Hitch

Last night I attended an event that somehow lived up to the hilarity it promised. It was George Galloway arguing the toss with Christopher Hitchens, over whether the war on Iraq was just or necessary.

The event was organised by a small independent publisher, The New Press, who happened to have published Galloway's new book, in the wake of his bizarre appearance before the US Senate, or at least around two of them. Like most leftist media organisations, they dealt with the practicalities of the event in a somewhat oblique fashion. There was a scrimmage of people outside, and the turnstiles-style device for letting them in was reminiscent of a Football derby from 1972. I even found myself nodding along to the Daily Telegraph's New York correspondant, who, sweating profusely through his standard-issue Telegraph pink shirt, remarked that this was "quite appallingly arranged."

When we were finally seated, an announcement went out that the evening's proceedings would be further delayed, due to problems with the metal detectors. It was good to see social revolutionaries at least trying to get to grips with security issues.

The atmosphere on the floor was heated, and people were plainly spoiling for a fight. I made sport in the delay trying to work out who would be rooting for Hitchens, and who Galloway. Having the svelte, collar-and-tie brigade down for the former, and those wearing expressions of doom for the latter, I concluded that if the discussion issued in an outbreak of violence, Galloway's gang would win, hands down.

There was indiscriminate cheering and hissing, as antagonists took to the stage, sadly not mediated by Jane Fonda, as the evening's bill had promised. Hitchens, who had been circulating fliers on the street outside the theatre before the event, spoke first, and was conventionally urbane. Galloway, took time to break into his stride, but by the time his face had rouged with pique, was well away. The oratory effect of Galloway is difficult to record in words, but it has something to do with a stuttering, delayed cadence, that at first sounds awkward, and then, by some unfathonable mystery, magesterial. He delivered lines like:

"Ladies and gentlemen. You have witnessed. The first ever natural phenomena of its kind.

A butterfly.

That changes into.

A - slug!"

This was Hitchens. The crowd, roughly 65/35% in favour of George to begin with, were elated. Hitchens could only parry with academic profundities, and re-trotted phrase like "slobbering dauphin" and "sinister piffle." He looked a beaten man by the end, which I never expected to see, though by this stage of the evening the hall was in uproar, with people springing to their feet, waving fists, facing one another down, throwing a shoe onto the stage, hissing at the orbiting security guards, and from all directions, the ubiquitous, perfectly American shout, "Shame on you!"

Hitchen's thin voice carried on, like a crumbling Alexandria being sacked.

And the man from the Telegraph, a lone force, applauded him with sudden vigour.