Roger Moore in For Your Pants Only.
Memo to Q: need rubber spypants.
When I was a kid, I was a huge James Bond fan. I didn't just love the movies: I thought I was James Bond. Even now, I'm one of those guys who has to sing the James Bond theme when I walk through a dimly lit underground parkade.
So you can imagine how I felt as a 14-year-old to be seeing For Your Eyes Only on opening day: only like the suavest and most debonair kid spy ever.
It was summertime, so when I arrived at the Colony Theatre downtown, I bought the "best value beverage" - a six-litre Coke, shaken not stirred - and sat down in the only seat left in the place: smack dab in the front row.
I set down my drink on the seat between my knees - "for a second" was the plan - when the lid popped off, and the full contents of the cup poured down the front of my shorts.
With nowhere to run or move, I asked myself, "What would James Bond do?" So, I stayed right where I was, and watched the entire movie with wet drawers, which got progressively colder and more uncomfortable as the air conditioning set in.
After the movie, I took the bus home, shivering in my Coke-imbued shorts - just like James Bond did when he was a kid.