And in the end, when the Cosmic Barkeep has flicked on the house lights and I’ve tossed back my final gulp of the sweet nectar that is oxygen, when I stumble bleary-eyed out the exit doors of Ye Olde Moertle Coyle and tumble wretchedly into the back alley of damnation, it is your face, Mr. Hitchens, that I wish to see brightening that damp corner of Hades reserved for we heathen unbelievers, holding aloft a bottle of that most notorious Speyside single malt and bellowing “There is no last call ‘round these parts, lad!”
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