JB Supersleuth (1990)

My name is Bond, James Bond. Yes, I know what you're thinking. The first reaction is always the same. You hear the name James Bond and you expect to see something tall, dark, handsome and incredibly daring. Instead, before you stands something small, spotty, bespectacled and twelve and three quarter years old. I can't help it. I was in no position to argue at my christening. My father's name was James. So was his father's and his father's before that. It's sort of a family tradition. It follwed that unless my parents wished to offend all the male line, I must be James also. My parents, in any case, are rather a vague, dreamy couple. They had probably never heard of my fictional, adventurous namesake. And anyway, even if they had, they wouldn't have considered it of sufficient importance to justify altering a long-established family custom.

So here I am. James Bond. A great name to live up to. Only I don't of course. The original wally, that's me. At least, that was me until my second year at Moorside Comprehensive, when I suddenly tumbled into a whole series of amazing adventures. In fact, I almost began to resemble my famous namesake — apart from my spots and specs, that is.