Jim Hopkins: Now it's James Bonk and the Sex Insertion Service

SIS accused of "sexing up" dossier. - news item.

Gracious goodness, what's the word coming to? Strewth, there was a time when your average James Bond (as played by Roger More, for example) was quite happy to slip into foreign parts, screw his silencer in and shoot people.

But not any more. James Bond is James Bonk these days. "Sexing up" rather than wiping out is the order of the day.

The hit man's become the t ... well, you can draw your own conclusions. This column is no place for gratuitous carnal enhancification.

Yet that seems to be de rigueur in the modern world of erospionage. Suddenly, every M and his dog is demanding conjugal writes.

It's true. Spooks all over the world are rushing out of the safe house and into the Penthouse. You can't pick up a newspaper these days without coming across some trembling member of a security service frantically "sexing up" an otherwise innocent document.

Dammit, they're all doing it - the CIA, the KGB, the ARC, MI5, and now even our very own SIS (Sex Insertion Service) is apparently getting in on the act.

Now, there are some obvious problems here. The first is self-evident. Not all documents lend themselves to a quick sex-up.

It would be hard to imagine any agent, however amorous, adding to the erotic appeal of a paper entitled, for the sake of argument: Subcutaneous Vectors for the Oleaginous Transmission of Bovine Spongiform Encepholopathy.

Try as they might, no amount of licks, nuzzles and moans dropped in between the technical terms could give such a document X-rated status.

The other problem is the strain all this paragroping must impose on older agents - you know, the ones who need to take an extra tube of haemorrhoid cream with them when they're being "inserted" into wild and woolly realms.

We know such chaps are likely to suffer from reptile dysfunction (there are ads about it all the time on the telly) and one can only assume they've got their hands full looking after their lizards without having to worry about some pretty phrase in search of a quick sex-up.

Still and all, it seems that sexing up is going to be the next big thing. Dinkum, you can put a ring around it.

It won't be long before they're sexing up the bylaws: "Any person caught fondling, caressing, undressing or otherwise defacing any item, artefact or erection within the firm but yielding precincts of this borough shall be liable to a fine ... old time, whoopeee, getcha gears off."

The problem is, if this is going to be the way of the future, the Harold's worthy readers might need a little help if they want to get with the programme.

Alas, that is not something yours truly can provide. There are those who can sex up a document and those who can't and, what with me being a dull and prosaic soul, an accountant trapped in a columnist's body if you will, it seemed like a good idea to consult our extinguished Poet Laureate on this matter.

He's a passionate soul, a wild and sensual chap who likes to trail his fingers in puddles and nibble the lobes of OSH inspectors when no one is looking.

Happily, the Laureate was pleased to assist. "Send me a sentence," he said. "Nothing fancy, just some ho hum, dreary, weary, dull as dutchwater sentence."

Dull as dutchwater, you say? Well, how about: "I didn't mean it," wailed Harry, so they passed a special law.

"Sorry," said the Laureate, "but there are some things you can't sex up. You can spend hours giving them a semantic makeover, but they'll always be grubby little unattractive statements that deserve to be rejected."

The other point the Laureate made was that the best sort of prose was that which was so passionate, so fiery, that it didn't need sexing up.

To prove the point he favoured us with a recent work dealing with the fearless willingness of our politicians to squander $2 million on an urgent debate to undo the law that one of their chums had broken:

I love this little country

It really tops the lot

And especially our Top Dogs

What a splendid pack we've got

They make the rules for such as us

And the rules must be obeyed

And common folk who break the law

Are branded renegade

You've gotta pay the IRD

The ACC, the GST

You gotta pay your rates and such

Even if they're far too much

You gotta drive the legal way

And if y'don't they make you pay

You gotta do just what you ought

Or they will drag you into court

For us they dish up work tests

For us they launch Job Jolt

But if their job gets jolted

They squeal, "It's not my fault"

And change the law in a moment

So an MP needn't go

And black is white and all is well

In this shonky staus quo

Where chits and perks and privilege

Are sprinkled round like chaff

So why not go the whole hog

And do this, for a laugh

Let's get Zimbabwe's Robert here

Let's bring in Mu-ga-be

'Cos he's the leader that we need

In our banana monarchy


We'll see if the SIS can sex that up.