Peter Hitchens is not dead. Yet, nor has he ever been properly alive.
Thinker, author, journalist, columnist, Christian, medievalist, sophist, Peter is the renaissance man of the Daily Mail unenlightenment.
A product of the best education money can bribe, the young Hitchens got off to a promising start, embracing reason and humanism. And then with a superhuman effort, he he courageously turned his back on base, earthly rationality and adopted the mantle and mitre of the holy obscurantist.
In doing so, Peter moved resolutely from socialism to barbarism, where he at last found his home, a Daily Mail column, and thereby some brand differentiation from his more erudite and popular brother.
A leading light of the old right, Peter has always been to the world of letters what a snake oil salesman has been to medical science. Indeed, Peter is the snake that manufactures its own oil, constantly biting himself in the heart to ensure his system is full of bitter toxins.
From an early age Peter has been unable to spell ‘integrity’, but turning this disability to his advantage, Peter has never been short of an imaginative narrative for which he can gaily cherry-pick disinformation to keep the glands of his fans dripping distilled prurience.
Indeed, he has attracted a loyal readership who mark their devotion by staining their hair with blue rinse and making ritual tut-tutting noises at everything Peter directs them to in his Mail column. Peter is the unwavering light that attracts moth-like bearers of Kruger-Dunning syndrome.
Like many Christians, he has a fascination with death, especially state-sanctioned murder. Peter travelled to the US to witness the electrocution of British citizen Nicholas Ingram by the state of Georgia. Anecdote has it that Peter went direct from the place of execution to church, crying all the way. There, he knelt in the front pew before the altar and solemnly masturbated into his tear-sodden hanky.
HIs faith has also moved him to champion that other great Christian sacrament, the sexual abuse of children. Called to the defence of cloth-lifter Bishop George Bell, Peter mounted the horse of the true crusader and demanded in no uncertain terms, and at great profit to himself in his Mail column, that we beastly people leave the old paedo alone. The noble Bell, who when not raping children was strenuously defending Nazi war criminals, might have thought this was a tremendously relevant and timely campaign, but as he had been rotting in his grave for 60 years, he was reticent in his comment.
Perhaps Peter’s greatest achievement was his recent establishment of a Covid19 death cult. His famous polymathic abilities enable him to see through the self-serving charlatans of the WHO, CDC, and indeed the entire medical profession, and assure us that Covid was barely a thing at all. Mocking efforts to slow the spread of this so-called dangerous contagion for the fakery it so obviously was, he has encouraged his followers to go naked into that dark valley, lick each other to the point of ecstasy, and ensure the disease flourishes — presumably the product of the will of God, it must be a punishment on humanity for accommodating people who liked his brother better than him.
Peter has spent his life valiantly balanced in that precarious space between inconsequentiality and irrelevance. Now he is setting in the west like a raw-red psychic wound on the horizon, a poignant and effulgent emblem of how a person can be born into privilege, be possessed of a bright mind, and still fuck it completely.
Text and images: Chris Page