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I am so delighted to be the new James Bond. By Phoebe Waller-Bridge

GOSH, this is just such amazing news, isn’t it? I’m the new James Bond! Me, the posh Fleabag woman! And I’ve got some brilliant ideas for the script!

But first let me say what an honour this is. I’ve never watched a Bond film, or read the books, but I know Pierce Brosnan from Mamma Mia did it and if we can combine the humour of The Man with the Golden Gun with the invisible car in Die Another Day we’re onto a winner.

What will my Bond be like? Well, I feel she should be a messy, neurotic loser with no filter, so when I meet an attractive guy I’ll say something like: ‘You’re so hot I just sharted!’ Hang on, let me write that down.

Feminism should also be a big part, and the way to do that in films is to make women better at things than men in a smug way. Which is what my character did in the last Indiana Jones, which audiences loved. Even higher viewing figures than Fleabag!

One thing I will be keeping is the way Daniel Craig gave Bond a believable emotional core. I’d like to see Bond completely fail for once and get the sack. Then she’d get shitfaced and sit on the pavement crying as the credits roll. That would subvert our expectations of a Bond film.

I’ll also be breaking the fourth wall, which worked so well in Fleabag. I feel the laser scene in Goldfinger would be much improved if a female Bond turned to camera and said: ‘And you thought cystitis was bad!’

Why am I Bond? That’s easy – I’ve got a massive contract with Amazon, Bond’s been sold to Amazon, it makes perfect economic sense! ‘Maybe this will get her off her bloody arse,’ the head of movies said, and she was right!

And your final question? What will gender-swapped Bond will be called? It’s not easy renaming such an iconic character, but after intensive gin-in-tin brainstorming I cracked it: ‘The name’s Bond, Jane Bond.’ Can I have $250 million now?

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Britain forced to suffer televised opinions of yokels again

THE Makerfield by-election campaign means that once again, the UK is being forcibly exposed to the political opinions of bewildered troglodytes. 

As broadcasters stake out every corner of the constituency, residents who only popped out for a Twix are expressing their confused views on National Insurance thresholds for a judgmental national audience.

Spot-welder Wayne Hayes said: “I only wanted some cans and a scratchcard but suddenly foxy Sophy Ridge is asking me whether Burnham is justified in dismissing the bond market. And, God help me, with blood rushing to my cock I answered.

“It turns out views like ‘is that Osborne still chancellor?’ and ‘they’re all as bad as each other’ were not sagacious wisdom but, when I saw them on TV that night, the burblings of an urban village idiot.

“I’m not an economics expert to be fair. I mainly judge inflation by the price of Freddos.”

Journalist Charlotte Phelps said: “We’ve come up from London like Victorian explorers heading into the Congo, to inform Britain its destiny hinges on stray imbeciles who have nothing better to do than stand outside Greggs at 11am on a Tuesday.

“If the only one free is a man called Gaz holding a slavering XL Bully, that’s who we’re interviewing. Is he the best person to explain fiscal drag? Probably not. But crucially he managed not to say anything legally actionable about immigrants.

“Has Labour lost touch with them? Bloody lucky for Labour if it has. Ah well, a week and a half of free-range morons left before they decide the country’s future.”

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