Gæsten i det indtil videre sidste afsnit i Bond•O•Rama Podcast-serien "Mit liv med Bond" er det nærmeste, vi kommer på en grand old man inden for dansk 007-formidling. Nicolas Barbano (f. 1963) bestyrede læserbrevkassen BOX 007 i Interpresses James Bond-tegneserieblad allerede som teenager. Takket være ham var Bond-bladet det sted, hvor danske Bond-fans i tiden før World Wide Web hentede ny info om Agent 007.
Nicolas Barbano fortæller i denne samtale om sine mange møder med Bond-kendisser, som dengang Martine Beswick lavede sandwich til ham, eller da han fik et ønske opfyldt af Barbara Broccoli, som gav bagslag. Og hvad siger man til Christopher Lee, når man opdager, han har noget siddende i ansigtet?
Nicolas slår også et slag for den udskældte "Casino Royale" fra 1967, som han introducerede i CinemaxX' kavalkade. Han kommer ind på, hvorfor han ikke faldt for Bond i "Live and Let Die", men først i "The Spy Who Loved Me", samt hvilke problemer han har med Daniel Craigs version af Bond og ikke mindst de seneste titelsange. Endelig finder han en obskur dansk forbindelse frem i form af pornoparodien "Jane Bomb".
På denne dato for tre år siden, 7. juni 2015, døde den engelske skuespiller Sir Christopher Lee i en alder af 93 år.
Blandt de flere hundrede roller, Christopher Lee spillede i sin 70-årige karriere, var naturligvis Francisco Scaramanga i James Bond 007-filmen "Manden med den gyldne pistol" (The Man with the Golden Gun, EON 1974). Desuden var Christopher Lee stedfætter til James Bonds skaber, forfatteren Ian Fleming.
Christopher Lee havde også bånd til Danmark, til dels i kraft af sin kone, kunstmaleren og eks-fotomodellen Birgit "Gitte" Krøncke, som han var gift med fra 1961 til sin død i 2015. I sine erindringer, "Lord of Misrule", udgivet i 2003 af Orion Publishing, beretter Christopher Lee på side 196-199 om sit møde med Gitte Krøncke i 1960, deres første jul sammen i København, deres forlovelsesnat på Tuborgbryggeriet og deres besøg hos filmudlejeren Preben Philipsen på det fynske Nakkebølle slot:
"My wife does not care for golf and she cannot hold a tune. All the same, without golf and music we should never have met. The chain of causes which led to my marriage began with my friend Lionel Stubbs. We often went round the course together, and even more often I dropped into his flat next door to chat about golf and what the RAF was up to. One evening Lionel had a Danish friend with him who like himself was 'in hides and skins'. When the topic of tanners and trappers had given out, the Dane and I discovered a common passion in music.
Harry Rabinowitz (namesake of the conductor) had an encyclopaedic knowledge of music - in fact he wrote an encyclopaedia. I cannot 1:,1 horn the technicalities. If somebody talks about the magnificent bowing and fingerwork, it is lost on me. Triple tonguing and pedal work are closed books to me. But Harry was uncanny. He not only knew all that but he could recognize any singer and give you his name, the label on the record and its number. He'd published a catalogue of pre-electric recordings. I used to test him on obscure Romanian tenors and so forth. We sat for hours together, engrossed, and soon had a rapport so close that his Brooklyn-born wife Sandy ironically suggested we ought to get married.
I replied that there was no bar in my case, since I was single. They both stared at me as if they had thought I had a secret wife. 'You're not married?' they exclaimed in unison. Married people cannot bear anybody to remain in a single state. In no time they were snowing me with comments on a dazzling Dane they knew who was the one person in the world for me. She was twenty-five and they couldn't bear her being single either. Her name was Birgit Kroencke and everyone knew her as Gitte. She was a daughter of the director of the Tuborg brewery in Copenhagen. She was a painter. She was a model who'd worked for Balmain, Balenciaga and Dior. They showed me radiant pictures to prove it. The red hair, the green eyes, the feline elegance, all haunted me. I avowed a half-wish to meet this paragon.
Having softened me up, they busily snowed Gitte, telling her the one person in the world for her was dying to meet her, and extolled me as a noble kind genius. They showed her a non-Hammer photograph and she said indifferently, 'That's a reasonably normal-looking man,' and tried to get on with her life. They gave her my address and number in London and when she flew over for a dance told me I must wait in for her call. I did what I had never done for any woman - I gave up my golf that Sunday and waited by the phone. The call never came. I said loudly, 'That's that!' Then I added, 'I've finished with this woman and never want to meet her again.'