Sir Thomas Sean Connery

Er wird heute fünfundachtzig. Da sind Glückwünsche für Sir Thomas Sean Connery angebracht. Es gibt heute zu Connery nichts Neues. Er hat mit ➱Scotland forever schon zum achtzigsten Geburtstag einen ausführlichen Post bekommen. Und er (und die Phantasiefigur James Bond) kommen in diesem Post immer wieder vor. Wenn Sie heute nicht anderes zu tun haben, dann könnten sie noch die Posts Goldfinger, Agentenmode, 007, Ian Fleming, Cathy Gale, Daliah Lavi, Kingsman, James Bond, Ken Adam, Bond Girl, Haiku, Britt, Fräcke, John le Carré, Goldfinger, Secret Agents, Eric Ambler, Somerset Maugham, Michael Caine, Michael Caine, Marion Zimmer Bradley, Fantasy, Viva Zapata!, Derrick, Hüte, Sportjackett, Brioni, Laurence Harvey, The Go-Between, Griechen, Raffaele Caruso, Blazer und Hosenumschlag lesen. Und hören können Sie ihn ➱hier auch.
Und ein kleines Gedicht habe ich zur Feier des Tages auch. Es ist von ➱Fiona Pitt-Kethley und hat den Titel Bond Girls:

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.