The Hitch comes home

I met up with Christopher Hitchens in the smaller hours of a warm morning in May, at Heathrow airport. (This was Christopher’s idea. ‘See you at Heathrow,’ he had told me.) From Heathrow we were to drive together to Bath, where he had a speaking engagement that evening to promote his new (and great) memoir, Hitch-22. When Christopher trudged into view he looked as I knew he would look: the Hitchens-style suit; that dolphin-like face; that dirty-grey fringe. And as he stood alone in the queasy light of Arrivals he gave the impression of a raffish (and impressively bibulous) don. Christopher? ‘Ah, my dear chap. How good of you to come. Now, I must have some tea. Do you know somewhere?’ We made our way to the on-site pub. I ordered a gin and tonic. Christopher addressed himself to a Bloody Mary (‘not bad’) and a bacon sandwich (‘obscene’).

Once settled in the car, I asked Christopher about the reception his memoir had received in the UK. ‘Yeah, I know. I mean here it’s absolutely extraordinary. You can actually apply to a literary editor saying, “Look, you probably know I have a vendetta against this person — could I be the reviewer of their book?” And the editor will say “Sure! That’s fine!” It’s amazing. I mean, this guy Tibor Fischer. Now what qualifies him to be the reviewer of my memoir? I just don’t — I don’t — understand it. The magazine has to know that Tibor Fischer is a very, very declared and venomous enemy who, as far as I know, knows nothing about me. Or the subjects I write about. I was actually, I have to say, just very slightly shocked by that.’