Roger Moore Quotes

And they have a problem with Dresden, I take it?" Murphy asked. "Wanna kill him or something. I don't know," Thomas said, nodding. "They tried it on Jet Skis earlier today." "Roger Moore Bond villains?" Murphy asked, her tone derisive. "Seriously?" "Be silent, mortal cow," snarled one of the Sidhe. Murphy tracked her eyes calmly over to that one, and she nodded once, as if memorizing something. "Yeah, okay. You.

They put me at ease by telling me that the alligators were rather tired in this particular area, so they wouldn't be likely to bite.

I felt so full of rage against my fellow man. How could man be so inhumane that he could create weapons that tear children’s bodies and lives apart?

I do like to laugh. I remember Roger Moore, years ago, saying to me “Cheer up. You’d better have a good time because this is not a rehearsal, this is life. This is the show.

people do. But, Daddy, it’s not right. I didn’t know you even cared for Addie Moore. Or even knew her that well. You’re right. I didn’t. But that’s the main point of this being a good time. Getting to know somebody well at this age. And finding out you like her and discovering you’re not just all dried up after all. It just seems embarrassing. To whom? It’s not to me. But people know about you. Of course they do. And I don’t give a damn. Who told you? It must’ve been one of your tightass friends in town here. It was Linda Rogers. She would. Well, she thought I should know. And now you do.

Oh really?’ said Mayes raising a mocking eyebrow which put Rob in mind of a poor man’s Roger Moore. ‘And what on earth makes you think that you of all people would be allowed anywhere near our board meeting? Rob’s smile widened as he realised that he was about to have one of those golden bombshell moments of the type he’d been on the receiving end of all too frequently over the last few days. ‘Because Mr. Mayes, I’m your new chairman.

Another example of their hatefulness while my dander’s up: in order to get themselves off the hook of sometimes liking uncool things, they refer to them as ‘guilty pleasures’, which is a ridiculous expression. What? So you like Abba, or Roger Moore as James Bond, but have been led to believe that this taste is somehow infra dig, so you style it a ‘guilty pleasure’, thus demonstrating you’re sufficiently relaxed and self-deprecating to own up to it – when in fact the way you have chosen to express it lays bare your bland and inane obsession with the worthless trappings of the zeitgeist. ‘Guilty pleasures’? It’s prudish and judgemental and yet it’s referring to harmless things people do in their spare time. I mean, I’ve watched and enjoyed The X Factor and I know that it’s not exactly the Proms or The Wire or whatever worthy thing I’m supposed to be watching, but why should I feel the least bit guilty about having taken pleasure from it? Or, for that matter, from eating a Findus crispy pancake, watching a Brittas Empire DVD or reading Country Life in the bath?

With the motto “do what you will,” Rabelais gave himself permission to do anything he damn well pleased with the language and the form of the novel; as a result, every author of an innovative novel mixing literary forms and genres in an extravagant style is indebted to Rabelais, directly or indirectly. Out of his codpiece came Aneau’s Alector, Nashe’s Unfortunate Traveller, López de Úbeda’s Justina, Cervantes’ Don Quixote, Béroalde de Verville’s Fantastic Tales, Sorel’s Francion, Burton’s Anatomy, Swift’s Tale of a Tub and Gulliver’s Travels, Fielding’s Tom Jones, Amory’s John Buncle, Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, the novels of Diderot and maybe Voltaire (a late convert), Smollett’s Adventures of an Atom, Hoffmann’s Tomcat Murr, Hugo’s Hunchback of Notre-Dame, Southey’s Doctor, Melville’s Moby-Dick, Flaubert’s Temptation of Saint Anthony and Bouvard and Pecuchet, Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Frederick Rolfe’s ornate novels, Bely’s Petersburg, Joyce’s Ulysses, Witkiewicz’s Polish jokes, Flann O’Brien’s Irish farces, Philip Wylie’s Finnley Wren, Patchen’s tender novels, Burroughs’s and Kerouac’s mad ones, Nabokov’s later works, Schmidt’s fiction, the novels of Durrell, Burgess (especially A Clockwork Orange and Earthly Powers), Gaddis and Pynchon, Barth, Coover, Sorrentino, Reed’s Mumbo Jumbo, Brossard’s later works, the masterpieces of Latin American magic realism (Paradiso, The Autumn of the Patriarch, Three Trapped Tigers, I the Supreme, Avalovara, Terra Nostra, Palinuro of Mexico), the fabulous creations of those gay Cubans Severo Sarduy and Reinaldo Arenas, Markson’s Springer’s Progress, Mano’s Take Five, Ríos’s Larva and otros libros, the novels of Paul West, Tom Robbins, Stanley Elkin, Alexander Theroux, W. M. Spackman, Alasdair Gray, Gaétan Soucy, and Rikki Ducornet (“Lady Rabelais,” as one critic called her), Mark Leyner’s hyperbolic novels, the writings of Magiser Gass, Greer Gilman’s folkloric fictions and Roger Boylan’s Celtic comedies, Vollmann’s voluminous volumes, Wallace’s brainy fictions, Siegel’s Love in a Dead Language, Danielewski’s novels, Jackson’s Half Life, Field’s Ululu, De La Pava’s Naked Singularity, and James McCourt’s ongoing Mawrdew Czgowchwz saga. (p. 331)

Doorn had a small son from a previous relationship – Shaun – who lived in Southport with Doorn’s mother and father.

You gotta love livin’, kid. Because dyin’s a pain in the ass.

Another example of their hatefulness while my dander’s up: in order to get themselves off the hook of sometimes liking uncool things, they refer to them as ‘guilty pleasures’, which is a ridiculous expression. What? So you like Abba, or Roger Moore as James Bond, but have been led to believe that this taste is somehow infra dig, so you style it a ‘guilty pleasure’, thus demonstrating you’re sufficiently relaxed and self-deprecating to own up to it – when in fact the way you have chosen to express it lays bare your bland and inane obsession with the worthless trappings of the zeitgeist.

As already mentioned this novel was based on the two-part episode of the same name from The Saint, which starred Roger Moore; part one first aired on Sunday, 8 December 1968, and part two first aired on Sunday, 15 December 1968. The script was written by longtime favorite John Kruse with some minor adjustments by script editor Harry Junkin. Charteris loved the script, saying that “The Fiction Makers fulfils all the promise of the synopsis, and the dialogue has a crisp sparkle which has all too often been lacking in other scripts. It’s true that I still somewhat prefer the treatment of the ending which I suggested. But it is simply a splendid job.

Michael Caine once told me that John Wayne had advised him never to wear suede shoes. Apparently Wayne once did and was standing in a pissoir when someone next to him looked over and said, ‘My God! It’s John Wayne!’ and, as he turned to face the Duke, peed all over his suedes.

We also had classes in shorthand and typing. The latter was a great favourite with the boys, due mainly to the lady who taught that particular subject: she was very well endowed in the breast department and when she demonstrated speed typing, her breasts joggled in time to her fingers. Lots of suppressed, ‘Cors!’ from the newly arrived pubescent boys.

Filming started in Hong Kong in the summer of 1974, and that’s when I met my two lovely Swedish leading ladies: Maud Adams and Britt Ekland, whom I affectionately christened Mud and Birt. Well, it’s easier to say, isn’t it? Dennis Sellinger – my agent as well as Britt’s – did a very good selling job on Britt. Cubby always liked his leading ladies to be rather ‘well-endowed’. He was, as we say in the trade, ‘a tits man’. Dennis sent Cubby a copy of Britt’s latest film, The Wicker Man, in which she appears nude and was, by the way, pregnant. She was also body-doubled for another nude sequence, or rather I should say ‘arse doubled’. Britt is the first to admit that this particular posterior double was much bigger than she was. Cubby, of course, knew nothing of all this and got rather excited on both fronts, so to say, and agreed to her casting. By the time we started filming – a year after she had given birth – Britt’s breasts were significantly reduced in size and her bum was nothing like the one he’d seen on screen. While I know Cubby loved Britt dearly, I can’t help but think he felt just a little deflated when he saw her on set that first day.

It is a fact that today steel can be made more cheaply outside America. This is also true of many other products: shoes, shirts, toys, and so on. Cars are different—Detroit’s prosperity plummeted because auto executives made bad decisions and overpaid their workers. Consequently others figured out how to make cars better and more cheaply not only in Korea and Japan, but also in other states like North Carolina. There is unintentional comedy today in watching Michael Moore’s film Roger and Me, in which Moore chases around the head of General Motors to find out why he closed the Flint, Michigan, plant in which Moore’s father used to work. Moore thinks that the plant was closed because greedy bosses like Roger Smith wanted to keep more profits. He fails to mention that unions, like the one his dad belonged to, pressured GM to raise wages so high that GM cars just cost too much. Hardly anyone wanted to buy mediocre cars that were so expensive. Either GM had to keep losing market share, or figure out how to make cars more cheaply. So if Moore wanted to find the greedy fellows who caused the Flint plant to close, he should have started by interviewing his dad.

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crumpet. Fifty years later, Michener and the Yanks show up. Then come the travel hacks, who have to justify their fancy rooms and plane fare by telling us this shithole is paradise.” He stubbed out his cigarette. “Come to think of it, paradise probably is a shithole. The missionaries sold a pup with that one, too. At least I hope they did, because I’m certainly not headed there.” We motored back to our yacht mooring. In twenty-four hours we’d be flying off the island. As we walked out on the pier, our legs still vibrating from five hours in the fun car, I asked Roger if he planned to come with me to Cook’s next landfall. “To New Zealand? Good God, that’s a pup even the Frogs couldn’t sell me.” I told him that French explorers barely went to New Zealand, and the first who had gone there ended up being eaten by Maori. Roger laughed. “Frog legs?

Before we took our leave of Jamaica, I was presented with the Marcus Garvey Lifetime Achievement Award by the creator and organizer of the festival, Sheryl Lee Ralph, a very talented actress and singer.

World War II (1939–45), or (1942–1945 for American readers)...

Foreign locations often presented problems to the caterers. The British crews rarely ate any local foods ‘Call this proper food?’ you’d hear the cry go up, ‘We want steak pudding, sausage and mash and treacle sponge with custard.’There was one day when something went wrong in Egypt and word reached us mid-morning that there wouldn’t be any lunch. Cubby knew he’d have a revolt on his hands, and so – somehow – gathered together huge great cooking pots, bundles of pasta and meat, and made a wonderful pasta with meatballs and sauce. He served it up to the boys and girls himself too. Cubby liked nothing better than to cook, and the crew liked nothing better than to eat. You can see why everyone loved Cubby so much – and he was ‘Cubby’ to everyone. There was no ‘Mr Broccoli’ on his set.

James Bond’s latest outing, The Spy Who Loved Me, had featured an ill-advised and hastily-written fifth act ‘twist’ whereby the unnamed PM, played by a no-name Yorkshire character actor, had absconded and sought to take ‘State Secrets’ with him to the Russians. Roger Moore had chased him down–improbably, in a speedboat–and seen to it that he would face justice. The critics were calling for the same fate to befall the screenwriters.