My favourite James Bond opening sequence occurred in Live and Let Die, which marked the debut of Roger Moore in the role. In it, we see a chap in a soft hat and grey suit (who is later revealed to be a British spy) watching a doleful New Orleans funeral procession led by a brass band. Soon, he is joined by a dapper wee bloke who looks like a Caribbean version of the shopkeeper character in Mr Benn. "Whose funeral is it?" asks the agent. "Yours," says the shopkeeper and duly sinks a flick knife right into the Brit's ribs.

Without breaking stride, the coffin-bearers move over to the prone spy and cover him with the casket. Whereupon the band breaks into a joyous Dixieland bacchanal and gaily clad dudes in jumpsuits and carrying parasols start leaping about in a manner that makes you think of the peerless Antonio Fargas as Huggy Bear in Starsky and Hutch.

I am often left feeling undermined when I read reviews by film critics. For that is when I discover that I have completely missed all the nuances, symbolism and sly references to other movies. I may have thought I'd simply been watching a high adventure film with some decent action, a fleeting slice of carnality, some loss and redemption and a rollercoaster finale. My favourite film critic, though, will often have observed Shakespearean motifs running all the way through it. Sometimes, she will say that it is the work of an "auteur" at the top of his game and who has channelled Hitchcock or Kubrick and I am left feeling like a two-dimensional oik once more. Sometimes, in the middle of a film, and for no apparent reason, a runaway pram with baby is seen careering down some steps. And while I'm trying to deduce the relevance of this, everyone else is whispering Battleship Potemkin to each other and nodding sagely.

These are the same people who look at me with barely concealed contempt when I tell them that my favourite Bond is, and always will be, Roger Moore. This is a man who could bend the bones in a marquise's basque simply by cocking his eyebrow. Even after watching the estimable Daniel Craig in the latest film in the Bond franchise the other night, I still cling to the view that Moore remains the ultimate Bond and that Live and Let Die was his finest moment. Nevertheless, I enjoyed Skyfall. Daniel Craig is a fine 007, though obviously lacking the elegance of Moore.

For once, though, and perhaps because Skyfall takes us back to Bond's Scottish roots, on departing the cinema I was left pondering something quite profound and pertinent to the conversation I've been having with myself about the prospect of an independent Scotland. And it is this: what would an independent Scotland's intelligence agency look like and what attributes would we seek in our own James Bond? And anybody who thinks that we won't need our own SAS or MI6 must also believe that we will be able simply to drive those nasty Trident submarines down the Clyde before handing them over to the English navy near Arran.

Indeed, the first covert mission of Jimmy Bond could be to find a responsible buyer for the nukes and then have them shipped to the new owners while the English aren't looking. Afterwards, we could say they were stolen by those mad bastards at the CIA. Even though independent Scotland would be one of the most placid and friendly nations on Earth, there would still be plenty of foreign opportunists eager to take advantage of our good nature and who would require to be sorted out rapid. These would include recalcitrant Spanish trawlermen trying to steal our fish and rapacious Chinese and Japanese distillers keen to muscle in on the Scotch whisky trade. All the while, we would have to keep an eye on the English secret service as it would be forever hatching vile stratagems to destabilise the new Scotland and bring us back under its rule.

I would urge our first minister, Alex Salmond, to give this some urgent thought and to help him focus I now submit an early application to be an agent of Scotia's secret service.

Dear first minister,

I wish to apply for the post of secret agent in the new independent Scotland as I feel I possess some of the attributes required. I'm no stranger to foreign travel and in recent years have been to Barcelona, Lisbon, London, Copenhagen and Munich watching my football club losing matches in the Champions League.

On duty, I would never drink more than the Scottish government's newly recommended weekly alcohol allowance of two American cream sodas and a Diet Coke. I would always carry lots of consent forms indemnifying you from action if I breached any foreign country's health and safety rules. If forced to seek the companionship of exotic ladies for the purposes of keeping one step ahead of the authorities, I would deploy my Glaswegian charm and language skills to gain their confidence: "Vous etes un vision pour les yeux maladies, ma cherie." But I am familiar with Holyrood guidelines governing relations in situations such as these: respect, inclusiveness and diversity.

If a situation called for physical confrontation, I would deploy non-lethal means to incapacitate any enemies of the Scottish state in accordance with our Holyrood hate crime legislation. Rather than exploding pens and poisonous tablets, I would prefer the half-brick or broken bottle, each of which can be deployed with prejudice but in a non-life-threatening manner. At all times, there would be measurable outcomes and I would always adhere to European procurement laws.

Finally, first minister, I would remind you that Scots established the navies of America and Argentina. We also founded the SAS. We have a long and vivid hinterland when it comes to geopolitical aggravation. Can I suggest that, instead of the rather bumptious "Who dares wins" motto of England's overrated and boutique special forces, Scotland's could be the more legally defensible "Haud me back!"?

Yours Aye