The room had fallen silent, so I walked across to the fuming author and asked if he would care to join our table. He declared he would not stay in a place that had a bar but refused to serve drinks and stalked out. Minutes later, he walked back in, pointed at me and said, “Do you know where I can get a decent malt?” I nodded. “Come with me,” he said, holding open the door. This is when I behaved very badly, according to two members of my group, or just as they would have done themselves, according to the other five. I put down my knife and fork, picked up my coat and escorted Hitch to the well-stocked bar at the Swan Hotel, where I received a two-hour masterclass on the art of dispatching your enemies. Ten years on, I feel contrite about the incident. My behaviour was deplorable – yet I can’t say I regret it. Christopher Hitchens was a brilliant journalist and orator, and the best company you’ll find on a barstool. There are occasions, surely, when you should be granted the etiquette equivalent of a “get out of jail free” card.