It’s a little late in the game to ask what is the deal with Christopher Hitchens. About one in seven columns is about how he was right about Iraq, or at least that anyone who disagreed with him was wrong. Another seventh are about the joys of drinking on the job—the old “hot type” days on Fleet Street, when if you weren’t under the table by noon you were a damn fairy. Another seventh are about pissing on someone who somehow pissed off Hitch. Another seventh are about the war crimes of Henry Kissinger, and another seventh on the total damn idiocy of Al Gore, while yet another seventh are about this sceptered isle—did you know that Cambridge has won more Nobels in physics than France! It’s a damn fact.
But that other seventh, well, they’re not bad. Read the linked stiletto on the well-nigh insane incompetence of the Langley gang—“Unprofessional and hysterical methods of interrogation, therefore, were unleashed in part to overcompensate for—and to cover up—a general lack of professionalism at every level of the agency from the top down.”
Lay on, Hitch! And damned be him who cries “hold, enough”!
