In his memoir, “My Word Is My Bond,” Roger Moore shares previously untold stories from throughout his career, beginning with his years in the studio system in Hollywood working alongside silver screen icons such as Elizabeth Taylor, Cary Grant and David Niven, followed by his famous turn as James Bond in the 1980s and ’90s — a role he held for more films than any other actor. In this excerpt he writes about his childhood and what compelled him to pen his memoir.

Foreword: Memoirs of an aspiring actor
For years, people have said to me ‘Write your book,’ and for years I said, ‘No, there are too many people I’d have to write about, and even if they’re dead, what I might say would be an intrusion on their privacy. And apart from that, I’m too lazy.’

Irving ‘Swifty’ Lazar persuaded my friend Michael Caine to write his book, and tried the same tactics with me. Unfortunately, Swifty is now dead. He had said, ‘I’ll get you a ghostwriter.’ Well, maybe he is that ghost now; it would be nice to think so. He was a great character, miniature in stature but a giant of a human being.

In 1992, I decided to put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard, to be more accurate. I thought I’d start by relating my many childhood illnesses and operations. Illness is a theme that you’ll find permeates my writing – and I’m only on the first page. I tapped away at 6,000 words or so on my laptop and then, later that year, tragedy struck. There we were, just before Christmas, at Geneva airport, having flown in from London; I stayed in the baggage area to claim the luggage, leaving my former wife, Luisa, to go through to the car with the carry-on baggage ... which turned out to be carry off baggage, as it happens. Distracted for a moment, and believing that our driver had taken care of putting the small things in the back of the car, Luisa settled down happily to await my arrival with the other luggage.

Imagine our horror when we discovered that the driver had not put the bags in the back at all. Instead they had, we presumed, been put in the back of some other vehicle and were well on their way to make some airport thieves’ Christmas a happy one. We spent the next two hours reporting our loss to the police: jewels, cash, gifts, all gone. It was much later that I realized I had also lost my precious words.

In the years since then I’ve resisted returning to the keyboard. No, that’s not strictly true. I haven’t resisted, but rather have always been kept busy with so many other things that the idea of sitting down to put finger to keyboard was not one I could entertain ... or at least that was my excuse. However, with renewed encouragement from my darling wife Kristina, my daughter Deborah and my dear friend Leslie Bricusse, I have decided it is now indeed time to make time and stop making excuses.

When, on the eve of my eightieth birthday in October 2007, I announced that I was starting work on my story again, I was adamant that it would be a fun book with no recycled scandal, tittle-tattle or dirt dishing — the expected inclusion of which had worried me so much when I tackled my earlier version. But, dear reader, that isn’t to say this will be a ‘fluffy’ book. I want to tell things as

I saw them: relay the funny stories and recall the many wonderful characters and friends that have enriched my life. When I have nothing nice to say about a person, I’d rather not say anything at all (unless pushed to say a few words by my editor!). Why give them the publicity, I say? No, I’d far rather fill these pages with words about me. This is, after all, a book about me: a suave, modest, sophisticated, talented, modest, debonair, modest and charming individual — of whom there is much to write.

Throughout my tenure as James Bond, there were many wonderful scripts to work with, and one of my favourite lines from any Bond film came from Tom Mankiewicz, who wrote the screenplay for “The Man With the Golden Gun.” Trying to find out where the million-pounds-a-hit assassin Scaramanga is, Jimmy Bond tracks  down gun-maker Lazar and aims a gun at Lazar’s crotch saying, ‘Speak now or for ever hold your piece.’ Fearful of losing my piece, I feel it’s time for me to speak ...

From chapter one:
Another momentous event in my eighth year was learning the truth about Santa Claus. On Christmas Eve I always slept in the same bed as Mum and Dad so that, come the big day, we could share the joy of opening our presents together (actually, it was more a case of them seeing my joy on opening the presents). This particular year I wasn’t asleep when ‘Santa’ came in to lay out the presents and, unbeknownst to Mum and Dad, I was watching them through the mirror on the wardrobe door as they tiptoed around, stuffing one of Dad’s socks with nuts, tangerines and sweets. Next morning, they feigned surprise at seeing all the presents, but I knew ... oh yes, I knew it was them! I wasn’t the least disappointed that Santa didn’t exist. On the contrary, I was thrilled that my parents would do this for me; that it wasn’t someone else who gave me all these things, it was them.

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