Boris Johnson is 007 in Now, Time To Die

The clock was ticking down for Blond. As he stood on the roof of Downing Street, he could hear the faint hum of the bombers approaching.

He knew they were coming. He’d called the air strike in himself. Yet he’d only expected the attack squadron to take out some faceless henchmen. Not to kill him. Not Blond.

But then it had all gone wrong for the man codenamed 007 Children. Blond was sent on a mission to Casino Royale, but after 25 minutes wandering around the tables, he had failed to realise there was gambling going on. And had it been so wrong of him to drop in on a work event held by the mysterious charity SPECTRE in their hollowed-out volcano lair? Nobody told him it was illegal.

And now the final indignity: His paymasters demanding the injection of nanobots into his bloodstream which would mean he could no longer have human contact with those he loved best – the multi-millionaire donors who could do up his flat or send him off to exotic locations and glamorous parties with no questions asked.

He’d protested that a new, politically correct Blond would be the end of the franchise, but to no avail. Didn’t they remember the early days, when his rollicking, devil-may-care style had eclipsed the dull spies of old, like Smiley Cameron? Surely the ordinary people still loved his outrageous adventures, going places they could never dream of going, doing things they could never dream of going, saying things they could never dream of saying and thinking up ludicrous excuses they could never dream of dreaming up? Alas, his superiors said, the data showed the people wanted him a fresh start and a clean skin.

As the noise of the planes grew louder, Blond thought back to the days when he had all the time in the world. The strange and deadly people he’d encountered, starting with Liam Fox – codenamed Dr No Talent. There were the baddies with exotic names, like the genetically-modified human frog Farage and the killer dwarf Francois, also known as Le Chiffre-Brains. There was Nadine Dorries, nicknamed Odd Job, because everyone found it odd that Blond had given her a job.

Remember the time he’d outgunned the Man With The Golden Hancock? Or when he’d jumped out of that plane with the Queen, then made her sit on her own at the Olympic opening ceremony while he went to a party upstairs?

Would he ever see his colleagues again? The stuffy, upper-class, etiquette-obsessed gent who gave him his orders; codenamed JR-M. He could hear him droning on even now: “Goldfinger is no danger, Blond – he’s always been a lightweight figure.”

And what of the boffin, Fuck-Q, who supplied Blond with a range of fantastical vehicles? The explosive bus, the out-of-control shopping trolley, the incredible eye-testing car? Fuck-Q communicated only in three-word slogans, like “Take Back Control”, “Brexit Is Forever” and “Get Blofeld Done”. But something had changed, and the quartermaster’s last messages to Blond had read only “Read My Blog” and “Just Fuck Off”. Curious.

Finally, Blond thought of the women. So many of them – although these days you couldn’t even say Pussy Galore without being called a sexist dinosaur by the woke snowflakes! In truth, it embarrassed him to admit that he could barely remember some of their names. Thank God he’d now finally settled down now with The One, the love of his life, the toothy blonde Thingy Whatsername.

He could hear the roar of the engines now. The planes, commanded by the unflappable air marshal Sue Gray, were almost upon him. What would happen if this was really it? Would he live twice?

They’d bring him back in some form, he supposed, with a new face. Maybe he’d come back as a dispassionate, ruthless woman. Or a dispassionate, ruthless Asian. Or a dispassionate, ruthless Asian woman. But he, Blond, would be dead.

He could see the planes straight ahead now. There were only moments to get away, and his eyes turned to the method by which he would once again escape certain doom at the very last second.

It was a humble zip wire, stretching from the roof of Downing Street to its garden, where he had made so many memories that he’d since had to pretend to forget. And from there, he’d be spirited away to lie low and level up until the next time Britain needed his special skills.

Blond laughed. He’d never had much luck with zip wires. And what was the point of carrying on if they wouldn’t let him do exactly as he pleased, as he’d always been allowed to do from the start of his life to this point, which he now recognised would be its end? What was the point of being Blond if he couldn’t BE Blond?

They were overhead now. Blond had once resolved to live and let others die, then to die another day – possibly tomorrow, although tomorrow never dies. But this was now time to die.

The noise from above was almost deafening, but Blond thought he could just make out the strains of Louis Armstrong singing from a faraway radio.

He stared for the final time upon a glorious British afternoon and found a quantum of solace in whispering the words of the fatal email that had brought him here, up to the roof to face eternity:

“After what has been an incredibly busy period we thought it would be nice to make the most of the lovely weather and have some socially distanced drinks in the No. 10 garden this evening. Bring your own… bombs.”

As he uttered the last word, the explosions erupted around him and finally wiped Blond from the face of the earth.