My Fifteen Minutes as James Bond

Just for a moment I felt like the suave super hero we all wish we could be

It was the early nineties. I was twenty one and a good looking guy in a way that all of us, when young, take completely for granted.

I was muscular, yet slim, with thick dark hair that carried an impossibly healthy shine. Almost on a daily basis I was compared to a young Elvis Presley, probably because of those (now long since hidden) high cheek bones and smooth skin.

And, of course, I loved the attention it gave me.

On the particular evening these events unfolded, my smoldering classic Disney hero looks were compounded by two significant — and unusual — accessories:

First, I was wearing a dinner jacket that I had purchased earlier that day for an event I was attending. It was a classic early nineties look, with straight cut waist line, double breasted lapels, black bow tie with matching cummerbund and a look completed with the obligatory silky white scarf draped lazily around my neck.

Second, I had borrowed for the evening my dad’s pride and joy — a white Porsche 944. Whilst it’s true that my dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye, it can’t be denied that he trusted me in certain areas. This was one of them and I’m pleased to say that I never abused it, always ensuring that I drove carefully and resisting the temptation to take the turbo to its limit.

Well, mostly anyway.

The truth is, I knew how lucky I was to have access to a vehicle like this from time to time and made sure I did nothing to jeopardize my chances of borrowing it when the opportunity arose. It was a significant step up from my rusty, but much loved, 1.1 litre Peugeot 205 and it certainly attracted some attention on a sunny afternoon driving through town.

This particular evening I was driving from my mum’s house to a formal black tie event in a local hotel where I was to meet my girlfriend at the time and a bunch of mates. It was late summer and twilight was just beginning its inevitable descent, though the temperature remained at a comfortable level, meaning no jacket was required.

As I drove along a country lane my stereo was on full blast as usual, no doubt regurgitating something from my ever present Cure, New Order or Wonderstuff collection.

It was one of those moments in life you remember forever: being young, carefree, well dressed and in an amazing car on the way to what would be an equally amazing event. It was every bit the epitome of the privileged middle class, which, although I technically wasn’t for a number of reasons, I definitely felt like I was that particular evening.

A few hundred yards ahead of me and traveling in the same direction, another car was approaching the right hand bend that I would soon reach myself. As I watched, it simply failed to make the turn and kept going straight ahead. The brake lights came on at the last second but it was too late and the car bounced over the grass verge and came to rest at a slight angle to the left in a ditch that ran in front of a hedge.

I had a few seconds before I would arrive myself and my first instinct was, of course, to stop and help. After all, mobile phones were still a fanciful rarity held only by the very wealthy at the time. I may have looked the part at that moment, but in reality our budget didn’t stretch that far.

The road was quiet and as I indicated and slowed down to stop behind the stricken vehicle, no-one was around. As if on cue, the driver’s door opened and a young lady staggered out of it to greet me.

She was about my age, obviously dressed for going ‘out-out’ with permed long black hair, mini skirt and an unmissable voluptuous figure. She was also clearly shocked, mostly at going off the road, but also possibly because the chap who had stopped to rescue her was impeccably dressed in a dinner jacket and was getting out of a very shiny white Porsche.

“You OK?” I asked, stepping towards her.

“Yes, yes, I think so” she said “I just didn’t see the bend there …” her voice trailing off as she looked me up and down. She regained her composure for a second and pointed, halfheartedly, towards the bend she’d missed even though she’d already finished the sentence.

I could see she was shaking, even though the ‘crash’ could not have occurred at more than few miles an hour by the time she had actually made it to the ditch. That said, her little red Vauxhall Nova clearly wasn’t going anywhere without a tow.

“My dad’s going to kill me!” she said, looking at me with an obvious hope that I would offer up some reassuring words.

“It’s OK” I said, now stepping towards her, thankful that the summer sun had kept the grass verge nice and dry for my recently polished dress shoes “I won’t let him!”

It was the best I could do and it seemed to do the job.

She managed a faint smile, but was clearly still worried about the consequences of her actions. Or rather inaction. A simple turn of the wheel would have ensured that none of this would ever have happened.

“Who are you anyway?” with a sudden and slightly unexpected level of confidence that caught me off guard slightly.

“I’m Jason” I said “I’ll be your rescuer tonight.” I offered a smile in an ongoing attempt to take her mind off her shaky body and wonky car.

I genuinely can’t remember her name, but I have a feeling it was Nicki, so we’ll go with that. And, since you weren’t there, you have no claim to anything otherwise. Unless you were actually ‘Nicki’, in which case you can let me know.

We chatted about nothing and I made the obligatory walk round the car to check for damage and to confirm it wasn’t going to move. I think she had hoped that I would just jump in and sort it for her because once I informed her of my assessment, her confidence once again disappeared and she became a little tearful.

“Oh noooo. My dad’s really going to kill me!”

Hmm. We were back to that again.

I checked my watch. I still had a bit of time, but not enough to find a telephone box, call for help and wait with her which is what I would have to do. It wouldn’t be right to leave her on the side of the road, despite the fact it was a beautiful spot on a warm summer evening.

However, as we made more small talk, it turned out that she was on her way to meet some friends at the local pub, not more than 5 minutes drive away. The solution was simple — I’d drive her there so she could meet up with them and then they could come back and tow her out.

All teenagers/young drivers are natural experts at hiding scuffs and dirt on a car from their parents, so they’d take care of that for her. The old man would be none the wiser and no-one would need to be killed.

Now with the plan agreed, she relaxed again. Locking her car, she stepped off the verge and, if I didn’t know better, seemed just a little excited about climbing into the gleaming white Porsche.

To any millennials who may be reading this article, this may not sound like an exciting proposition, but I remind you it was 1991. There were no Personal Contact Plans, no lease plans and very few long term Hire Purchase plans. People drove old or cheap cars that they saved up for and owned outright, except for salespeople who had Ford Mondeos with jackets hanging in the back and company bosses who had posh BMWs or Mercedes. NO ONE had a Porsche. Especially one with a personalized number plate, like this one.

Of course, I was fighting the urge to put my foot down and show off in typical macho style almost to the point where I had to physically restrain myself, but at the same time I knew it would be inappropriate to do that with a young lady on board who had just crashed her car. That said, I got the distinct impression that, on another day in a different situation, she’d be urging me to test the turbo to its full limits.

Today, however, she was shaky, vulnerable and needed reassurance.

Sometimes you look back at things you’ve done and said and wish you could have done them differently, or at least better. This, however, wasn’t one of them. For whatever reason — and I fully acknowledge this is extremely rare for me — I somehow got it just right. I was cool, suave and in control. It’s possibly also exactly why this event sticks in my mind so clearly. This was obviously the day it was MY turn to be cool and sophisticated.

The drive to the pub was short, barely enough time to have any meaningful conversation, but by the time we got there, she had already started to relax, presumably as she began to realize that she was perfectly safe and wasn’t about to be abducted by the Dinner-Jacket-Porsche-Murderer. She even laughed a couple of times as we talked about how we could cover up the scratches on her little Nova.

The pub, one I had been to a few times myself, was a typical country affair, nestling on the bend of a tiny, rarely traveled lane with tables and chairs at the front and parking at the rear. As I went to pull in, she squealed as she saw her friends, a mixed group of about eight, sitting at the table at the very front of the establishment, close to the road, and signaled for me to stop.

I did so immediately, so that instead of heading round the back to park up, I pulled up directly in front of their table. As if on cue by a hidden director, they all turned to look and were greeted by the sight of their friend looking at them from behind the glass of the passenger door.

As Nicki fumbled for the door release, something that people often did for some reason in this particular vehicle when in it for the first time, I jumped out and walked round to the passenger door to open it for her. As she emerged, still slightly shaky from her accident and clearly relieved that her friends were where they said they would be (no cell phones remember), she became both emotional and very grateful at the same time.

I stood to the side, still dressed in dinner jacket, still with white scarf and hair in perfect place, and let her explain everything in a loud, fast voice in the way you do only with people you know really well. One of the lads sitting with them stood up and walked round to me. It turned out he was Nicki’s older brother and was equally grateful for my stopping and bringing her to him. He shook my hand, offered me a drink and, being a bloke, couldn’t help complement the car.

“No problem, mate, that’s very kind of you, but I’m on my way to an event this evening” I explained, as if he hadn’t guessed this. Perhaps he hadn’t. Perhaps he thought I always dressed like this and drove this car. I liked the thought of that.

Still remaining cool, I looked at Nicki, now surrounded mostly by her girl friends listening to her ‘life threatening’ ordeal with ooh and aahs and said,

“Nicki, I’ve got to go now, are you going to be OK?”

She stopped immediately, came over, hugged me, kissed me square on the lips and smiled. “Thanks for looking after me!” she said, now clearly far more relaxed than I had so far seen her. “See you around?”

“Perhaps” I said, with a smile, and there was a brief, lingering look between us before I turned back to her brother.

“Take care of her, mate” I said to him and made my way round to the other side of the car.

“Sure” he answered, and then added “Thanks again!” as I opened the car door and lowered myself into the low, leather driving driving seat.

As I closed my door and prepared to leave, I couldn’t help but hear one of the other lads in the group express his position on the matter.

“Only you, Nicki, would have a crash and be immediately rescued by James fxxxing Bond!”

James Bond eh? I liked that. I smiled to myself as I started the Porsche’s powerful engine. I revved the engine, possibly slightly more than I needed to, and went to pull away with a flourish, an appropriate departure I thought, for the suave, well dressed hero that I had suddenly, apparently, become.

Of course, I badly misjudged it and stalled the engine, leaving only the silence of the wheels gently rolling on the tarmac as I meekly turned the key again. This time I pulled away slowly and sensibly, daring not risk a repeat of what just happened, and I realized that my fifteen minutes as James Bond was up.

Which was a shame. I’d really been enjoying it.

Sigh*

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