It gives a secret agent, Cate Archer, many things to do, and most are entertaining: sniping, driving, parachuting and interviewing a daft rich man.
"It's daft," a man settled in a Glasgow pub said to me not long ago, talking about the sums that rare Scotch whiskies sometimes fetch at auction — the bottle of Dalmore 64-year-old, for example, that sold last month for nearly $200,000.
He was a big-hearted, daft-humoured man with many pals who doted on him.
I am often tempted to write this off as just more daft, fearful men yearning misguidedly for the security of class superiority.
As such, we could leave it quietly to go about its business, letting daft old men snore away in a red leather upholstered corner as they sleep off the lunchtime spotted dick and custard.
Is Mr. Daft the right man to be his successor?
Daft headwear, a man hoovering a woman's hair, a hand or foot that won't go where it's meant to.
Captain, action man, daft at times, almost comically heroic, there's something a little playful about him, chaotic too at times, even outright bad occasionally, and there's a reason why he has more red cards than anyone else in history, and it's not really the refs, but he's built with an innate ability to come good when it really, really matters.
