Preppers have a formal acronym for it: SHTF. When the shit hits the fan. This is different to TEOTWAWKI (the end of the world as we know it) – but it’s a definite sitch, and the survivalist community means to be ready for it.

There’s more than one way to be prepared, of course. Sherlock Holmes, in his BBC/Benedict Cumberbatch incarnation, has an early warning system for forthcoming dramatic events. He watches the behaviour of certain people in London, and any deviations from their norms indicate something’s going down. It’s in the air. “Certain people,” he explains to Watson, “are markers. If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up. Like rats deserting a sinking ship.”

Same for the British media and the health of the nation. Except, instead of certain people, it’s three things. Three things that get studied and obsessed about far more than they might superficially deserve, to the point where it’s so obviously ludicrous that it must be about something far bigger and more portentous. Mustn’t it? The three things are: Marks & Spencer sales figures (ladieswear and lingerie, not the food); the porosity or otherwise of Man United’s back four; and the James Bond sexy spy movie franchise.

Do you ever read about these things? Of course you do. (And not just in this column, where I believe we were on Bond only last week.) You can’t not read about them, or at least see the headlines. They get way more coverage than stuff like utilities. The smallest fluctuation in their fortunes can get easily half a page near the front of any paper or the top of a news bulletin. And each time you see these stories, you may find yourself struck by one question: is this thing fricking nationalised? Because otherwise I just read an entire article about the ailing Autograph bra range like it properly mattered.

So if you have found yourself living with an undefined but increasing sense of dread over the past few years, maybe start thinking of these three things as your markers. If I returned after a year from an Indiana Jones-type expedition to the back of beyond, or perhaps after faking my own death, and I needed a briefing that brought me right up to speed with the real UK threat level, this is where I would turn. I’m sorry, I’d say to my faithful retainer, but I don’t want to hear about comings-and-goings in the world of politics, or wild movements on the stock exchange, or red alerts from climate scientists. My questions would be simple and direct. What happened at centre-back last weekend? Is M&S still doing that Per Una line and has anyone worked out what it is yet? And where in the name of turbo-bellwethers are we with the latest James Bond film?

So … My nearest M&S closed down last week. Like me, you may have watched Manchester United’s performance against Brighton at the Amex on Sunday. And Danny Boyle just walked off the next Bond movie.

Survival kit, party of 65 million? Your table is ready. I don’t want to go full Baker Street here, but it’s all starting to look very “no deal” to me.

Or maybe it’s an alternative disaster scenario that’s in the post. There is, obviously, no better to place to discuss in precisely what form the S might HTF than in earth’s least glittering showbiz column. But first, a recap. Danny Boyle – much-loved maestro of Britain’s last moment* of national pride and togetherness in the form of the 2012 Olympics opening ceremony – has relinquished directing duties on the as-yet-untitled 25th iteration of the Bond franchise, with Bond producers and star Daniel Craig citing “creative differences”. What does that mean? No one seems to know, any more than they do about where to find the knitwear section these days, or why you’d buy Victor Lindelöf for 30 million quid.

What we can say is that Craig and Boyle have worked together before. You may recall that the aforementioned 2012 opening ceremony was kicked off with a film of Craig, as Bond, arriving at Buckingham Palace to escort the Queen to the Olympic Stadium. It was never revealed what they chatted about on the way, though both are rewarded with unimaginable riches for sacrificing their professional lives to these two roles. Still, you never hear the Queen, 92, complain.

Craig’s pain is more fully documented, what with his previously expressed preference for “slash[ing] my wrists” rather than submit again to the torment of being paid approximately $20m – plus unspecified points on the back-end – to have it off with hot villainesses in $2,600-a-night beachside cabanas (flights and transfers not included). Whether he’d fancy opening a maternity unit on a wet Wednesday in Sunderland is a matter of debate. But whenever the United Nations releases rankings of the most backbreakingly punishing occupations on earth, I am always puzzled to see banging double agents in Aston Martins nudged out of the top 10 by the likes of Malian salt miners or Filipino fishermen. I do wish the Actors’ Benevolent Fund would take a more proactive hand in communicating the harsh realities of starring in this cinematic production.

It is, after all, what movie people call a tentpole. Except instead of supporting merely a studio, the James Bond franchise is inextricably – and inexplicably – bound up with our biggest state institutions. For the release of Spectre, the last Bond movie, GCHQ effectively did a promotional tie-in with the Times. The splash headline was: “For Your Eyes Only – The Times goes inside GCHQ.” “GCHQ has to be out there,” one official told the paper. “We can’t operate behind veils of secrecy any more.” I believe the cover story was that the draft investigatory powers bill was to be published the following week, but both the intelligence services and the government appeared palpably grateful for the ride on Bond’s coattails.

As for where we are now, the answer seems to be: rudderless. In many and varied ways. The director’s chair for Bond 25 is more vacant than Chris Grayling. The biggest name to be linked with the job is Christopher Nolan, whose Dunkirk was 106 minutes, but who consistently appeared unable to tell the Batman story in much less than 165. His Bond could therefore be expected to be clock in as a four-hour world cinema slog.

But will he get it? Well, as you probably already guessed, you don’t want to waste your time with the high-street bookies on all this. It’s a closely guarded secret that there is, in fact, an only-for-the-initiated bookmaker who offers you the real odds on things. They’ll tell you the actual chances of a Johnson/Rees-Mogg leadership pact, or that Jeremy Corbyn didn’t know what was going on in that Tunis cemetery, or that Vince Cable is still somehow – and somewhere – leader of the Liberal Democrats.

So gather round. Here are the odds for the next James Bond director. At 2-1 it’s some European guy you’ve never heard of, but the big mover is the governor of HMP Birmingham, who’s right in at 3-1. Tied at 9-2 are Christopher Nolan and Tommy Robinson, with José Mourinho behind those at 8-1. Clive Lewis and Dominic Raab are pegged at 10-1. At 16s, it’s World Bank special measures, with Nigel Farage drifting to 18-1. It’s 25-1 bar those, and you are advised to adjust your emergency preparations accordingly.

* Gareth Southgate’s World Cup campaign - in the summer of the year 2018 - was England-specific, and therefore does not qualify.