Fleming’s prose has a sharp, deadliness to it that’s rare in modern thrillers (reading Lee Child’s Jack Reacher series is often akin to watching an episode of ‘Walker Texas Ranger’). The series also just happens to be one of the best adventure series of all time. Nigel Farage may well have been mates with Ian Fleming, had the old bastard survived into the 21st Century. By modern standards, they’re dated – full of descriptive passages that would be considered excessive today, old-timey dialogue and generous helpings of nasty old conservatism. I’m less surprised when people tell me that they haven’t read Ian Fleming’s James Bond novels. The James Bond series is a pervasive cornerstone of capitalist society – a constant reminder of the supposed unlimited pleasures (however shallow) that await us if we pledge our allegiance to the free market with its buxom beauties, fine food and drink, fast cars and high-flying adventures and a distinct lack of the crushing blandness of Communism (or in more modern instalments “the world’s terrorists”). I accept that not all genres appeal to all people, but avoiding the entire Bond series for a lifetime is akin to managing to go your whole life without ever eating at McDonalds.
I continue to be taken aghast by the amount of people who admit to me that they’ve never seen a James Bond film.
