Fuken pissin down, goes Dave.
He sits down.
Coughs like it’s a load of phlegm…but…
Nuffink comes out.
I get up.
Borrow your lighter, I goes, holding me hand out.
Dave shakes his head, like I’m a disappointment.
Like I’m his kid.
He gives me the lighter.
Don’t be long. Your seat’ll be gone.
Keep it for me.
Watch me bags.
Anything else your highness.
I smile. He cracks me up ol’ Dave.
I go out past security to dark, rainy, Sunday morning London.
I move along a bit to get under cover.
Tescos has got a doorway.
3 bodies lie on the floor, snuggled up in sleeping bags.
That’s what I need.
I’m tired now.
I light the cigarette.
I’m supposed to be giving up cigarettes.
Not very James Bond.
Not in this day n age.
Not a 21st century Bond.
At first, when I first found out I was James Bond, someone asked me if I would play a gay person.
Bent, is what they said.
I’m like, there is no way in the world, Francis Ford Coppola, theres no way if Coppola directed a Bond film there’s no way he’d make him gay.
Not with me in the lead role.
I said there’s no way the bloke who directed Al Pacino in The Godfather – there’s no way in the world he’d cast me as a gay James Bond.
James Bond, yes.
Gay James Bond – No.
Not with me in the lead role.
Not the man who directed Brando in Apocalypse Now.
Robert De Niro in The Godfather part II.
Not the man who directed Matt Dillon in Rumble Fish.
He was in Phnom Penh, recently, I heard – Matt Dillon.
Makes sense with Coppola being so present there.
Phnom Penh is a basically a Coppola reality film set.
Financed by George Sorros, I heard.
Concrete Jungle Survivor.
Ground breaking live stream reality cinema.
State of the art.
Heart of Darkness nightclub n all that.
The Siamese Fighting Fish graffiti at Lakeside.
Not that I wouldn’t play a gay character…of course I would…but I think better to give gay characters to gay actors…in my opinion.
I’ve read Kenneth Branagh’s autobiography.
And I’ve read De Niro’s.
I thought homeless Jack in Phnom Penh was Kenneth Branagh – I was convinced of it.
And I thought Homeless French Andre in Poondop Lane was David Mamet.
I finish me fag, flick it into the rainy gutter.
A double decker bus goes past.
The advertisement on the side is for the lottery.
It says £100 Million in huge letters.
That’s Mr. Fox telling me how much I’m being paid for this reality live cinema James Bond.
That’s 150 million USD.
Must be a five film deal.
But I haven’t agreed to a deal yet, Mr. Fox.
I ain’t signed a contract.
150 Million bucks isn’t enough.
Doesn’t cut it.
Not that I care about the money.
I’d give it all away, anyway.
Most of it.
Like Keanu Reeves.
But, seriously…it’s the mental torture.
I want a billion for the suffering I’ve been through.
In London and Phnom Penh.
Crystal meth addiction.
Losing all my friends.
I didn’t fuken ask for this.
I didn’t ask to be James fuken Bond.
I’m happy working with the elefants.
Anyway, Mr. Fox, you told me the shoot was over.
I was under the impression I’d get off the plane, I’d be limousined to Equity to sign the contract and then flown to L.A.
La La Land.
I’ve gotta be careful when I speak to Mr. Fox.
I’m not supposed to know I’m in a reality show.
If all the people watching know I know…well…that’s game over.
So I’ve got to talk to Mr. Fox in coded language.
Like I’m ranting like a crazy homeless person, but really I’m speaking to the director.
So I dont say L.A.
I say La La Land.
I know he’s listening, Mr. Fox.
And I know I’m being watched on a live stream by the super elite who can afford to pay for this reality show unveiling of the new James Bond.
I sit back opposite Dave.
What time is it?
Must be getting on for 7, says Dave.
Yeh, I think to myself.