Who cares if James Bond lives in Beverley? Daniel Craig is no Dean Windass ...
Sho Blofeld. Do you exshpect me to talk? "No, meester Bond," says I, menacingly circling the man strapped to the gurney, while stroking my pussycat.
"I expect you to die.
"Or at least to keep me talking for long enough to disable the laser pointing at your groin, eshcape, I mean escape, change into a miraculously unruffled tuxedo and put down a shubshtantial deposhit on an expensive – but unobtrusive – mini-manor house shomewhere on the outshkirts of Beverley."
The suave secret scowls as the heat from the laser inches ever closer to his crown jewels. James is about to become Jane Bond.
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"Are you taking the mickey out of My shpeech impediment, Blofeld?" he snarls.
"That's not remotely funny, I haven't been Bond for 42 years now.
"Get with the programme, it's that other bloke with the face like an Easter Island rock now.
"You know, the one they reckon is buying a house in Beverley."
Well, bang go my plans for global domination.
Just when I was about to get planning consent for my super-villain's lair slap-back in the middle of Beverley Westwood – why not? They're building on greenbelt everywhere else – Daniel Craig has to move to town to throw a spanner in the works.
I was planning on starting small; establishing a mini banana republic with a heavily regulated, legally enshrined press – so no one could report on my dastardly deeds – here in East Yorkshire, before moving on to the rest of the planet.
Because, as we all know, the Wolds are not enough.
But now I can see my narcissistic need to explain every intricate detail of my nefarious plot to Her Majesty's secret service is going to be my undoing.
With Mr Craig in town, it won't be long before I'm being jettisoned out of a Aston Martin DB5 or exploded in a mini helicopter – only to be replaced in the next film by another reporter.
My money's on Peter Levy – he has something of the Scaramanga about him – and I'm not just talking about the secret third nipple.
But all that depends on whether you believe international megastar Mr Craig and his equally megastarry wife Rachel Weisz are moving to town or not. Personally, I think it's balderdash.
I know there was rumour that MI6's finest was interested in buying Millington Grange, near Pocklington, at one point, but that got debunked by the local estate agent.
I think some star-spotter has confused Craig with Gerard Butler, who was once rumoured to be in the running for Bond; put two and two together and made 007.
But, more importantly, who cares? Seriously, if the poor bloke wants a bit of peace and quiet away from the long lens of the paparazzi here in our hidden paradise, then let him.
One of the things that perhaps would attract Craig to this neck of the woods – if there is a grain of truth in the rumours – it's that us Yorkshire folk are not easily impressed or starstruck.
Personally, I couldn't give a flying monkey's if James Bond moved in down the street, as long as I didn't keep bumping into his improbably invisible car parked outside.
And as long as he bought his round down at Nellies, then he'd fit in fine; no special treatment – not even for someone who's already saved the world three times.
Now, maybe if he scored the goal that earned City promotion back to the Premier League, then we'd be talking, but, let's face it, James Bond is no Dean Windass.
So let's all cool it with the talk of celebrities and superstar house-hunters.
At the end of the day, they're just people who have to take their trousers off when they go to the toilet, the same as you and I.
Let's keep what we have to offer on the down-low, because if we don't, they'll all want a piece of the East Riding – and who wants a town rammed full of air-kissing luvvy types?
I still take a quantum of solace from the fact that, so far, we've managed to remain relatively celeb-free.