Why? What the fuck was Michael Grade, or whoever was doing the scheduling, up to? Slowly but surely I found them: The Wild Geese, The Sea Wolves, North Sea Hijack, Escape to Athena, Shout at the Devil. Was there any agony deeper than finding you had recorded either a blank screen for two hours or part two of the Joan Collins miniseries Sins? You only got one chance. But it was the 80s, and if you wanted to watch a film no one else did you had to wait and wait for it to appear on BBC2 at 2.35am on a Tuesday in March, then pray the video timer would work. The usual stuff 10-year-olds get up to.īiographies listed his other films. I read books about Moore – authorised and not – and mastered most of the dates of his various marriages. I could quote the scripts, sing the songs, name the cinematographers. But by the late 80s, I’d seen all seven of his Bonds, again and again and again. it all spun its web for me.Īnd so, naturally, I watched the rest of the canon. The measured pace of his movements, which John Barry conducted the incidental music to fit. The sheer amount of hair he had managed to retain. The underdog absurdity of this 56-year-old playing Britain’s top secret agent.

It wasn’t just the excitement and the impossible-to-describe plot. I was taken to see Octopussy in the summer of 1983 and that was it: an unconsummated love affair that continues to this day, despite Roger’s passing almost three years ago.

Like many others born in the late 70s, Roger was the Bond for me. But Gold was Tom’s favourite film when he was 12 years old, and he’s convinced me it should’ve been mine.

Maverick roger moore