The Goberati is in eulogy-overdrive; small-time entertainer, bully, drunken fatso and Oxxbridge wanker, Christopher Hitchens, has croaked, a victim of over-indulgence in the stupidest of vices; a shame that he wasn't waterboarded to death by some of his Bushite Nazi heroes but cancer'll do.
Like so many entertainers, Hitchens took US citizenship, probably because a certain accent passes, among the drongoes, for wisdom; here, of course, the BBC, the Street of Shame and the public toilets of Knightsbridge are awash with pained, whining voices like his - the educated GoodForFuckAll.
Hitchens spent a waster's lifetime trawling through the angry labyrinth of his egomania for les mots risque, for naughty, controversial things to say to the repulsive coterie of tossers who write for worthless periodicals, review each other's books and fuck each other's wives, or chiildren, or both; the Goberati is aghast, only the screeching Simon Schama being invited onto Newsnight, dozens left out in the cold, desperate for a camera into which they can pour their measured, erudite obsequies, for the usual fee, useless,simpering layabouts.
Hitchens' estranged brother, Pete, another right-winger, operating on the same wavelenght of languid, know-it-all supersciliousness underscored with bottled-up hysteria, tubthumps for the disgusting Associated Newspapers, is a creature of the loathsome, redfaced dipso, Paul DayGlo; be interesting to see if his almost lifelong rift with Chris will survive the death of one party or if, in true Daily Mail style, there will be a rapprochement post-mortem. No business like showbusiness.