The name is Miliband. Edwina Miliband

I used to think that Ed is nothing but your typical leftie demagogue with learning difficulties, the moral sense of a skunk and an abiding hatred of his country and the rest of the West.

But Ed has proved me wrong. There’s more to him than that. Turns out he’s bonkers as well.

The clinical picture for this diagnosis rests on two symptoms, each of which would be sufficient in its own right.

First, Ed thinks James Bond should be played by a woman. Second, he has delusions of being a casting director, in which capacity he proposes Rosamund Pike for the 007 role.

Miss Pike, according to Ed, “is a great British actress, she’d make a great Bond”. The first part of the accolade is aesthetically questionable; the second is clinically insane.

Tory MP Philip Davies correctly identified the suggestion as “politically correct nonsense”, but he was wrong to say that “James Bond is not a woman – the clue is in the name.”

That is, he wasn’t wrong within the confines of the sane world he inhabits. But in the virtual reality of Ed’s febrile mind such incidentals would never get in the way of ideology.

Obviously, if James Bond were to undergo a transsex operation, he would change his name as well, for, say, Jemma. You must admit that Bond, Jemma Bond has a certain ring to it.

“This is 2015, I think we can move with the times,” explained Ed.

I couldn’t agree more. And the times are such that being a man isn’t just passé, but also somehow offensive. Who needs men anyway, if women can lead bayonet charges, discuss philosophy, carry bags of cement and reproduce parthenogenically?

Actually, to add verisimilitude to his mental picture of the times, Ed himself ought to become a woman. In his case nothing but minimal cosmetic changes would be required.

A little tuck here, a little nip there, and presto: Edwina Miliband, easily as gorgeous as her namesake Currie, plus a bit of goitre. Sorry, Ed, it has to be done. Got to move with the times, old boy.

As to Edwina’s casting choice, it may turn out to be a bit confusing to the fans of the Bond franchise. After all, back in 2002 Miss Pike already appeared in a Bond film, as 007’s treacherous girlfriend.

It would be eerie to see her in a new incarnation, brandishing her Walther PPK, guzzling endless vodka martinis (shaken, not stirred), smoking 40 devilishly strong cigarettes a day and kicking the living bejesus out of all and sundry.

Then of course there is the slight problem of Bond’s trademark tendency to bed whole harems of lasses, of whom Rosamund herself was one all that time ago.

A problem? Not to worry, I hear Edwina say.

As Jemma Bond, Rosamund would have to become lesbian, by way of moving with the times. Thus she could continue to have her bed restocked with a steady stream of scantily dressed babes, and the director will still be shouting ‘Cut!’ at the most interesting moments.

In due course Jemma could marry one of the babes and live happily thereafter, for a day or two, until she either tired of her wife/husband or saw her/him killed in front of her eyes, in the good tradition of the series.

Dyed-in-the-wool reactionaries like Philip Davies may argue that James Bond has been a folkloric hero for three generations, thereby joining the ranks of the Scarlet Pimpernel, Robin Hood et al.

How far would Edwina be prepared to push her revisionism of folklore? There’s only one possibly answer to that, Philip: as far as it takes to move with the times. It’s 2015, mate. Time you realised this.

Hence the Scarlet Pimpernel could become the Scarlet Woman Pimpernel or, to make it sound more mellifluous, the Harlot Pimpernel, to be played by Kim Kardashian in any forthcoming films.

In addition to defeating her enemies with time-honoured swordplay, the Swashbuckler Mark II could catch both male and female villains in honey traps, with her jutting attractions acting as honey.

And Robin Hood wouldn’t even have to change his name: women, especially those who move with the times, are often named Robin these days.

As a voluntary contribution to future scripts, I suggest that Robin, sporting a PVC bra and her male precursor’s traditional tights, could wink scabrously at Maid Marian and whisper “Hey, babe, I have more than one string to my bow, djahmean?”

Alternatively, Robin could remain a man, a bisexual one of course, have sex with the Sheriff of Nottingham, wait until he dropped off post-coitally and then slit his throat. The possibilities are endless.

We ought to keep in mind that Edwina, she of fecund imagination, may well become our next prime minister, thereby gaining a wide field in which to bring her ideas to fruition, and unfortunately not just those on cinematography.

Joseph de Maistre famously said that every nation gets the kind of government it deserves, a thought that came to him after spending a few years in the Russia of Alexander I.

The maxim was probably true in the Russian context, and it still applies there, considering that 86 per cent of the population support Putin and 45 per cent retrospectively approve of Stalin’s massacres.

Yet one likes to think that we haven’t done anything quite so awful as to deserve Edwina’s premiership. Then again, one also likes to think that some day sanity will return to our government – it has been away for far too long.




















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