Cheating at cards... it's about the only crime that can still finish you

Last year the screen persona of James Bond turned 60. He made his debut in 1962 with Dr. No. I must have seen all the movies. I groaned at the awful punned names of heroines like Pussy Galore and cringed when Sean Connery forcibly kissed her. I rolled my eyes at Roger Moore's cheesy humour and cheered when Piers Brosnan met his match with Onatop. But in all this time I've never, up to now, read a single one of Ian Fleming's James Bond novels.

Thinking I should start with one of the best, I googled for a ranking of the books and chose Moonraker. Published in 1955, it's the third of Fleming's novels featuring the secret agent and consistently features in the top three. I fondly remember the 1979 movie, its villain Drax intent on creating a perfect new super-race, the breath-taking, sky-diving opening sequence, Jaws defecting to the side of the goodies and living happily ever after with his girlfriend Dolly.

The novel's plot is quite different to that of the movie, and firmly British-centric. M asks Bond to join him at his club for dinner, but has an ulterior motive. One of the members, Sir Hugo Drax, is suspected of cheating at cards. How very un-British! "What the hell does he want to do that for? Bloody millionaire. Rolling in money". Bond, having learned everything there is to know about card handling from his Casino Royale first mission, is asked to investigate and confirms the suspicion. Rather than make Drax's scandalous behaviour public, Bond uses his own card skills to teach the cheat a lesson. Next day, following a mysterious murder and suicide at Drax's Moonraker compound near Dover, Bond is assigned to find out what's going on.

Fleming breaks the story's narrative into three parts: Part 1 introduces the characters and sets the scene; Part 2 introduces the intrigue; Part 3 contains all the action and the dénouement. My eyes glazed over somewhat reading the explanations of how the Moonraker rocket worked, but otherwise it rattled along at quite a pace. Fleming's writing style is great for story-telling, but not particularly finely crafted.

The only similarity between the book and the movie is the baddie's name. Fleming's Bond and that of Cubby Broccoli are quite different and I hardly recognized them as the same character. Bond actually drives a Bentley, not an Aston Martin, and his firearms of choice are a Beretta and a Colt, not a Walther PPK. In the course of his duty he's seriously injured (but obviously battles on), whereas on screen he rarely receives a scratch and his hair and clothing are always impeccable. Nor does he get the girl. But then there's always the next time.

It's Friday, it's Fontvieille, and it's fish and chips

We don't do too badly for fancy fare in Monaco. The 2023 Michelin Red Guide for France was published at the beginning of March, awarding a total of 9 stars to restaurants in the Principality. If something quick and simple is required the humble pissaladière and barbagiuan are delicious and can be bought for a few euros in my local boulangerie (or for a lot more in a starred restaurant in England, but that's another story). Sometimes tho', only a taste of home will satisfy, something from my native land: British ale, Tunnocks Tea Cakes, and of course, that staple of the working class, fish and chips.

Virginity: the sum of a girl's worth

In the early 1970s Mum's American pen friend and family paid us a visit on their way home from Iran; the husband was something in US diplomacy. We wore our best clothes and had to be on our best behaviour. Our visitors had straight teeth and spoke with movie-star accents. They brought with them a small souvenir for each of us from the faraway, fairytale country about which I knew nothing. I still have my gift, a little mirror mounted behind small doors in a hand-made, hand-painted frame. I'd never owned anything so exotic, and for many years this was my only image of Iran. So when I picked up Jasmin Darznik's Song Of A Captive Bird I thought it might give me some insight into the country.

Alice's Adventures in Blackpool - a poem for children that's best read aloud

Writing Magazine's recent competition was to write a poem inspired by Lewis Carroll's Alice adventures. If you've been following my book reviews, you'll know that last year I read Alice's Adventures in Wonderland for the first time. The competition asked for "a poem on any aspect of the Alice stories, from a re-imagining of their contents to the facts and myths that surround their writing, illustration and publication." I imagined Alice transported to Blackpool to see her distant working class relatives, the Ramsbottoms. You might recall that Albert was swallowed by Wallace the lion after poking the big cat's ear with his stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle. The story was immortalised in verse by Marriott Edgar.

Well, I wrote and I wrote, and by the time I'd finished, my poem was too long for the competition. So here it is for you, dear reader. I hope you enjoy it.

Alice's Adventures in Blackpool

It'd been such a very long journey
to Blackpool, and right after tea
young Alice was feeling quite drowsy,
so declined to go paddling in t'sea.

Now, I realize that accounts differ... My account you can trust

Did you know that Macbeth was a real Scottish king who died nine years before William the Conqueror fought the battle of Hastings? Shakespeare put his own spin on the real man to big-up the ancestry of James Sixth of Scotland (and First of England). The playwright relied on an English chronicle, but there are at least four alternative Scottish histories. And have you seen Braveheart, Mel Gibson's kilt-clad, woad-faced portrayal of the 13th century struggle for Scottish independence? One historian said of the movie that it was "one of the most historically inaccurate films I have ever seen. It bears almost no relation to historical fact". Now I'm not suggesting that everything we think we know about Scotland might be made-up for some nefarious purpose, but maybe we should take a step back and reconsider what we've been told, especially if it's based on the work of a couple of blokes in the entertainment industry, both of whom had businesses to run.

Pussy Riot. - That's just middle age. It'll sort itself ou'.

I started to read Roddy Doyle's Two Pints a few years ago, when an Irish friend gave me a copy and told me it was "feckin' brilliant". Well, I didn't get far with it. I couldn't get to grips with the dialogue, written to try and capture the Dublin accent. So the book lurked at the back of the shelf, forgotten.

It wouldn't be long before people lost interest.

I was intrigued by the premise of Yun Ko-eun's The Disaster Tourist. It's about a South Korean woman named Yona, who works for a travel company called Jungle that organizes holidays based around disaster zones. After being assaulted by her boss, and knowing that if she makes a fuss she'll lose her job, Yona accepts the offer of a business trip to assess one of Jungle's destinations: the fictional island of Mui.