James Bond will soon be back on our screens to do his duty once again for Queen and country. So the Derby Telegraph's David Clensy decided to don a dinner jacket and live the life of an all-action hero - but will he survive to die another day?

Like all good Bond movies it started with an action sequence: explosions, car chases, and attractive suits.

Well one out of three isn't bad, and there were attractive suits-a-plenty as I stood in Brigden's shop, on Derby Market Place, pondering my mission.

I was to become the nation's action hero, James Bond, for the day. Watch out Pierce Brosnan - I was determined to show the world that all the thrills and spills of Ian Fleming's tales could be found right here in Derbyshire.

Not to be outdone by the 49-year-old Irishman with his sleek new 007 movie, Die Another Day, I went in search of adventure.

Brigden's tailor Paddy Riley was suitably sympathetic to my plight.

"So you want to look like James Bond," he said, scanning me up and down, valiantly hiding the welling hopelessness that must have been coursing through his entire being.

His tape measure explored every nook and cranny of my feebly un-film-star-like body.

"Well, there's really only one thing for it," he announced with a gleam in his eye. "For the ultimate Bond look, you need a tux."

Moments later I emerged onto the Market Place a changed man. With the dinner suit and bow tie, I had been magically transformed from a slightly overweight regional journalist into a slightly overweight regional journalist in a tux.

I was on the right tracks, but I certainly wasn't being mistaken for an international man of mystery, although people in restaurants around the city were clicking their fingers at me and pointing at empty wine bottles.

If the county's network of Soviet agents were to ever take me seriously, I would need a weapon.

But I have always been a fairly peaceable sort of a chap, and I would hate to actually injure anybody.

So my next port of call was Toys 'R' Us. Scanning the slightly disquieting rows of playful military firearms - I opted for a .45 handgun.

It wasn't quite a Wolther PPK, but my adversaries would cower at the sight of this stream of water.

The scene was sedate as I strolled into the grounds of the Breadsall Priory Hotel. Golfers gave me quizzical looks, but ever aware of the danger from flying bowler hats in this sort of terrain, I made my way straight to the hotel.

I was due to meet a real Bond beauty - possibly the most attractive Bond girl to date, fresh from her triumph in the latest movie - and I was more than a little apprehensive.

But there she was, stood outside the entrance to the hotel - slim and yet curvaceous, glamorous and yet reserved, and more stunning than I could have possibly imagined. I was in love.

She has a V12 alloy twin overhead cam 48 valve engine pumping beneath that extruded aluminium and carbonfibre bonded body, I told myself as I made my polite, but suave introductions.

Some would say that Bond's brief flirtation with the middle class tubby German pretender - the BMW - was pure folly; a real 007 midlife crisis.

But for Die Another Day he has returned to England's prettiest four-wheeled princess - the Aston Martin - and the V12 Vanquish is breathtaking.

Alan Goring, of the Paramount of Derby Aston Martin dealership, seemed justly proud of the 190mph supercar as he invited me out for a quick spin.

"It is just a tremendous car to drive," he told me as I became spiritually at one with the full grain leather seats and cast aluminium dashboard.

"And it does 0-60 in 4.8 seconds," he added, with a wry grin, before flicking the F1-style wheel-mounted gears, and demonstrating the phenomenon.

I was thrown back into my seat by the acceleration, with a motion that I can only compare to taking off in aeroplane.

As we careered velvetly through the winding country roads - always within the legal speed limit, of course - the words acceleration and deceleration took on new definitions.

My completely un-Bondlike internal organs, confused by the shift into a new dimension, became hopelessly tangled up. By the time we arrived back at the hotel my stomach had found a new home in my larynx, and my heart was beating frantically in the heel of my left foot.

Back on dry land, I readjusted my bow tie, which had been thrust back to form a pretty bow in my windswept hair, and stood before the car, my tongue hanging out.

It was tremendous. And although £163,000 may sound a lot for any car, you have to remember that it comes with a complimentary umbrella.

But even if I had a medium sized Arab nation to sell, I would still be unable to get my hands on a Vanquish tomorrow.

"All the Aston Martins are made completely by hand," Alan explained. "And there is currently a 12-month waiting list.

"I recently had a call from Prince Naseem, the boxer, offering to pay £20,000 over the asking price to get one tomorrow, but it just can't be rushed for any price."

Tenderly stroking the lengthy bonnet, I broke the news to myself: I will never own one. But the mere sight of the Vanquish was enough to paste a balmy grin on to my face for the rest of the day.

According to the Oxford English Dictionary, "vanquish: means "to reduce to submission by superior force", and it had certainly done its job on me.

But standing at Breadsall Priory morphing grotesquely into Jeremy Clarkson was getting me nowhere.

I considered the Fleming formula, and decided that this would be the bit in the film where Bond was chased in a new and quirky medium - diving, space walking, or skiing.

Do be careful 007, I whispered to myself as I stood at the top of the dry ski slope at the John Nike Leisure Centre, in Swadlincote. It had seemed like a good idea when I asked for the biggest skis in the place, and clipped them on to my uninitiated boots.

A vista of brick chimney stacks and slate roofs was fading rapidly as the sun sank into the icy air, and the 100ft drop seemed suddenly appalling - a gaping hole into mere oblivion.

Centre manager Helen Ambler sensed that my all-action-hero facade was beginning to melt into the mock snow.

"Just lean forward into your skis," she recommended helpfully, as she strapped her feet into a multi-coloured snowboard.

She smiled. I smiled. The moon smiled. And grabbing my Made in China .45 handgun firmly, I leant forward in my skis.

For a moment all was movement. The fake snow surface hissed, snapping at my ankles as I careered down the slope. The Swad skyline rushed towards me, and the spirit of Bond coursed through my veins.

But a brief tumbling demise later, I found myself in a heap on the ground - a slightly overweight regional journalist in a tux.

As I put the plastic gun away I surveyed the slope - I had travelled about the length of a V12 Vanquish bonnet.

I needed a drink. And what else could I order but a Vodka Martini, shaken not stirred? Donna Gillott, manager of the Fat Cat Cafe Bar, in Friar Gate, Derby, knew just what to do.

"The original Bond drink, from the 1953 novel Casino Royale is a Vesper Martini," she explained, as she reached for her cocktail shaker.

One-and-a-half shots of gin, one-and-a-half shots of vodka, and the same amount of Dry Vermouth were shaken with ice, and served with a twist of lemon.

Leaning against the bar, my bow tie hanging limply around my neck, I raised the glass to Bond, James Bond - he had won the battle, but I had survived to die another day.

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