I was watching the 1967 version of Ian Fleming’s Casino Royale last night, and it occurred to me that a way to rid the world of Wee Burney Sturgeon would be to sit her down in front of the early part of this film; the bit where Bond goes to Scotland to console M’s widow.
Having to listen to the excruciatingly bad Scottish accents; Olympic-level performances, really; and the truly dreadful mickey-taking at the expense of Scottish customs, would make Wee Burney explode with rage like an over-ripe tomato loaded with C4!
Problem solved.
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