By Craig Gent PhD (Agent 00346)
Until recently, there was only one Bond-related claim to fame in my family.
It was late in 1977, and a certain handsome and well-liked gentleman was at the height of his powers, applying a unique skill set in a profession few people can lay claim to.
That man was my Grandad. His profession: a TV repairman.
(It gets better.)
He worked for Radio Rentals, a now defunct company that used to lease out televisions and other electronic entertainment equipment at a time when people did that sort of thing, which in turn had contracts to provide TVs to local businesses.
One such business was a health club set in relaxing and leafy environs. Let’s call it Shrublands. My Grandad picked up the call. A resident’s television was on the blink. Tool bag in hand, he walked right up to the door of the suite and knocked.
“It was Roger Moore in a dressing gown,” my Grandad recalled. I was eight or nine upon hearing the story the first time. Agog, as you can imagine. Roger would have just come off the publicity trail for The Spy Who Loved Me.
“What happened then?!” I asked.
“I said, ‘Hello, I’m here to mend your telly.’ And he said, ‘Hello. It’s over there.’” he chuckled. “Just like that.”
As it happens, my Grandad met a few famous people working as a TV repairman, from Roger Moore to Deep Purple’s Ritchie Blackmore. Each time he recounts one of these chance meetings, he gets a kick out of doing so with an emphasis on the ordinariness of the encounter. Him, a “telly mender”, as he always put it. Roger Moore, the James Bond. And a misbehaving television in need of a whack – it was often a whack that was needed – just over there. Just like that.
A reflection of my Grandad’s down-to-earth sense of humour, no doubt, but I always sensed a pride in his ability to take these odd meetings in his stride. In my own work as a journalist, I’ve also had my share of odd encounters, from being taken to task for the interior design of my office by the famous philosopher Slavoj Zizek to having to explain the rules of a live game show to a former shadow chancellor. But it was all part of the job. Being starstruck doesn’t really run in my family.
Or so I thought, until a 007GB Charity Day at another leisure resort set in relaxing and leafy environs, this time The Belfry in Sutton Coldfield, in September 2023. Special guests aplenty. But none more special to this Bond fan than Kara Milovy, star of The Living Daylights herself: Maryam d’Abo.
The week prior to the Belfry event, David Lowbridge-Ellis, editor-in-chief at 007GB, had commissioned me to write a new article for the Licence to Queer website, ‘One Woman, Many Talents: A Love Letter to Kara Milovy’. In the article, I explain why I think Kara has been misread and underestimated in the pantheon of Bond girls, and how her inconvenient cello in fact represents her similarly inconvenient independence (to Bond and Koskov, at least).
So when David walked into the room side-by-side with Maryam, and gently introduced me to her with the icebreaker that I was writing an article on her character, I felt like I didn’t know where to start.
“It’s wonderful to meet you. You were my favourite Bond character,” I offered.
“Really?!” she replied. I got the sense it was a new one on her, Maryam herself sometimes known to describe Kara Milovy as being on the naïve side, even if her fondness for the experience of playing the role is palpable.
Maryam kindly signed the Daylights print I’ve owned since I was a child, and a newer but nevertheless treasured print of Kara Milovy playing the cello by the talented Billy Robertson of Billy’s Bond Art. She was gracious and professional, which I think is what you really hope for when meeting someone you admire, and although the interaction was brief, it was a joy to hang on her words in the ‘Bond Girls Are Forever’ Q&A and to hear first-hand her affection for Timothy Dalton and John Glen, and her enthusiasm for the women of Bond in general. (She was, of course, producer and presenter of the 2002 documentary Bond Girls Are Forever.)
Yet as the day was drawing to a close, I still felt I hadn’t found the words I had wanted to say. Celebrities are people, after all, and I’m not one to believe fame makes people fair game for receiving the brain-dumps of strangers. I wanted to be courteous, but to let her know that her work had had a huge impact on me. As strange as it sounds, I felt like I had too much to say to find anything to say at all.
In my article for Licence to Queer, I had written:
“Why did a fairytale of a talented victim of coercive control who chased, rode, drove and flew her way to social and geographic mobility appeal to a bright, working-class bisexual boy who grew up witnessing domestic violence in a small-minded town? If you’re asking with your head, there’s a Licence to Queer Re-view that might clear one or two things up.
“But if you’re asking with your heart, I suppose it’s like this:
“It would be easy to say Kara Milovy’s story made me believe anything was possible. But it wouldn’t be true. Speaking as someone who grew up on free school meals and went as far as it’s possible to go in education, landing back in my hometown with a bump (and no job) taught me that social mobility is a pernicious, if persuasive, lie. And unlike many LGBTQ people, the geographic mobility of my late teens and early twenties seemed to delay rather than expedite my acceptance of my sexuality.
“Rather, Kara Milovy made me believe that whatever life throws at you, we always have decisions that are ours, and that we can make for ourselves. We have power, autonomy, and agency. We don’t have to lose ourselves to the events that rocket into our lives or emerge all around us like the water of an icy lake. We can always – and must always – insist on bringing the cello.
“I’m glad I was not a typical child, and I have written before about how James Bond taught me, perhaps unexpectedly, that I did not have to be a typical man. For that, I will always love him. But for teaching me the importance of retaining, at the most crucial moments in life, my sense of self, my passions; of never diminishing my talents; of insisting on the cello. For that, I will always love Kara Milovy.”
How could I possibly convey any of that in a polite sentence or two? I decided I wouldn’t say anything after all. The day had created wonderful memories. I could just leave it there.
It was my partner, Amanda, who stopped me from heading back right after the event. In the next room, Maryam was sitting at her signing table, quietly packing up by herself.
“You should say something,” Amanda said, looking me in the eyes. I knew she was right.
I decided to walk up to the desk with the calm sense of purpose of a telly mender on his way to whack James Bond’s television set. In my line of work, I write articles. Articles about people. An article about this person.
“Hello Maryam, I’m sorry to bother you whilst you’re packing down,” I said.
“Not at all.”
“David mentioned earlier that I was writing an article about Kara Milovy. Your character has meant a great deal to me for almost as long as I can remember, and I just want to say thank you…”
“That is very lovely to hear,” she said. I felt a weight lift.
“…and I wondered if I might be able to send it to you once it’s published. Obviously I understand if you don’t read…”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she peeled off a bright green Post-it note and began writing down her email address.
“Please do,” she said. Just like that.
I turned to Amanda, beaming on my behalf. I thanked Maryam again and we left the Belfry, full up with new memories, photos, signed prints, Amanda’s raffle prizes, and a Post-it note. I don’t think I could have hoped for more. Except for cello.
Craig Gent forgot to get a photograph with Maryam herself but here he is (right) with 007GB Editor-in-Chief David Lowbridge-Ellis MBE (and, of course, a Lotus Esprit!).
Last modified: 13 January 2026
