Holy cow, I love the Guardian's Digested read. This week: Christopher Hitchens' Hitch-22.

I find I have written nothing of my wives, save that they are fortunate to have been married to me, and nothing of my emotional life. That is because I don't have one. The only feeling I have is of being right, and that has been with me all my life. I would also like to point out that drinking half a bottle of scotch and a bottle of wine a day does not make me an alcoholic. I drink to make other people seem less tedious; something you might consider when reading this.

Of my pathetic brother Peter, whom I adore, I say only this. I admire the persistence with which he maintains his ignorance. And as I leave you with the conceit of my non-Jewish Jewishness, I retire to converse with Richard Dawkins and read Yellow Dog, the finest work of my brilliant friend Martin.

I find Christopher Hitchens pretty despicable, so I guess it's not surprisingly that I enjoy a good chuckle at his expense.