It feels like we’ve been waiting 007 million years to find out who will be the next Bond. With casting speculation rife since Craig's departure from the franchise in 2021, it seems like we hear the same names (we’re looking at you, Idris Elba, Aaron Taylor-Johnson and Theo James) EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. And it appears that any male aged 20-40 is eligible, with any actor falling into this remit being asked if they would like the role, or are in the running for the prestigious job, in any press junket they attend - no matter what show they are promoting. If we know anything, we know that it’s not a quick process to assign a new double-o agent to his majesty's Secret Service. 

So, when American producer Deborah (Tanya Franks) finds out that her chosen Bond has been found guilty of sending indecent messages to underage girls (“Dr No-Concent”), and the world's press are expecting a name at the press conference the following day, she is given (to mix spy action films) an impossible mission. She must cast a new lead in 22 hours. 

Deborah is not alone in her (very) secret mission. Her Q is her son, Quinn (Harry Goodson-Bevan) and her M, is cousin Malcolm (Philip Bretherton). Yes, despite Bond's body count (both kills and bed notches), he is still very much a family enterprise. And Deborah and Malcolm want to keep it that way.

What follows is a farcical romp that has a license to thrill. The dialogue is as pinpoint as Auric Goldfinger’s laser, and just as deadly. Full of puns, double entendras, and impressive phone choreography (think Operation Mincemeat, but with one angry American, three mobile phones, a landline and a Bluetooth headset), the production is seriously silly, and brilliantly British.