For the four or five who haven’t read it, there’s a great story by a guy who was seven and saw Roger Moore in an airport at Nice. “That’s James Bond,” he told his grandpa. “He’s famous!”
So grandpa takes the boy to him: “My grandson here says you’re famous. Will you give us your autograph?” Moore smiles and signs the back of the boy’s plane ticket stub, and they go off to look at it. “Grandpa, he didn’t write James Bond!”
So they go back to him, and Grandpa says, “My grandson says you’ve signed the wrong name here!” Moore smiles again and takes the kid aside. “Listen,” he says, after a quick glance around, “I can’t sign my real name here. If I did, SMERSH agents would find out about it, and you could be in danger! You look like a lad I can trust to keep it secret for me.” He went back to his grandpa, happy to know he was on the team.
23 years later, the same fellow is working in a TV studio where Roger Moore is about to film a bit. While they set up, he tells him the story. Moore smiles. “I can’t say I remember it, but I’m glad you got to meet James Bond!”
After the filming, the boy (now 30) sees Moore coming toward him in the hall. As he pulls even, he looks around quickly and lowers his voice. “Of course I remember you from Nice,” he says, “but I couldn’t say anything in there. Any one of those cameramen could be working for Blofeld!”
He was never my favorite Bond, but darned if he didn’t become one of my favorite people rather suddenly.