The big red phone rings. Ahoy, Her Majesty needs me. Thank God, it's been a while.
I answer, "Hello."

"Barrington Basildon?" a voice asks.

"The very same."

"Barrington, it's Monty."

"Monty who?"

"Monty Crusty-Juggler, Head of Her Majesty's Super-Secret Service."

"Ah, CJ, how the devil are you old boy?"

"No time Barrington. Can you come to my office?"

"Sure, you still in that bunker in Regent's Park?"

"No, we've moved. I'll send a car; it'll be there in ten."

"Right so, Monty." I go to hang up, then remember something, "Monty."

"Yes?"

"Do I have to bring anything? I've still got some gadgets from the last mission, shall I bring them?"

"No gadgets, Barrington, I'll explain when you get here."

"No gadgets? Not even the under-water breathy thing?"

"No."

Damn, I love that one.

Twenty minutes later I'm in Monty's new bunker. It's not good, not what I expected, pathetic really, just a small portable modular building, but still, it's good to be back; I look forward to serving Her Majesty once more. I'm sitting in the waiting room looking at his receptionist and I have to say I'm a tad disappointed. Instead of some curvaceous English beauty it's just some old bloke in a cardigan. The phone on Cardigan Man's desk rings.

"Yes he is here, Sir. Yes, absolutely." He puts the phone down. "Mr Crusty-Juggler will see you now."

"Thank you my man," I say standing up. "Where's Monty's usual secretary Miss Funnyberry?"

"Gone."

"Where?"

"I don't know, sir. I just work here."

"Keep up the good work..."

"Tightvest, Alan Tightvest."

"Right."

I go into Monty's office. As expected he's got a massive framed picture of Her Majesty above his desk. I give her a salute.

"Sit down Basildon."

She gets a wink on the way down.

"I'll get straight to it, Basildon; we need your help."

I straighten my tie and dust the sleeves on my white tux. Four years in the wilderness: I'm back. "Who is it this time? Scorpio? Coldfinger? The Man With The Boring Building?"

"That was Coldfinger and yes, it's him."

Ah, my most noted and hated nemesis. I look forward to the battle. I've never bested him, but this time I'm feeling good. Been honing my skills, learning languages, working on my stealth through the secret art of Ninjitsu. I love it, been doing it for two months now. My instructor says I'm two moves away from becoming rather threatening. The kit's in the wash though, I'll need to take that down the launderette. "What's he done now, Monty? Nuclear warheads? Tampered with the Internet? Blowing up the moon?"

"I'll stop you before you get carried away. This isn't what you think it is Basildon."

"What, shan't I be off to some exotic location? Will I meet beautiful femme fatales each more deadly than the last?"

"No."

"Will I still have gadgets?"

"No, Basildon there will be no gadgets. No exploding pens. No cars which can go underwater. No death wire in your watch and no under-water breathy thing. None of that, Basildon. The Government have imposed tight cuts on our budget."

"Oh. And what about the ladies? No Crystal Honeymellons? No Amber Widemouth? No Felicity Funbags?"

"Cuts."

"You can't cut the outrageously named ladies. That's all part of the mystery of being part of Her Majesty's Super-Secret Service. What shall I be doing then?"

"The Metropolitan Police have circulated an International warrant for the arrest of Kalt Coldfinger. He's holed up in his factory in Greenland."

"Why don't they go get him?"

"They have to make cuts too and we have had dealings with Coldfinger in the past, so the job's come to us."

"Greenland. Not too far to travel then. Shall it be by Jumbo Jet or luxury cruise liner?"

"Mail plane."

"Male plane? What's that a plane full of men?"

"Letters, Basildon. How did you get this far?"

"With my devilishly handsome good looks, my tight body and my charming smile. That's all you need. So where's this plane taking off from? Heathrow? Gatwick?"

"Lipton-On-The-Wold Air Base."

"Eh?"

"It's a military plane Basildon, all we can afford and I must be up front with you it is going to be a long flight."

"Ten hours?"

"Twelve days."

"I beg your pardon."

"The plane delivers mail to all the British Overseas Territories and military bases. You'll be going via Gibraltar, Diego Garcia, Tristan Da Cunha, Ascension Island, St Helena, South Georgia and the South Sandwich Islands, the Falkland Islands, Montserrat, British Virgin Islands and Bermuda, and a few more before heading off on your final journey to Greenland. They're dropping you off on the way back."

"I can't go to the Falklands."

"Why not?"

"I was there in eighty two during the war. A young newly promoted First Lieutenant, I can't go back."

"Why?"

"There was this farmer's daughter and we..."

"I don't want to know.

"I know the flight will be long, but you are all we've got."

"What about the others? Simon Scrumples? Freddie Bannister-Jarvis?"

Gone."

"Oh, gosh. Dead?"

"No. Redundancy. Cuts, Basildon, apart from me, you're all that's left of the old HMSSS."

Sad times indeed. "This makes me unhappy, Monty. The mission's we've had."

"I know, and this will be the last."

"What?"

"They're shutting us down, Basildon. No more room for old fashioned spying these days, not when they've got drones and the Internet. Everything's gone: the limitless credit cards, the Aston Martins full of tricks, the expensive hotels, gourmet food. They've stripped us back to the nitrogen in our bones. They've even closed down the canteen."

"No. What about Doris?"

"Forced redundancy."

"No more jerk chicken Fridays." The old boy tears up. "Tell me what it's about, Monty," I say.

He composes himself. "As I said, the Metropolitan Police have a warrant out for Kalt Coldfinger's arrest. Killed a British subject in his factory two months ago. You are to go to the factory and serve the warrant."

"And?"

"That's it."

"That's it. Serve it."

"Not bring him."

"Well obviously bring him in, that's what you do when you serve a warrant. A couple of Danish police officers will meet you there."

"Why Danish?" I picture making love to a beautiful, blonde-haired Valkyrie.

"Because Greenland is a Danish Colony."

"Right, knew that."

"It all seems needlessly complicated."

"It's not! It's simple Basildon. The Danish boys will keep you right."

I hope the Valkyrie does. "What's in it for me, Monty?"

"What?"

"What's in it for me? Shall I be re-instated?"

"I just told you that they are shutting us down. This is your last hurrah."

"So I'm not a spy again?"

"No, Basildon. Think of yourself like a bounty hunter. Like Quint from Jaws, Boba Fett from Star Wars, Rick Deckard from Blade Runner. Dog."

"Don't call me dog. You been listening to rap again?"

"Dog the Bounty Hunter. YouTube him, he'll give you tips."

This is all very confusing.

"You'll get paid when you get back."

"Nothing up front?"

"No."

"Cuts?" I ask.

"Yes," he says.

"You leave tonight. I suggest you go home and change."

I look down at my dazzling white tux. "I thought this..."

"No, Basildon. It's freezing in Greenland. Get some winter clothes."

"It's August."

"It won't feel like it in Greenland."

Back at my pad I'm sorting through my clothes. My entire wardrobe is laid out on my bed. One tux with black jacket, one with white jacket, one wet suit and one pair of woolly swimming trunks with belt and pocket. Mmm, not much. I go with the wet suit as I figure I'll be swimming under the water to get into Coldfinger's hideout. I don't have a suitable winter coat, but then remember that I still have my old wool greatcoat from my time during the Falkland's War. That'll do. I put on a DVD of Dog the Bounty Hunter and wait for the car Monty will be sending.

They made me take the bus, can you believe it? Lugged my bag all the way to Victoria Coach Station in central London to get on another bus to take me to the base. Bad times indeed. This shouldn't be how Madge's finest works.

At the base I get into the mail plane, a hulking great cold draughty beast of a plane. I sit on my seat surrounded by parcels and sacks of letters. There are no stewardesses, just some Royal Air Force Sergeant. "So, old boy what's the in flight movie?" I ask, "And can I get a scotchka, that's half vodka, half scotch with a twist of Kina Lilet?"

"You can have a bottle of Bud and a fat lip if you want."

"How dare you, Sergeant. I was a First Lieutenant during the war."

"Was. Now you're just a geezer in a wet suit."

He walks off. I'll need to sort him out later.

Monty wasn't wrong. Twelve days I've been in this dump. They only let me out at Pitcairn and Bermuda for leg stretches. Hottest bloody places I've been, definitely not for one wearing a wet suit. Greenland doesn't look like I thought it would. It's so white, hardly any green anywhere, just a load of snow and weird little round houses made of ice.

"Basildon Barrington?" a deep voice asks behind me. I turn around and see two massive blokes with beards and woolly hats.

"The very same. And you are?"

"Constable Anders Rasmussen and Sergeant Gunnar Torfasson, Her Royal Highnesses' Danish Police."

No Valkyries then. Damn. "You have a Queen too?" I say smiling.

"Yes."

"Great isn't it?"

"Please, we must go to the factory. Mr Coldfinger has a very strict schedule. He shall be leaving in a couple of hours to go to a meeting in Nuuk, the Capital city."

"What about lunch? I need at least an hour."

"No time, we'll get you a pot of stew on the way."

Stew, eargh!

"Very good. So how shall we do this? Here's an idea. Why don't you two run ahead, distract his henchmen whilst I cut a hole in the roof, abseil in, make love to an outrageously named beauty, kill a few dozen nameless henchmen then get the baddy. I'll keep him warm for you. You look like you could do with some warmth."

They look at each other. "No, Sir, that's not how we do things. We will knock the door, request a meeting and when we do you will arrest him under the warrant and hand him over to us. We will then take you to the local Magistrate Court where you will swear another warrant to return him to Britain."

"Ah."

"Yes, we go?"

Kalt Coldfinger's lair is as unimpressive as Monty's little sad builder's cabin. Just a big, grey factory. There's not even an effigy of him painted on the outside, no statues of him, no armed goons patrolling the perimeter. Rasmussen approaches the receptionist.

"Good afternoon, Madam. May we speak with Mr Coldfinger please?"

"I'll check if he is free. Please take a seat."

"You are very kind Madam."

We sit. I give her the eye. That's first, then the chat, then the flirt, then the love.

"Mr Coldfinger will see you now," she says putting down the phone.

We walk along a very boring corridor, past boring doors and I wonder what's going on behind them? What devious schemes is this cad up to? I'm thinking how I'm going to bring him down, forget all that warrant stuff, I'm going to do this the old fashioned way. Alone. I spot a fire extinguisher a few meters up ahead. "Hey guys look," I say picking it up, "just like at home." They look at each other a tad confused and I give it to both of them in the middles. They go down clutching their bits. I'm a lone wolf from now on. I look for Coldfinger's inner sanctum as they lie groaning. Don't worry, you'll be alright in half an hour lads.

I run along a long and boring corridor kicking in every door I see shouting, "Ah ha," as I burst into the room but there's no Coldfinger, no hired goons, no laboratories. I thought that this place was supposed to be a super villain's lair? All I've found is boring bifocal-wearing bureaucrats. I get to the last door, number twelve. I'm too tired to kick it down so I rest my forehead on the cold wood and take a deep breath. The handle is in reach so I turn it. It moves. The doors only bloody unlocked. What sort of nefarious super villain leaves doors unlocked? Coldfinger is in the room sitting behind a plain desk. He looks surprised when I burst in. "Hello, have you been expecting me?" I ask.

"Who are you?" He replies.

"Come on, you know me Coldfinger. Take a minute."

"I have no idea who you are."

"Oh I doubt that. I'm here for you. You're going down big man. I'm a tad surprised though. I expected more henchmen, a shark pool with a slow dipping mechanism and speaking about the usual stuff where's your fatale? Where's Ivanka Takeatopov?"

He looks puzzled. "I think you are in the wrong place."

"This is Coldfinger's lair?"

"Coldfinger's factory?"

"Lair, Kalt Coldfinger's lair?"

"Kurt Coldfinger's factory."

"No Kalt, wait a minute, who's Kurt?"

"I am."

"Well who's Kalt?"

"My identical twin brother."

Wait. What? Twins? Monty never said anything about twins. It can't be true, he's gotta be lying, trying to trick me. Well, I'll tell you this, I'm not buying it. I must bring him down now. "Look, you look a tad flustered. Would you like to sit down Mr...?"

"Basildon, Barrington Basildon." He stares blankly at me. "You have heard of me?"

"No, sorry, I haven't. Please take a seat Mr Basildon."

I start to sit down. Hey, wait a minute. He must think me a fool. This 'chair' he wants me to sit in is obviously rigged. Must have thought he had me there. "Do you think I'm stupid, Coldfinger?"

"No I was just..."

"Don't try and fool me, Coldfinger, I've been around long enough to know your game. Get me in the chair, press a button and watch it flip me backwards down into a shaft which will have crocodiles, or sharks, or crocodiles with sharks strapped to their backs, or liquid hot magma at the bottom, eh, that's it isn't it? I'm right aren't I?"

"I'm simply offering you a seat."

I do sit in his death chair, but only after I've got him to get one of his minions to sit in it first. He offers me tea. Not falling for it. Try again buddy. "So, Coldfinger, I think you are lying. I do think you have been expecting me. I must say, I'm a tad disappointed. I though capturing you would be harder."

"I let you in."

"That was your first mistake. Your second is your security. Where is it? Where are all the nameless henchmen? Where's the knock out gas? Where's the massive bloke you usually have, the one who gives me a right kicking only for me to brutally bring him down whilst throwing a hilarious quip in for laughs?"

"You've got this all wrong. Here I have something to show you."

He reaches for a drawer. Going for his gun eh? I don't think so. I have no weapons on me so I check my pockets finding some sachets of pepper. Pepper spray, that's what Dog uses, maybe I can fashion some sort of aerosol. All I need to do is find some propellant. I take a quick look around. None, blast. I'll have to resort to something else. I rip open the sachets without Coldfinger noticing and get close to him. "Wait a minute," I say and point at his face hoping he falls for the distraction, "Kalt has a small mole under his left..." He gets the pepper in his eyes and screams out in pain I hope. I kick him in the dangly bits just to make sure he's going down. He does. "Coldfinger, you've just met Her Majesty's Super-Secret Service."

The Danish boys bundle me to the ground. When I come to they're chatting with Coldfinger and looking through paperwork.

"You see officers; the incident was an unfortunate industrial accident. My brother Kalt was cleared of all charges and as he was fed up with the cold he signed the factory over to me and headed off to sunnier climes with Miss Takeatopov. Didn't the court inform you about the outcome of the trial?"

"No, Sir they didn't," Torfasson says.

"Well this has been fun, back to Blighty I go," I say.

"Hold on a minute," Rasmussen says placing his hand on my shoulder. "We need to talk to you about a couple of police assaults."

I get a year in prison for smacking the Danish boys. In the old days I could have blown up a city, set off a nuclear bomb and no one would have batted an eyelid. Now they're sending me to prison just for doing my job. I don't like bounty hunting. I want to be a Super-Secret Spy again. I miss Monty. I miss Miss Funnyberry. I miss the lads. I miss Doris' jerk chicken. I miss Ivanka.

Bloody austerity cuts.