Talking Chapman: Interview with ‘Chris’ Hitchens

Great minds do indeed think alike

It was a warm summer’s evening as I meandered through Hyde Park towards the Dorchester, where Christopher was staying. The sort of evening where one can lounge about on the grass comfortably in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt long after the sun has set.

London has a sort of festival feeling whenever the weather permits it. The atmosphere is thick with alcohol, sprawling gangs of young people in various stages of drunkenness stumbling hither and thither, almost knocking me off my scooter several times. 

It is the sort of environment that gentler, weaker men feel fear in. But for men like me and Christopher, no strangers to that second bottle of wine, it is an environment in which we thrive.

It was perfect. I was perfect.

Christopher greeted me with a warm smile in the lobby of the Hotel. I was relieved that he possessed none of the adolescent churlishness of his younger brother.

He invited me up to his room, which I found puzzling at first, I had assumed we would be speaking in a function room or something to that effect. 

While we stood in the lift, he complimented me generously on my weekly substack. 

‘A good Polemic has always been the Tyrant’s Kryptonite’

Then it clicked. I was not meeting Christopher as a stranger, but as an intimate friend. 

Although we had never met in person, we knew each other well through the medium of the pen. Of course he was inviting me up to his bedroom. Perhaps he would even invite me to stay the night (on the floor).

This was no longer an interview; it was a meeting of the minds. Two intellects working in harmony. More Mozart than Paxman.

Christopher’s room is so tasteful that it is almost gaudy. The ceilings are high, the furniture perfectly aged. He produces a bottle of whiskey out from under the table, where two tumblers are sat with ice already in them.

‘Care for a scotch?’

I chuckle internally at Christopher’s American affectation. I suspect it is on purpose. Britain was never big enough for him, and it feels like he wants those who stayed behind to remember it. His horizons were always wider than Chicken Tikka Masala, Coronation Street and rainy away days at Old Trafford.

‘Is the Pope Catholic?’

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the icy terror of regret. Where was my wit, when I needed it most? Those profound, urbane and acidic quips that so perfectly combine both intellect and humour. Something Chapmanesque.

I had completely let myself down.

Christopher’s brow furrowed. It was clear that I had outstayed my welcome.

I retreated quickly to the door. Christopher’s mercurial tempers are the stuff of legend from the back offices of Fleet Street, to Riyadh, and the Royal palaces of the House of Saud. 

For the first time in my life, I opt to take the stairs down instead of the lift, leaping down four steps at a time. When I finally reach the lobby my face is soaked with the sweat of the physical exertion I normally so studiously avoid. 

It is only as I scoot into the cool evening air that my anxiety begins to abate.

Even now, safely sat in my study with a glass of Margeux and a few squares of Green & Blacks, part of me still fearfully expects to hear the thundering sanctimonious roar of ‘Chris’ at any moment.

So I say to those naysayers who call the better Hitchens a busted flush this:

Don’t bet your house on this intellectual volcano staying dormant for much longer.