What Christopher Hitchens Thinks About Modern Politics

I meet Christopher Hitchens in the Bombay Club — a relaxed Indian restaurant near Lafayatte Square. He has a vague colonial vibe in his off-white suit (collar open, no tie).

“Still can’t smoke here, huh?”

He frowns, sipping on the first drink of the afternoon.

I feel like even “the Hitch” might need some time to warm up after such a long absence.

“What have you been reading since your return?” I ask.

“I tried reading Yuval Harari’s Sapiens,” he sneers, “It felt like being dead — long and tedious. What I’m really looking forward to is reading Salman’s latest. The thing I most regret missing — family aside — is that savage attack and his courageous return. I would have liked to wield my pen in the struggle for freedom.”

What does he think of the recent Trump arrest?

“I’m no admirer of the Pope of Populism,” he says, “But it’s an unconvincing charge to get him on. I mean, when it comes to scandalous affairs you only have to look at John F. Kennedy.”

Our meals arrive, and as he forks a chunk of lamb I want to get to the meat of the conversation.

“What’s changed since you left?”

“Obviously, rising from the dead will tend to moderate a man’s perspective on the God question,” he smiles.

I laugh. It’s good that being dead for more than a decade hasn’t blunted his sense of humour. And what does Christopher Hitchens think about modern politics?

“Well,” he says, flipping his fringe away from his forehead, “I’m very concerned about this “woke” business. But the word “woke” trivialises the phenomenon. Let’s call what it is: anti-civilisational barbarism.”

I nod. So true. He orders two more drinks and I order a drink for myself as well.

“And then there’s the spineless of an establishment that caves to it,” says Hitchens, shaking his head, “And by “spinelessness” I refer not just to a lack of courage but a total lack of any substance.”

He leans across the table.

“I very much admired your recent piece, by the way.”

I’m touched. But a shadow has fallen across his face.

“Of course, I regret the Iraq misadventure,” Hitchens muses, “Not my loathing of Baathist fascism, mind you, but I should never have conflated the “ought” with the “is”.”

“Thank you,” I say, “I think that’s all anyone wants to hear.”

He sips his drink — which I’m surprised to see is not a whiskey after all but some sort of canned lager.

“I agree with you that Okay Computer is the best Radiohead album,” he says.

“Er — thank you.”

I’m glad to hear it — but also unsure what it has to do with the conversation.

“But what I really think…”

I lean closer in rapt anticipation.

“…is that I’d love another Miller Lite.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, Miller Lite is the ideal beer for any occasion,” he says, excitedly, “From drinks with friends to a family get together. It has more taste and it’s less filling.”

“I, er — is this really what you want to talk about?”

“And you know, the taste of a Miller Lite isn’t just the taste of a beer,” enthuses Hitchens, “It’s the taste of memories.”

“I didn’t want…I don’t…”

“Let’s grab a Miller Lite together.”

He throws up his arms.

“It’s Miller Time!”

“No! Stop!”

I tear off the headset and blink back tears.

That’s it. I’m paying for the ad-free version.