Name's Bond. James Bond.
That used to mean something, you know. If it was 1994, you'd be a vulnerable, rampant mess; quivering somewhere between fear and arousal.
Seems hard to believe now, right? Now you're just another bored barmaid, blithely entertaining another sad, drunk old man.
You're... oh, great. You're not even listening. Off to serve some other has-been.
I'm a Great British hero, you ignorant dimwit. I've lived my fantasies and most of yours; I've snipped the sharp-end off countless terrorist machinations; I've simultaneously served both Queen and Country and my voracious carnal appetite for decades - and I've never needed a blue pill to help me out, neither.
Seen the world? I've saved it more times than I've had hot sinners. And believe me, no-one sins quite as hot as Grace Jones.
Your dad probably stole my style to bed your mum. You owe me your damn lives, you kids. But none of you are interested, are you? Little gits. Don't know you're born.
Ack. I'm sorry. Love... love? Cheers for coming back. Ignore me. I always get a bit maudlin in this state. I've been knocking 'em back like Bet Lynch at a funeral. Stick another vodka Martini in there would you? Attagirl.
Look at me - I'm babbling. I never used to babble. Clipped, I was. Assertive. Kiss kiss, bang bang and all that. You've literally got no idea what I'm on about, have you?
No, not Smirnoff, thanks darling. Too pricey. How about the dirty stuff? Yeah, the Zukovsky. Ha! Zukovsky! Nice name. £2.20? Good for me. Doubles a pound extra? Why not? We both know I haven't got work in the morning.
I haven't had much luck lately, you know. £2, £2.50... I was making a huge movie back in April - true story. £2.70, £2.90... Was cancelled. Mid-filming! Studio ran out of money. Much like its superstar daredevil, as it turns out.
Thank God the pub's open on a Tuesday afternoon, that's all I can say. A man's thoughts can get dark when he's faced this much rejection.
£3.10, £3.15... Bugger. Any chance you'd let me off the 5p?
I had to sell my Rolex last week to make rent. Could be worse. Could be MGM! God. Sorry Cubby, that was low.
Anyway, here's to you Valetin! You old dog!
Youngsters might not realise it, but I owned the 20th Century. I was a one-off, many times over. Assassinating, wisecracking, cold-blooded, irresistible... me.
Not any more. NOT ANY MORE. Now I'm scampering round the big screen pretending to be Jason 'can't be bothered with shirt and tie' Bourne.
You know why? Because your generation don't pay for class. Because you're selfish. Because everything has to be explicit to you lot, doesn't it?
Explicit and damn PC. "Ooooh. Why do so many women sleep with him when he's such a predator? Is that really a good image for young boys?"
Yes, of course it is - precisely because I'm a predator. Look at these emo wimps running about these days. All eye-liner and clammy palms. Nothing outdated about being a real man. I take what I want. And right now, I want another drink.
Don't worry, love: I've a fiver in the inside pocket of this suit. This M&S suit. Urgh. What have things come to?
God, what would Brosnan say? Moore would be appalled. Probably scythe me down with a killer one-liner. They've taken those from me, too. I have to be all brooding and laconic these days. Gets boring... especially when you're paid by the word.