Following the release of new Bond film Spectre, I tracked down alpha male Daniel Craig for a one- to-one for UCL’s avant-garde arts review, SAVAGE.
I ring the bell of Daniel Craig’s luxury apartment complex in Re- gent’s Park. There’s the sound of static, then haggard breathing issues from the intercom.
‘Mr Craig? It’s William, from Savage? UCLU’s premier Arts and Culture Journal? We spoke on Tum- blr.’
The intercom wheezes again, and the gates swing open. ‘Guide me, Al- dous’, I whisper, and step inside.
Daniel Craig is dressed in a home- ly M&S sweater, duck-egg shirt col- lar peeping out of the top. He seems to have forgotten to put on trousers. A Rizla paper is stuck to his left thigh, and he has kebab meat behind his ear. I begin by congratulating him on his distaste for Bond’s misogyny.
‘Well that’s bollocks, for starters’. Daniel takes a swig from a Carling can, then pours the rest onto his dog. He leans towards me, his eyes dulled, breathing into my face. I can smell Monte Carlo and Pot Noodle. ‘I just said that so the bloody wom- en’s libbers would get off my back. I couldn’t fucking care less about how Bond treats the girls, as long as they keep giving me shower scenes with them.’ He giggles a hoarse, throaty giggle, and spits ash in my eyes. I use my sketchpad to hide my erection.
‘I fucking love playing Bond. He’s the man men want to be and women want to be with. Don’t you dare mention anything about other sexualities or I’ll nut you. Do you know how much skirt these films get me?’ He coughs up a thong and shoves it into my face. I smell Morocco and lady ejaculate. Daniel Craig is staring at my chest, slowly cleaning his thigh-Rizla with a moist finger.
‘That’s a nice shirt’, he whispers, sucking baccy from his nail. ‘For a ponce.’
I try to ask him to review my one- act play, but he grows bored of me and starts to masturbate. I wait in polite silence, but leave after thirty- two minutes. I bump into Rachel Weisz in the doorway. She calls me a knob and I cry.