Here’s one for you – apparently James Bond is an impotent drunk. A group of doctors have, in their spare time, sat and re-read all of Fleming’s novels and worked out how much he drank.
“Excluding the 36 days Bond was in prison, hospital or rehab, the spy downed 1,150 units of alcohol in 88 days. It works out at 92 units a week – about five vodka martinis a day and four times the recommended maximum intake for men in the UK.”
I’m all for hobbies but this is ridiculous – aye the doctors, not the FICTIONAL character! Next week a group of vets will tell us that Aslan can’t speak because he doesn’t have the correct vocal chords, a group of off duty Pilots will point out the inaccuracies of Harry Potter’s aerodynamics on a broomstick and Finnie’s the jeweller will point out that with the ring being gold that really they could have melted it down earlier in Lord of the Rings to save the problems it caused in getting it to Mount Doom.
We live in a world where the f*cking fun police patrol the corridors of our lives looking for the slightest bit of fun they have not yet squashed and then line up their boots for a stomping session. No-one ever read Ian Fleming’s books as non-fiction, and neither should they. Why do we need to know all these pointless facts – especially from a group who moan constantly about not getting enough time off and working long shifts? I get that this was just a bit of fun for them, so media outlets that doesn’t make it news in any way shape of form.
These are fictional characters and only the most idiotic people believe in those worlds completely. The whole purpose of fiction is to escape a world where people are marching around telling us how many units of alcohol we can have or how big our CO2 footprint is without working out theoretically how many trees Herbie The Love Bug, Kitt from Knight Rider and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang killed off both individually and together.
Can you boffins and bores just leave us to enjoy a bit escapism please without being so bloody condescending?