Meeting Hunter S Thompson as the Observer did in 1998, to mark the publication of his novel The Rum Diary, was never for the faint-hearted, but certain to generate good copy: a kind of courtesy, perhaps, from the original gonzo journalist.
Drink and drugs were obligatory (E Jean Carroll’s account of Thompson’s daily routine described him diligently alternating Chivas, cocaine, orange juice, acid and Chartreuse); fire and explosives were a distinct possibility and that was merely the baseline. ‘I know for sure he shot at a colleague of mine,’ wrote Marianne Macdonald, relating a story involving a hunt for a bobcat (accused of molesting the peacocks that lived in Thompson’s sitting room), which became a manhunt. The same colleague suffered Thompson’s attempt to drive him home after ‘six or seven hours of alcoholic and narcotic abuse’ – a regular trick with journalists – at 90mph on icy roads.
