James Bond in `You Only Lunch Twice` spoof

James Bond in 'You Only Lunch Twice' - the first in a series of James Bond novels specially adapted for today's ever-expanding obese market, by Craig Brown of The Telegraph.

It was 11 o'clock on Tuesday morning and Bond was packing his suitcase in his bedroom at the Ritz. It contained some dark blue trousers with elasticated waists, three sausage rolls, a family-size pork pie, socks and ties, a chicken and ham pizza with extra pepperoni and a side order of french fries, two pairs of navy blue silk pyjamas for the fuller figure and a cold leg of lamb, just in case.

There was a knock at the door.

"Yes?"

"Room service." In a matter of minutes, Bond had heaved himself up from his chair.

A waiter entered carrying a large silver salver.

"But I didn't order room service."

"Someone ordered you a blancmange, sir."

"Whisked, not wobbled?"

"Of course, sir." The waiter closed the door behind him. The sharp morning sunlight glistened on the silver salver. Bond walked over to it, then stopped to catch his breath. With his right hand he grasped the top, and pulled it off with all his might.

He caressed the blancmange with a well-practised eye. The look of it aroused in him an intense feeling very close to love.

There it sat, chocolate-brown, gently curved and yearning to be eaten. He knew that it longed to yield softly to his deepest desires. But who had ordered Bond this blancmange? Who knew him so well?

Without warning, the phone rang out. And then again. And again. Bond jumped. Once he had regained his breath, he grasped the receiver and, with unerring accuracy, placed it to his ear.

It was M.

"So you received the blancmange I ordered you, Bond?"

"How could you tell, M?"

"It's our super-sensitive bugging devices, Bond. They've picked up the incessant thuds of your saliva hitting the carpet."

Bond replaced the receiver. His eyes drifted back towards the blancmange, astride a table in the corner of the room. There was an arrogance in the set of its head, offset by a sensual wobble as the gentle breeze from the open window massaged its creamy nooks.

Bond could wait no longer. He thrust his bronzed hand into the secret pocket in the back of his Savile Row jacket. His hand emerged clutching a spoon in the purest silver, engineered solely for the purposes of plate-to-mouth transportation of international blancmange.

Moving his spoon with expert precision towards the blancmange, Bond closed his eyes in anticipation of the delight to follow.

"All right. Nobody move. Just take it easy and no one'll get hurt." It was a hard, deadly voice that meant business.

Bond's eyes snapped open. These days, even snapping his eyes open caused him to lose his breath. His body tingled at the reek of danger that had just entered the room.

A big man stood in the doorway. He had only been able to get into the room by turning to his side then holding his stomach in before squeezing through. He had a gun in one hand and in the other a large slice of sponge cake with vanilla icing topped with bright red cherries the colour of lipstick.

There was silence in the room interrupted only by the sound of tummies rumbling.

"I want that blancmange, Bond - and I want it NOW! Give me that blancmange!"

Suddenly, Bond lashed the back of his silver spoon against the man's protuberant belly. There was a sharp wet slap from the blow.

The intruder let out a low moan. Bond struggled to get his breath back. It was exhausting, hitting someone with a teaspoon.

The fat man lashed out at Bond, hitting first one chin, then another, then another.

Quickly, Bond decided on the best course of action: a quick sit-me-down. His opponent, too, looked winded. Might Bond be able to manage a crafty 40 winks? On impulse, he slumped into his armchair and released his belt. The under-cushions let out a desperate groan.

When Bond awoke, he found his opponent fast asleep, his blancmange untouched in the far corner.

With an almighty effort of will, Bond rose to his feet and, putting one foot before the other, set off in the direction of the blancmange.

Halfway there, he was just taking a short breather when someone grabbed his spoon-arm and a voice snarled - "Not so fat!"

"Don't you mean 'not so fast?' " said Bond.

"Wrong again, Agent XXL! Move one step further and I will sit on you!"

It was his old enemy, Dr No-Oh-Well-Perhaps-Just-a-Little. How had he got into the room when there was no double-door?

Bond moved, quick as a glacier. He swivelled, took a breath, bent down, took another breath, grabbed a sandwich, brought his left arm up sharply, polished off a packet of cheese-and-onion and punched his opponent deep in the stomach.

For a minute, he feared his fist might never emerge.

As his enemy struggled to regain his breath, Bond picked up the blancmange and exited on to the balcony. A helicopter swung into view, a rope-ladder dangling from its chassis. Bond grabbed the ladder and tugged. It should hold.

He leapt on to it.

Up, up and - but no! They were going down! Bond's 25-stone frame was too much for the helicopter. It was rapidly losing height.

"Ditch that damned blancmange, Bond!" the pilot screamed. "It's our only hope!" But Bond could never do that - not to a blancmange.

There was no way out. Or was there?

-- Now read other books in the James Bond series, including Live and Lets Lunch, Spoonraker, Fishfinger, Diets Aren't Forever, The Spy Who Lunched Me, For Your Pies Only, The Man with the Golden Bun, On Her Majesty's Room Service, and With a View to a Meal.

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