world-class publication, slipping in a pint (or three) at the pub with the lads after work and eventually coming home after closing time via the kebab shop. Which is pretty much what he was still doing up until the time we left. Life for me, of course, had changed considerably with the arrival of Mister Justice and my days were largely spent waiting for my husband to cycle home with the smell of lager and garlic sauce on his breath. 

But enough about him – it is all about me, after all. What would have happened to me if we had stayed there (other than waiting around for my drunken husband to come home)? Would financial necessity have driven me back to the arms of a rubber chicken in my manager-minding job (see “Chicken of Persuasion“)? Would I have gone on to churn out two more children in the home counties or I still be passing myself off as part of a “hip’n’happening London couple with a child”? Or, if I had managed to swing a Stay-At-Home gig, would I have found myself a mothers’ group full of gloriously boozy women with which to while away those long long afternoons (see “The Hostest with the Mostest” as a stirling example of this worthy past-time)?

For the answer to that last question, I’ll quote my friend Fee S in the UK, who had the following to report:

My usually breezy and very funny friend B—- (four boys 2-7yrs years) had a face of lead when I told her about your mother’s group, which sounded all fab and modern. She practically screamed at me “Have you been to a mother’s group here? Have you? Have you? It’s shit! Shit!”

Fee then went on to regale me with some horror stories of cold cups of tea in dank church halls – with not a hint of cheap bubbly or a schmancy hors d’oevres to be found. In an instant, I realised exactly what my life would have become had we stayed in the UK:  I would have found myself on that Road Not Taken either drinking mournfully by myself of a Thursday afternoon or – worse yet – stone cold sober. Oh the humanity!

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