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Roger Moore and Mark O’Conell.
‘As I waited in a dressing room corridor like a nervous kid waiting to see Santa, it hit me that I was meeting my Bond barely metres away from where I first saw him on the big screen.’ Roger Moore and Mark O’Conell.
‘As I waited in a dressing room corridor like a nervous kid waiting to see Santa, it hit me that I was meeting my Bond barely metres away from where I first saw him on the big screen.’ Roger Moore and Mark O’Conell.

Never meet your heroes – unless they’re Roger Moore, the greatest Bond of all

This article is more than 6 years old
Mark O'Connell
From seeing Octopussy aged 007, he became my favourite secret agent. No wonder my wedding day telegram from him remains my ultimate View to a Thrill

Whoever said never meet your heroes had clearly never had mine as theirs. For 30 years my cinematic hero, sartorial inspiration and later literary muse was Roger Moore. It was June 1983 when my dad took a very reluctant 007-year-old to the Guildford Odeon to see Roger’s sixth Bond opus, Octopussy. That afternoon stamped my life.

I had emerged from a Bond fan egg to see Roger Moore standing over me waving those colossal 70s trousers and a perfectly chilled glass of Bollinger 79. With a grandfather who was working for the Bond producers EON Productions, and who was always complimentary of the third 007, I would hear mention of his name before I even knew my own.

Being an 80s kid, he was always my Bond – a vital, rare British international movie star. Numerous Roger posters soon flanked my walls like Albert Broccoli frescoes and my 10th birthday present has never been bettered: a dedicated, signed still of the man himself.

‘Being an 80s kid, he was always my Bond.’ Mark O’Connell (crouching second from left) celebrates his birthday with a Roger Moore Bond inspired birthday party in 1985. Photograph: Mark O'Connell

The last person to know how good Roger Moore was, was often Roger Moore himself. A serial mocker of his own talents, the only child from Stockwell was a rare British breed – the big screen loved him, and he instinctively knew how to tease and work the camera and the audiences behind it.

As his 1985 Bond swansong, A View to a Kill, seeped into my very soul, my life was soon furnished with a Roger Moore wall-clock, T-shirt, watch, vinyl, badges, more posters, toy cars, and a charity-shop blazer I would wear when collecting family from Gatwick airport just so I could finesse my Moore poise. He always made great cinematic play of walking through airports. I will continue to make a sartorial effort in his honour when flying.

‘His Live and Let Die debut successfully weathered the third change of Bond in as many films.’ Jane Seymour and Roger Moore in Live And Let Die. Photograph: Allstar/United Artists

With seven films in the barrel of his Bond pistol, Moore was the longest serving 007. The diehard detractors took aim at him for not being Sean Connery. Yet us 70s-born kids didn’t know any different. Connery was merely our Step-Bond. One of the essential reasons we have still have 007 is because of Roger Moore. His Live and Let Die debut successfully weathered the third change of Bond in as many films. He soon steered the spy’s box-office fortunes from the blunt era of Mean Streets and Easy Rider through the impact of Star Wars and into the Reaganite likes of Raiders, ET and Ghostbusters. That wasn’t just a mark of the Bond brand’s durability. That was a bit of Moore himself. His Bond was one of a kind diplomacy tinged with cruel vengeance and a concern at the world around him that echoed his real-life charity roles.

Flash-forward 30 years and I have not only written down my Bond fan exploits as triggered by Moore, but was about to finally meet the man himself. With thanks to his manager and biographer Gareth Owen, I was invited backstage to one of his An Evening with Roger Moore spots. Just as a 007 with the best ski wear known to man should, those events proved Moore was the master of going off-piste – lending fans his reminiscences with that self-mocking veneer and philosophical pauses reminding of his cherished role as a Unicef ambassador.

As I waited in a dressing room corridor like a nervous kid waiting to see Santa, it hit me that I was meeting my Bond barely metres away from where I first saw him on the big screen. Like those little white dots that mark each Bond movie, sometimes events do have a very curious habit of going full circle.

Before I knew it I was standing in a gleaming white dressing room with the man himself looking at me with those same piercing eyes that fought Zorin, Drax, Scaramanga, Stromberg and Kananga, and that same boyish grin that bedded Solitaire, Mary Goodnight, Anya Amasova and our shared favourite 007 lady, Octopussy. I smile at the appropriately empty champagne bottle on the dresser, and he cracks a calming quip at my nervous, camera-clutching partner. We talk Bond and Maud Adams (Octopussy herself), and I give him a copy of the memoir in which he was my co-star. He says he wants to read it. I jokingly hint he doesn’t have to – at which moment those firm blue eyes suavely clarify: “Oh no, I will.”

‘We were the first gay couple to get wed at Bond and Moore’s working home, Pinewood Studios.’ The Octopussy top table at Mark’s wedding. Photograph: Mark O'Connell

Months later James Bond emails me. The message should have emerged from a ticker-tape Seiko watch, yet it was warm thanks for knowing more about his Bond than he did. When I later marry my husband I naturally invite Moore. Seriously.

We were the first gay couple to get wed at Bond and Moore’s working home, Pinewood Studios. Ultimately, Roger sends a telegram I keep secret from everyone – even my man. As I stand with a mic in hand by a top table named Octopussy – you can only imagine the arch, Roger-inspired eyebrows from the mothers of the grooms when they noticed that one – I read out his kind, supportive sentiment suggesting he was not able to attend because he knows full-well the dangers of upstaging two gay grooms on their wedding day.

From a closeted little kid obsessed with James Bond – never imagining being able to marry anyone – to have the spy that I loved tip his hat to our nuptials in that way saw my soul bounce to the Moonraker and back.

And now those sands of time have taken our greatest James Bond from us. To paraphrase Moore’s Bond nemesis Drax, this time has come “with the horrible inevitability of an unloved season”. I cannot help but hope Roger Moore has already strolled into a gargantuan hotel bar by the pearly gates – one designed by Ken Adam, orchestrated by John Barry, directed by Guy Hamilton and with all drinks on Cubby Broccoli. Forever a gent. Forever Bond. Forever Moore. Thank you, sir.

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