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The Passion of Christopher Hitchens

The Passion of Christopher Hitchens

By Hubert O’Hearn
December 16, 2011



There have been precious few regrets in my writing career. The fact that you choose to take the time it takes to  read this is indicative of that. There is no real point to writing without an audience - that would be you - and you are as rightfully discriminating as intelligent dogs. You know your taste in treats and if you don’t perceive value in what the hand offers you correctly turn your head and look elsewhere.

It was impossible to turn away from Christopher Hitchens, whose death announcement was made public by Vanity Fair late last night. I look back at that sentence and realize I have already been imprecise, which in turn means that I have already proven myself less of a writer than Hitchens. The use of the past tense is entirely incorrect. It is impossible to turn away from Hitchens and will be for, I suspect, a very long time.

I only just realized the meaning of the title of Hitchens’ memoir, Hitch-22. It was a nice play on words, a nudge to the intelligent who would recognize it as a nod to Joseph Heller’s novel Catch-22, the story of the Air Force pilot Yossarian caught up in the madness of war. But I had missed the deeper level until now.

Catch-22 meant that as soon as a pilot reached what was the end of his number of bombing runs and so would be decommissioned, the number was raised by the Air Force. The term of enlistment would never end. The war would never end. There was no going back. It seems so obvious now. Hitchens might turn out a memoir; however his mission would never end.

Now the natural thing to say next is that his mission has now ended, rest in peace, do say hello to God for me. (We will, inevitably, get to God and Hitchens.) The sorrow I feel at his passing - and it is deep, wallowing, misery-spilling  sorrow - is that the mission does continue. It continues without his wisdom.

The first anecdote: The first time I remember seeing Hitchens was on CNN at the time of the first Gulf War, which was a War that Hitchens heartily opposed. He was on one half of a split-screen while on the other half was one of those American retired colonels or generals who are on a casting list to be trotted out whenever the guns are fired and bombs are dropped. Hitchens asked this general - let’s say it was a general - if he could name the various countries and emirates that bordered the Persian Gulf. Of course the general gaped and spluttered like a freshly-landed trout and was equally as eloquent as that. That was when I knew this Christopher Hitchens was a man to be followed.

Was I, am I, a follower of his? I’d like to think so. The answer to all the important aspects of his life and philosophy is a definite yes.

Regarding Hitchens as a journalist, I note that he is most frequently described as an essayist. That was precisely what made him such a great journalist. You must recall the elements of an acceptable essay as taught to you in school whether you succeeded in the craft or not. An essay is a statement of opinion about a given subject backed up by research and assessment of alternative views. I’m sure it’s all coming back to you and sorry if that is a bad memory. It is that first piece of definition - a statement of opinion - that separated him from the bland pack of journalists, writers and editors both,  whose mealy mediocrity has seen papers, magazines and on-line publications turn out the lights and lock the doors in ever-growing numbers.

Hitchens really didn’t care who he offended either in print or in person. His best friend of nearly forty years, the novelist Martin Amis, wrote recently in The Guardian about Hitchens attacking him from the podium over their differing opinions on the Iraq War. That incident, by the way, speaks well of both men: to be able to disagree viscerally and viciously, yet remain beloved friends afterwards.

The second anecdote: the Pulitzer-Prize winning former New York Times journalist Chris Hedges has written twice about this incident. They were on the same panel arguing about the Iraq War - Hedges opposed, Hitchens in favour. Hedges had called Hitchens a ‘wind-up puppet for the Bush Administration.’ Hitchens shouted that Hedges was, ‘an apologist for terrorists.’ That one actually made Hedges, by his own admission, re-assess not the finality of his opinions but their ramifications. Anyone who can make an equal think has done their job well.

Dear God (yes, we will get to the God question very soon), a lot of people hated Christopher Hitchens. The publisher of one of the publications I write for responded to my email when the news came that Hitchens had died. That publisher dryly noted, ‘Sure there are a lot of fundamentalists celebrating.’ Sad to say, but I’m sure he’s right. Certain people took delight in pointing out the unflattering portrait of Hitchens as ‘Peter Fallow’ in Tom Wolfe’s novel Bonfire of the Vanities. He also cameos in bare disguise in Martin Amis’ The Pregnant Widow. My response is that if you are a big enough character to figure in two of the better novels of the last thirty years, you must be living right.

The fundamentalists though would beg to differ and fundamentalists are not necessarily religious fundamentalists. They exist in politics and philosophy too. Hitchens lost a lot - and I do mean a lot - of, if not friends exactly, at least fond acquaintances and fellow travelers over his support of that Iraq War. It seemed so...inconsistent. It was betrayal!

It was nothing of the sort. On the basics of the war, Hitchens often said that a world without Saddam Hussein was better than a world with Saddam Hussein. And why was that? Because Hitchens had spent significant time amongst the Kurds, had talked, had listened, had observed the effects of the Baath Party atrocities including torture, poison gas and mass execution. George Bush may have gone to war for either oil or Oedipus; that is not why Christopher Hitchens supported him.

The third anecdote: Hitchens volunteered to be water-boarded, to experience torture himself. It was a horrific story to read in Vanity Fair. He did not condone torture. One wonders if Donald Rumsfeld would have been so gung-ho on the subject had he tasted, or been submerged in,  his own medicine.

Hitchens stood for freedom against all oppressors. Accused of being anti-Muslim, he would point to the Palestinian lapel pin he always wore at every event. Accused of war-mongering, I note on his behalf that there was no public figure he despised more than Henry Kissinger for his secret war in Cambodia that led to the atrocities of Pol Pot. Accused of being a sell-out to the American Republican Party I invite you to look up a clip on YouTube where Hitchens is asked at an election night party in his own home (he was in the fine glow of a man who understood and appreciated the qualities of single malt Scotch) if there was one incumbent Republican he wished had been defeated. His reply was the Governor of Texas, Rick Perry. Why? Perry had said that in America only Christians should serve in elected office.

Ah yes, the God question. Hitchens was an atheist and I suspect far too many obituaries and memorials are going to dwell on that. He felt that religion was a destructive force that with its reliance on myth and jingoistic superiority had caused far more harm than good over the course of human history. That was one of the points of his philosophy I used to think I was opposed to. And then, damn or thank him, he made me think. He made me think just as the author (and Israeli-Canadian) David Berlin made me think when we discussed Israel and Berlin shared his final opinion that the only way there could be peace in the Middle East would be by Israel renouncing its Jewish-ness and becoming secular.

You will be reading a lot of opinions about Hitchens - some joking, some serious, some sick - meeting God today. I believe he will, although not as a little be-winged angel meeting (in George Carlin’s memorable phrase) a nice old man who lives on a cloud. Much like Catch-22, nothing ever really ends in the universe. Nothing is ever truly destroyed. It just becomes something else. If consciousness exists as a thing, broadly stated, it continues to exist and melds into other consciousness. So Hitchens not just meets God; he becomes part of him. I think that is a delightful way of thinking about it, so I’m sticking to it.

I opened by saying I had few regrets as a writer. Here’s one of them. I was scheduled to meet Hitchens for an interview right after Hitch-22 was released. I was going to fly down to Toronto for it. I looked forward to an argument or two, just as an avid golfer would want to play a round with Jack Nicklaus or a poker player sit opposite Phil Ivey. Debater, golfer and poker player all would lose...but what an experience.

The interview never happened because Hitchens was diagnosed with espohegeal cancer and so much for the press tour. As I look back on it now, as I recall that voice and that brilliance of grammar that every time I write urges me to want to raise my game to his level, I sadly realize that I probably wouldn’t have said what I should have.  I will say it now, just for us. Christopher Hitchens, I love you.

That Was the Year That Was

Inside Television 583
Publication Date: 12-16-11
By: Hubert O’Hearn

That Was the Year That Was

Do you like NASCAR? Do you like those race finishes where a couple of the boys come banging around the final lap and one of them just manages to rattle over the line while a fender or two comes falling off, black smoke’s boiling out of the tailpipe and you just know there’s going to be a no hold’s barred slobberknocker slugfest down pit road just as soon as they get the helmets off? Welcome to 2011.

Yeah, we just about made it to the end and it’s been a bumpy ride. At some time a decade or two from now I guess we’ll know if this is the year the world turned a corner. Actually, it definitely turned a corner; it just remains to be seen if that corner led to an open road or a brick wall. What do you think? Or are you afraid to think, preferring to just turn off the lights, unplug the phone, slip a long knife under the bed pillows and softly whisper, ‘Mommy? Help?’ You poor thing.

This was the year when my long-predicted shattering of the myth of the hit show truly came to pass. In the U.S., for the week of November 28th, the highest-rated show was NBC Sunday Night Football, drawing a number of 11.5 representing about 18 million viewers. the highest-rated scripted show was CSI:Miami at 6.8 or 10.5 million viewers. Going back not very far in time, a rating of 6.8 would you get you canceled instantly. There are no more hits. There are no more focused cultural events. Instead we all retreat to our corners, our comfortable niches, and measure success by whether or not a show or star is trending on Twitter. It’s a pity Cole Porter isn’t around to write a song about it.

The last living TV star...

If TV drama doesn’t concentrate the public attention, TV news certainly does. It has become fiction at a level that would equally delight or appall George Orwell. This was the year where a study emerged from Fairleigh Dickinson University indicating that people who regularly watched Fox News actually knew less about current events than people who watched no news at all.

Not that we should be all that smug in Canada either. The CBC, under constant budgetary pressure from a Conservative Government that carries its majority like a sledgehammer, has reduced itself to openly pimping for, among other items on the Stephen Harper agenda, the Tar Sands oil project. When the U.S. government was deliberating whether or not to approve the Keystone Pipeline (more on that in a moment), CBC showed lots of scenes on Alberta Premier Alison Redford walking down Washington hallways, while protests against the pipeline were given the shortest shrift and generally described as being against Canada’s interests. Of course Canada has no interest in the environment. Ex-news anchor Peter Kent just told us as much.

This was the year the majority of the public gave up on politics. There were brief rallying cries - the last hurrah of Jack Layton in the Canadian election, and the on-going Occupy movement. Occupy itself though fascinated because it has given up on politics. It sees the sham of the Obamas, the Palins, the pick your favourite flavour of the month who speak for the little guy and govern for the big guy. Keystone will be approved. Obama has argued against it; therefore it will follow his pattern of resist and cave.

Even in the toy department world of sports this was the year where we started to realize that maybe we have let the lust for violent collisions grow to dangerous levels. Concussions dominate the hot stove debate much more than trades. And by the way, Sidney Crosby, the finest Canadian hockey player since Mario Lemieux should not even think about lacing on a skate again until 2013. He’s 24, he’s a wealthy young man and I’d like to see him become a wealthy old man.

This was the year when the economy hit the fan. Europe is being asked to go into austerity so that it can pay its bills. In other words, the elderly, the sick and the poor will be asked to do with less so that there will not be defaults on the massive loans underwritten by the giant banks. And this somehow is called ‘recovery.’

Well, I’m certainly in a lousy mood now and I apologize if I’ve ruined your morning coffee. There is only one person I know who can improve all our perspectives on the world and that will be my choice as Person of the Year … coming to a newspaper column near you, next week.

Be seeing you.

Bayi Terbesar dengan Berat Badan 8,7 Kg

Setelah Posting Manusia Terkecil didunia Blogspot Pemula memberikan Artikel Unik lainnya tentang Bayi Terbesar dengan Berat Badan 8,7 Kg, Bayi dengan berat badan 8,7 Kg lahir dengan selamat di Kisaran, Asahan, Sumatra Utara. 




Bayi berjenis kelamin laki-laki ini merupakan anak ketiga pasangan Ani dan Hasanuddin, warga Bulan-Bulan, Kecamatan Lima Puluh, Kabupaten Batubara.


Bayi lahir

Cara Menghilangkan Readmore Bawaan Blogspot

Cara Menghilangkan Readmore Bawaan Blogspot, Kesempatan ini kita akan lanjut tutorial blog tentang cara menghilangkan Readmore bawaan blogger. kalau istilah lainnya sering dikenal dengan istilah Jump Break blogger. 



Meskipun beda kata kata yang penting tujuannya sama kesana. oke sekarang kita langsung saja ke cara menghilangkan jump break tersebut.



Langkah yang harus dilakukan ialah :

Fungsi Webmaster Tool Bagi Blogspot

Pernah dengan kata Webmaster Tool ? Bagi pada web master atau pemilik blog/web pasti sudah tau. Tapi sebenarnya apa fungsi dari Webmaster Tool ? Seberapa penting Webmaster Tool ini bagi blogspot/web ? 



Sebagai gambaran awal Webmaster Tool
merupakan sebuah tool yang disediakan oleh mesin pencari untuk
mempermudah proses indexing dari konten blog/web. Nah, untuk lebih
jelasnya mengenai

Christmas Noel

Christmas Noel

My Christmas Story for 2011

for

Kimberly Mc Innis

by

Hubert O’Hearn

The play had closed for another year. The pantomime over, the cast party ended, the last of the other actors having left through the stage door for one or another Christmas house party. Frank was the only one there, still sat at the four-by-eight folding table set up on stage, its now empty pizza boxes and scrunched up beer cans an unlikely contrast to the painted canvas flats of Snow White’s cottage. He was sat on the King’s Throne at the head of the table and he moved his index finger and thumb across his chin and upper lip enjoying the feel of both without the itchy beard and mustache he had grown for his part. Frank had always shaved right after the final curtain on the final night. There was no point in being a panto villain in real life.

It was a good thing that this had been the last performance, Frank thought, noticing that the gold filigrees glue gunned onto the wooden dining room chair had started to tear and droop. the blue velvet throw cushions tacked onto the seat and backrest were also looking worse for wear. ‘All good things,’ he said aloud. ‘All good things,’ he repeated. He stood, and stretched his arms above his head and behind his back, and sat down again. He didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to leave now. He didn’t want to leave then. He didn’t want to leave this place forever.

Ah, for that was at the nut of it. Snow White had drawn well - very well in fact - as pantomimes always do draw well at Christmas time. Still, it would have taken not just sold-out houses but sold-out houses where the audience members all dropped full wallets on the floor and couldn’t be bothered to pick up the money. Frank had hoped that the autumn runs of Six Degrees of Separation, followed by Blithe Spirit would save the day - surely those would draw an audience? They did, yet still not enough. He was going to have to close the theatre down. He’d known it for weeks now, keeping the news to himself, worried that a malaise would spread through the cast and suck the energy out of Snow White.

He’d worked with some if them for...was it really fourteen years? It must be. Yes, it has been fourteen years. Paul’s hair had been red back then when they started. Well, it was still red in a sort of fire truck shade. Fourteen years ago it had looked natural because it was natural. Naturally. Kimberly hadn’t been married for the first time, let alone the second. Tim had no children when they met; now there were two boys each of whom would be taller than their Dad any week now. Marcia had been fresh out of high school then, an eager assistant stage manager. She’d gone on to become an excellent comic actress on stage, while in real life she had studied and worked and now was a successful author of teaching manuals who rarely acted any more. Life had moved on.

Mostly.

Frank remembered that morning of his fortieth birthday, almost four years ago when he had woken up with one thought surprisingly ringing in his head: What the hell am I doing at forty years old running around with a bunch of kids on stage? Having been hit in the face by a cold bucket of maturity he had taken appropriate action. He cut back on the acting and concentrated on directing.

Mostly.

And now what? And. Now. What? Now what? Now what to do? What to do now?

He found that rephrasing the question in slightly different word order really wasn’t helping the situation. Frank even decided to take a run at saying the words out loud: ‘What do I do now?’ God chose not to answer at that given moment by opening up the ceiling and delivering an angel sliding down a golden shaft of light bearing tablets of revelation. Although that would have been nice of Him if He had done so. More’s the pity.

Frank laughed at his own imagination, which he decided was a good thing - two good things actually, both imagination and laughter. He was going to need the first to sort out the rest of his life and until he did there wasn’t going to be much opportunity for laughter.

‘Bugger,’ he said aloud. He was enjoying speaking to the empty theatre, this converted Ukrainian Labour Temple just off the street most favoured in town by both prostitutes and Salvation Army donation buckets. Perhaps the location wasn’t the best. However, Frank was enjoying talking to himself as it made the empty theatre seem less empty, as though the sound waves themselves were people, even though there was almost no echo at all, what with all the fabric baffling hanging here, there and almost everywhere. That would all have to be taken down and stored...somewhere.

‘Or why bother? I could just leave it all...to hang.’ Yes, there was that option. Just leave it to hang. He did not like the little spark of thought that made him consider for one millionth of a second leaving himself here to hang as well. No matter how poetic the image - found dead as Firs in The Cherry Orchard who lays dead on stage at the end - it would still require Frank to be dead and that was not a favourable option.

‘Assuming there are favourable options.’ Yes, this certainly wasn’t the night for sunny optimism, now was it? Not that sunny mixes easily with night, even at the best of times. Things might look better in the morning, Frank considered and so brightened his mood considerably. There were few things in life Frank enjoyed more than putting off important decisions.

A Short List of Things Frank Enjoyed More Than Putting Off Important Decisions

The Boston Celtics
English Muffins with Marmalade
Sliding into bed with, still slightly warm from the dryer, freshly laundered sheets
That precise five minutes one-third of the way through a second martini when he was still sober yet in a fine glow.
Ecstatic sex.

Back to the story...

After mentally compiling and approving that short list, Frank got up from the chair that was briefly a throne and walked down the narrow staircase to the theatre basement. The long kitchen area was the cast dressing and makeup room and he was hopeful that there still might be a beer or three left in the refrigerator. Truth be told, Frank was no fan of beer, except when playing euchre with his friend Hugh and Hugh’s wife Laurel. Any port in a storm would do, though. Not that there would be any port in the refrigerator. There was no beer either.

‘Ah, look here.’ No port, no beer, however a pink-labeled bottle of Mumm’s champagne. He’d given it to Kimberly on opening night. She must have forgotten it. He’d given it to her for two reasons. One, Kimberly was playing Snow White and it only seemed appropriate to do something special for his leading lady along with the traditional note he’d always given her quoting from the telegram Noel Coward had sent Gertrude Lawrence decades and decades ago: Please allow me to extend a warm hand upon your opening.

That was the second reason. Frank had held a massive crush (unfulfilled love can’t really be called love) for Kimberly for even longer than fourteen years. The timing had never been right. When Kimberly was single, Frank wasn’t. When Frank was single, Kimberly wasn’t. He’d never known if she knew.

‘Probably. Women are very, very good at figuring out things men like to hide.’ And with that obvious observation, Frank took the bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator, hid it under his green Boston Celtics sweatshirt for God knows whatever possible reason and took it, and a plastic wine glass back upstairs to the stage. He was resolved to do two things: One, he would replace the bottle of champagne (that he would do!). Two, he would figure out what he would do next in his life (fat chance!).

‘No second glass? I’m afraid you’re a teddible host, dear boy.’

Now a few notable thoughts which must be presented in linear order even though they hit Frank all at once.

Notable Thoughts Frank had at That Moment

1) He hadn’t foreseen the need for a second glass.
2) He hadn’t said. ‘No second glass? I’m afraid you’re a teddible host, dear boy?’
3) Who pronounces ‘terrible’ as ‘teddible’?
4) Who in hell was that sitting at the table?

Sat at the table was a tall, thin Englishman (the accent had given him away) approximately age thirty with neatly trimmed dark hair and a nose shaped rather like a falcon’s beak. He wore a soft-shouldered gold with brown-checked cashmere sport coat over an open-necked shirt into which was tucked a perfectly matched dark brown cravat. The Englishman took a long drag of a cigarette from a holder perfectly balanced between thumb and index finger, palm raised to the ceiling, and exhaled an expanding O of smoke, which neatly framed Frank’s rather astonished look.

‘You’re Noel f**king Coward,’ said Frank, leaving out the stars.

‘I rarely do that to myself,’ he replied. ‘I much prefer the presence of an intimate audience. Now trot along downstairs and bring back a glass. Do note that I said glass. You may approve of drinking decent champagne from plastic but I have my standards.’

‘You’re Noel Coward.’

‘Yes we’ve established that. I know, I know, five thousand questions to be asked, three or four to be answered. We have all night, however that bottle will soon become warm so let us tend to the priorities first, hmmm?’ And with that, he took another drag off the cigarette and this time exhaled a perfect little five-pointed smoke star. Noel Coward commented, ‘It’s a parlour trick. If you’re a good boy I might teach it to you. Now move your arse.’

Definitely not Santa Claus

Frank moved at close to breakneck speed. Had he literally moved at breakneck speed, he would have broken his neck and we all would be faced with a most unhappy ending to this tale - Frank unhappiest of all. He quickly came clumbering back to the stage holding the jeweled glass goblet the Queen had used. ‘Will this do?,’ Franks asked.

‘If it’s fit for a Queen, it’s certainly fit for me. You may pour garcon, et merci.’ And with that, Frank opened the champagne, earning an approving nod from Noel Coward by opening the champagne properly.

How Not to Open Champagne Properly

Squeeze the living daylights out of the cork until it pops, sending a cascade of champagne down one’s shirt and blasting the cork itself straight through that commissioned oil portrait of your grandmother hanging on the far wall.

How to Open Champagne Properly

Squeeze the living daylights out of the cork until it is slightly loosened. Then, hold the cork in one hand while twisting the bottle with the other. You won’t spill a drop and won’t get dropped from the will either.

After an appropriate amount of sipping, Frank said, ‘May I ask you questions now?’

‘Certainly.’

‘You actually are here, yes? No one slipped something to me, did they? You’re not a hallucination?’

Noel Coward rolled his eyes to the ceiling, shaking his head as if to say, What a silly question.

‘What a silly question.’ (I guess we can strike that ‘as if’ from the previous sentence.) ‘If I were an hallucination, if someone had slipped you something, it’s not very likely for a hallucination to come straight out and admit to being one, now is it? “Hellooooo! How are yoooooooou? Boo! Iiiiii’m your hallucin-aaaaaaaaa-tion!” I mean really now.’

‘Oh,’ said Frank.

‘Oh,’ repeated Noel Coward. ‘Try again.’

‘All right. Then why are you here? Who sent you?’

Noel Coward rose from his seat and smiled approvingly. ‘Much better! You’ve gone straight for the classics and for that matter gone for the root questions any actor must ask regarding any scene. What is my purpose for entering and now that I’m here, what do I need to accomplish? I wouldn’t say you’re a great director - a passable actor - however your instincts and intentions are very good. That’s more praise than I give most people in the profession, I’ll have you know.’

‘I can’t tell if I’ve just been praised or damned.’

‘Verbal jujitsu was my life’s calling.’

‘Then why are you here?’

‘Evidently you feel a need for some support and guidance. You’re quite correct on that score. I’ve seen all your productions, you know. It’s one of the benefits - well, occasionally curses - of living in a timeless place. One gets to see everything all at once and at one’s own pace. I can see you looking at me confused. Please don’t ask me to explain that further. You’ll understand all when you’re meant to understand all.’

‘After I’m dead.’

‘A reasonable assumption to make.’

“I’m in no rush,’ Frank responded.

‘Then stop acting as though you were! You live your life as though you’ve placed an order for angel’s wings on express delivery. And no we don’t wear wings, they’re impossible to fit properly with good tailored suits.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘They would scrunch up and one would look like Quasimodo.’

‘I meant why do you think I’m not living properly?’

‘I know that’s what you meant,’ said Noel Coward, fitting another cigarette into a gold and pearl holder and then taking another sip of champagne. He continued, ‘I just couldn’t bear to let a punchline slip away unsaid. It’s a habit of mine that drives ‘em batty down at the Choir Invisible. That’s the name of the snug I frequent when I’m in the mood to frequent a local pub. Marlowe likes it, although you’d think he’d be completely adverse to pubs, snugs, taverns, lounges and other drinking establishments.’

Frank leaned forward, his chin resting on his hand, finally coming to terms with the idea that the impossible was occurring in the present. He almost whispered, ‘Could you then tell me...about me?’

Noel Coward smiled a smile that could only be called impish. He then sighed theatrically, which seemed appropriate, and bemoaned, ‘Here I’ve just unsubtly name-dropped Christopher Marlowe but of course you’re much more interested in you. Oh don’t give me such a stricken-looking face. It’s quite all right.
‘So where does one start? Ah yes, we may as well start where we left off before we laughed off. You’re not living. Instead you’re just waiting to die. Take a look at yourself. Examine your habits. You smoke.’

‘But you smoked.’

‘You drink.’

‘But you drank.’

‘You carouse with women.’

‘You caroused. Are you saying women are bad for the health?’

‘If it is carousing without love, yes. You just put yourself through all the stress with none of the serenity that love brings to the party. Ask yourself this - have you ever been truly in love? Don’t bother wasting time with the answer, as I already know it. You think you’ve been in love, you’ve pretended to be in love, you’ve acted as though you’re in love and all that has just brought you a divorce, alimony, that stress ball in your neck that locks up now and again, and a raft of bad habits. You smoke, you drink, you carouse and you can’t wait until you’re dead. Do not argue with me on that point. I am Noel Coward and I can see through to the heart of any character ever invented. So there.’ He stuck out his tongue. ‘;Nyah.’

Frank reached into the pouch on the front of his sweatshirt. ‘After that I do need a smoke.’ He pulled out a pack.

‘Allow me.’ Noel Coward lit Frank’s cigarette with a slim gold lighter with the initials GL engraved on the side. Seeing Frank notice the initials, he said, ‘Yes it was Gertie’s. I loved her dearly in life just as I do now, in … afterlife. Never physically of course. You don’t have to love someone physically to love them. Actually, I will share one piece of wisdom with you Frank. I’m going to tell you what centuries and millenia worth of poets have never defined. I’m going to tell you what love is.
‘The irony is that it is hidden in plain sight, at least for Americans. They have it in their Constitution in that phrase, “the pursuit of happiness”. Love is finding that person with whom you most wish to pursue happiness together; if you pursue it together, you find it in the pursuit. Elegant, is it not?’

‘I wouldn’t expect less from you sir.’

‘Good answer. Cheers.’ They clicked their glasses together and drank again.

Frank asked, ‘So what happens now? Do you fly me around the world and show me how my life works out?’

‘That’s Dickens, not me. I’m not given to music hall spectaculars … unless they take place in music halls that is.’

‘So what do I do then?’

Noel Coward squinted one eye and spoke in a broad East Ender accent. ‘Gie’ yer arse out there an’ tell ‘er wot you luvs her mate!’

‘Who?’

‘Who?’, Noel Coward repeated incredulously. ‘Who? Are you attempting to impress me with barn owl impressions? Who? Kimberly you eejit!’

‘But she’s married!’

‘What of it?’

‘What of it!? She won’t want to leave her husband and children! … Wait … Will she?’

‘Why don’t you ask her?’ And so in keeping with all the finest traditions of both theatre and Christmas stories, there came a knock on the stage door, a turning of its knob and a puff of wind as it opened and a clunk as it closed. There stood Kimberly, her long hair tucked into her puffy winter coat, with her wide eyes shining like jewels set in snow.

‘I forgot something. I wasn’t sure there’d still be anyone here.’, she said. ‘Oh you got it! My bottle of champagne! Were you going to drop it off, or were you going to drink it? Not all alone I hope.’

‘No, with -’

Frank turned to introduce Kimberly to Noel Coward, knowing full well that was going to be a tricky one to explain. He was gone however. The champagne bottle was on the table. Full. Cork intact. The pink foil wrapped around the cork and the bottle’s neck.

‘I was hoping to drink it with you.’

She laughed. Only a little, except she did laugh. ‘Well, it’s a good thing I came back then. You wouldn’t have found me at the house. I dropped the kids off at Mom’s. I, oh dear, I’ve left Bob.’

‘Should I say I’m sorry or should I say congratulations?’

‘Right now you can feel sorry for me. It’ll be congratulations soon though.’

Frank pointed at the bottle of champagne. ‘You were planning on drowning your sorrows?’

Kimberly moved a step closer to Frank and he hugged her about the shoulders with one arm. Amazingly, it felt normal. She said, ‘Not drowning. Maybe a refreshing swim.’ Another laugh. ‘I wanted to come here because … I love it here. I’ve always found happiness on stage.’

‘Happiness?’, asked Frank.

‘Yeah. You too?’

‘Yeah. Me too. It’s not doing too well, our theatre.’

‘Oh no!’

‘Don’t worry. I think I - maybe we - can figure something out. I’ll need some help. In fact, there’s a couple of ideas I’d like to...pursue with you.’

The End

Merry Christmas!