Ah shure if it's not yourself, Mr Bond
"Ah, Bond, we're ready to kit you out for your Irish mission," said Q.
"Irish mission?" said Bond, wincing as his hat, so deftly thrown, landed on the floor where the coat stand had been. Damn cutbacks.
"Yes, you might be shot there, we hear."
"Who's behind it? Spectre? Goldfinger?"
"No. The Film Board. There's a proposal to shoot one of your films there.
"In fact, since you parachuted into the Olympics with the Queen last year the Irish have been bursting to have you over as part of the Gathering.
"This time you're going to jump out of the plane with a government minister."
"Not a challenging mission, then."
"Well, you'll be fighting over the one parachute. The Irish are organising a phone vote to see which minister they'll pick. If it's any comfort, you're expected to win."
"I wasn't thinking of flying over. What about bringing the Aston Martin on the ferry?"
"No we've been asked to kit you out with something new. Ever since the crash there's been a bit of a backlash in Ireland against conspicuous consumption. So you get a bus pass."
"The bus? God I need a drink. Martini. Shaken, not stirred."
"Sorry, Bond. You're going deep undercover. It's Guinness all the way."
"That, at least, is a Quantum of Solace. What about romance? Any chance of bumping into someone like Honey Rider or Pussy Galore?"
"Really, Bond. Stay focused on the mission. The most you can hope for is a night at Copper's"