Britt

Dürfen wir's sagen? Sie wird heute siebzig. Ich habe ihr in diesem Blog schon einmal ➱gratuliert, das haben tausende von Lesern gelesen. Muss ich sagen, dass sie auch einmal Bond Girl war? Da hieß sie Mary Goodnight (was ja eine Spur weniger sexistisch ist als der Name Pussy Galore, der in Goldfinger vorkommt). Hier rettet sie gerade in letzter Minute die Welt. Danke dafür. Zum Geburtstag gratuliere ich ganz herzlich und drucke hier noch einmal das köstliche Gedicht Bond Girls von Fiona Pitt-Ketheley ab:

Back in my extra days, someone once swore
she'd seen me in the latest James Bond film.

I tried to tell her that they only hired
the real glamorous leggy types for that.
(My usual casting was 'a passer-by'.)

I've passed the lot in Pinewood Studios.
It's factory-like, grey aluminium, vast
and always closed. Presumably that's where
they smash up all the speedboats, cars and bikes
we jealous viewers never could afford.

I quite enjoyed the books. Ian Fleming wrote well.
I could identify a touch with Bond,
liking to have adventure in my life.
The girls were something else. All that they earned
for being perfect samples of their kind -
Black, Asian, White - blonde, redhead or brunette,
groomed, beauty-parlourised, pleasing in bed,
mixing Martinis that were shaken not stirred
using pearl varnish on their nails not red -
was death. A night (or 2) with 007,
then they were gilded till they could not breathe,
chucked to the sharks, shot, tortured, carried off
or found, floating face downward in a pool.