A Right Royal Piss-Take

What just happened there then?

Why were friends and acquaintances I had always found to be entirely sane and discerning now displaying more grief at the demise of a woman they had never met than they had on the death of their own parents? And why were some taking so personally my calling out the Queen’s funeral pomposities as I saw them, as excessive, ridiculous, even obscene?

“There is a time and a place,” I was repeatedly told. But I reside in a place that was never on the Queen’s map, and — seeing as I had just endured ten days of mawkish tosh being trotted out from every UK media outlet (including by journalists who I knew did not believe a word they were saying) — the time seemed just fine too.

The deification of the Queen this past fortnight — culminating in an OTT, stage-managed funeral that made Speer’s rallies look like a 70s NF march down Eltham High Street — appeared to me like collective hysteria bordering on mental illness.

So what is it all based on then, this monarchy thing? The divine right of kings?

If you have spotted the “divine” in our adulterous new King, who throws tantrums over leaking fountain pens, then please do let me know where. Or if you have seen it in his brother — reportedly the Queen’s (one-time, at least) favourite son — who at best fraternised with a notorious sex trafficker and paedophile, and at worst raped an underage girl. Or in his younger son, whose idea of a lark was dressing up as a Nazi . . . though perhaps this one should not entirely surprise, seeing as all manner of uncles and aunts actually were Nazis, married to them, or a little bit partial to a soupçon of Nazism.

I mean just how gullible can people be about a family of such preposterous, unearned and undeserved wealth and privilege? And who in their right mind would actually look up to such a largely dysfunctional lot? Now that the Queen has left us, I can’t think of a single role model amongst them. Indeed, to come up with a family as unsavoury, I have to think back to some of those I came across during my training in Criminal and Family Legal Aid.

The supersensitive friend (now ex-) most enraged by my “obscene” observation — and that is pretty much all it was — on Facebook is a fellow Leeds United fan who once Sieg Heil-ed in my presence in a Madrid bar. (Nothing to do with me, you understand, rather the unannounced playing of a U2 song . . . they are Irish, you know!) I suppose different things offend different people.

The Queen always came across to me as a decent human being. But that was all she was . . . a human being, if with a heightened sense of duty and moral rectitude, who performed an essential “check and balance” under the curious British Constitution.

Growing up, I would look at Mrs Hart — our lovely “daily” on Edgeworth Crescent, who worked tirelessly for her family on the local estate — and ponder the unjust randomness of things. To me, as a boy, she and Elizabeth Windsor even resembled one another. Pat Hart, though, had not been born into a family anointed by an absurd fiction. “Good morning, Doctor Isaacson,” Mrs H would always merrily call out to my father. But on the occasions that Prince Philip visited him at King’s College Hospital, my father, a brilliant consultant physician, was not even permitted to initiate conversation with the Duke.

The main conclusion I draw from the sometimes surreal past fortnight is that people are looking for meaning that organised religion — including my own (I was simply aghast at how many Jewish friends bought into the mass hysteria) — cannot provide. I mean even an avowed apikores (non-believer) like me would rather hedge my bets with a Higher Being, with credentials stronger and a reign longer than those of a family characterised by at least as much bad as good.

Queen Elizabeth II (credit: Julian Calder for Governor-General of New Zealand)

The Curious Incident of the Indian with the iPad

We worry and worry, but it is always the problems we never foresee. Four and a half month old Mika, flying for the first time, was on her best behaviour. Instead, it was her father, four and a half months shy of fifty, who was cause of all the trouble.

A first trip to London was some kind of compensation for Avivit, Mika’s mum. Her utter selflessness since my fifteen seconds of glory towards the end of last March had rendered my very existence all but pointless.

Some half an hour into our Luton-Tel Aviv return flight, following a lovely week in the Smoke, and with the fasten-seat-belts signs extinguished, I unbuckled and stood up, eager to parade – under the thinly disguised pretense of attempting to quell some mild whimpering – our beautiful daughter up and down the easyJet (even generosity has its limits) aisle. But, after squeezing past Avivit and picking up Mika, I was at once confronted by the suddenly psychotic Anglo-Indian female who had hitherto been seated mouselike in the window seat to my left.

‘You cracked my iPad! [And more loudly] You cracked my iPad!’

I had no clue what she was on about, and was seriously nonplussed – the serious nature of the accusation on the one hand; my always being tickled by hysterical Indians (all that politeness, all that pent-up rage) on the other.

‘You threw your seat belt onto the screen!’

‘I didn’t throw anything,’ I responded in mock calm, keen not to allow the growing hubbub at the rear of the aircraft to escalate. I am no good at scenes – the usually unflappable Avivit had by now snatched Mika back from my clutches and was herself parading her up the aisle – and, in spite of some experience, even less good at furious women.

The to-ing and fro-ing of accusations and denials clearly not getting her anywhere, the thirty-something – well dressed, spoken and seemingly educated (though clearly not in dispute resolution) – chose to play her Joker: the male friend in the window seat opposite.

‘He smashed my iPad! [I had preferred “cracked”. And, again, more loudly] He smashed my iPad!’

Having removed his Sennheisers, friend stared back blankly, and as fortune would have it – he was a large friend – returned at once to his Coldplay (spinelessness my yardstick) without so much as a word. A joker, indeed.

What you always want and need, I find, in such situations is for a religious female American settler to be seated in the row behind. ‘I’ll tell you what you can do,’ the busybody, having sprung to her feet, very uninvited, proffered. ‘Give her 250 shekels and have done with.’ I thanked her, when what I really wanted was to tell her what she could do and then gag her with the tablecloth on her head.

Then the squeeze of shame back into my seat. The iPad was still functioning, though I could see The Hindu e-Paper having read better with the screen fully intact. I gave affability my best shot, enquiring of the woman – visiting Israel for a Jewish wedding (I spotted the invitation out of the corner of my eye later in the flight) – as to whether she had travel insurance (she did) and providing her with my contact details (12 Edgeworth Crescent, Hendon NW4). I also tried explaining to her – as if that was going to help – what I could only imagine must have happened (my standing up had flung the seat belt buckle, resting on my left leg, onto the iPad on her lap).

But my schmoozing was to no avail, failing to trigger any symptoms of humanity. Indeed, for the remainder of the flight, her expression remained one of a woman biting on a Naga chili that had mysteriously found its way into her Chicken Korma (though that may also have had something to do with the charedi kids climbing and swinging on the back of her seat).

Guilt feelings ever to the fore, I checked with Avivit as to whether I should just hand over some cash. ‘No,’ came the unhesitating reply: the woman had not been very nice or shown any understanding – shit does happen (Jonathan Sacks, I believe) – and was operating an Apple Store out of an easyJet seat (she was working with a MacBook Pro and two iPhones on her tray table, and an iPad on her lap). ‘What had she expected?!’ (I love Israeli simplicity when it suits me.)

I resisted the strong urge to hand over the offended iPad every time flight attendants walked past requesting ‘any rubbish,’ and the remaining four or so hours passed without further tumult. A few specks of Similac did end up on the MacBook keyboard as I was preparing Mika’s bottle. Some splashes of milk, too, as I was shaking it. Nothing too bad, though.

A new recruit for radical Islam, perhaps? One thing’s for sure . . . there’s no need to coop yourself up for months studying Koran in a dodgy Finsbury Park mosque, when you could just sit next to me – and in front of some charedi kids – on an easyJet flight to Tel Aviv!

NOarchitects, No Cry: A Berlin Tale

“Life,” said Alvy Singer, “is divided into the horrible and the miserable.” I never really got that. Until, that is, these past twelve months . . .

My lovely mum started to go downhill around this time last year, and I spent the last four months of her life caring for her, while Netanya Social Services faffed around with grading questionnaires. “Can you put your socks on by yourself, Norma,” visiting social workers, each more gormless than the next, would repeatedly ask her as she smiled back sweetly. A light had gone out. The memory still pains. And the Filipino arrived much, much too late.

I have been unsettled ever since. I feel I need a change. New surroundings. A fresh challenge. Rural Ireland was on the cards. But I just wasn’t sure. And London feels a backward step.

Everything seemed to start to be coming back together, however, on a trip to Berlin at the beginning of last month. While looking for an investment property, I was shown an unrenovated loft in a converted salt warehouse in a very cool part of Prenzlauer Berg. And I just fell in love with it. So much, in fact, that I decided, there and then, that I would move in. I know, I know, “Berlin?!” But it does have a wonderful spirit these days.

A price was agreed with the co-vendor/developer, an Ulrich Caspar, and, before leaving the city, I met, on his recommendation, two 30-something architects: American Adam Odgers and his German partner Deborah Nickles, trading as NOa.berlin (previously, when I met them, as NOarchitects). It was a very positive meeting, and instinctively – I was now on a roll (I even pinpointed in which corner I was going to start writing properly again) – I informed them that I would be delighted to work with them once the contract for the loft had been finalised.

I promised Caspar that I could, and would, act quickly – a notary appointment was actually set for 2 o’clock today, a mere three weeks after I left Berlin – and also made it crystal clear to him, at a third meeting that I requested on the afternoon before my flight, just how important the purchase was for me at this time.

And I have wasted no time since returning to Israel: I put my Tel Aviv home up for sale – I have already found a buyer – and, in preparation for signing, arranged power of attorney for my German lawyer through the Tel Aviv District Court, and converted and transferred large sums to an escrow account in Berlin.

Just eight days ago, last Wednesday, NOa.berlin supplied two potential mortgage providers with a cost estimate for the renovation. “Due to sign next Thursday!” I excitedly e-mailed Adam Odgers from my phone.

Three days ago, however, only three days before the notary appointment, I received a chilling e-mail from the real estate agent:

“I am sorry, but I have the worst news possible. The owner of the loft called me this morning and said the architect of the house is going to buy the small loft. I am angry beyond believe and don’t know what to say. I let you swallow this before we communicate further.”

I presumed that Birgit was referring to the architect of the building. But no. On calling NOa.berlin – who describe themselves, on their website, as “Client-oriented” –  just to rule them out, Deborah Nickles informed me, as cold as a German cucumber, that she and Odgers were purchasing the loft. “We have only just received an answer from the bank,” she explained, as if expecting me to understand. I told Nickles, though calmly, that what she was doing was not only morally wrong, but professionally unethical, and that she shouldn’t do it. She couldn’t confirm anything, she said, without first talking to her partner, and she promised that he would call me back.

I immediately phoned Caspar, a 59-year old film producer (when he isn’t playing with people’s lives), with whom I had really hit it off in Berlin (even discussing the screen potential of Hasmo Legends, about which, to my pleasant surprise, he seemed most enthusiastic). “These things happen,” he told me, as if it had nothing to do with him. It seems that he and his Ararat Film und Grund GmbH partner were more interested in receiving ‘free’ (or, at least, cheaper) architectural services for their next project – the adjacent building – than honouring any agreement with me, or appointments with notaries. I had just been some kind of convenient fallback plan.  Combinot, it would appear, are not an exclusively Israeli phenomenon.

I e-mailed Odgers and Nickles, warning them against this path, that it was wrong, that it would do their fledgling business and careers no favours. But they chose to hide. And Odgers didn’t pick up when I called him that evening. Instead, in the early hours of Tuesday morning, I received an e-mail from Caspar’s partner – a clearly delightful fellow called Friedhart Steinich, 58, whom I hadn’t had the pleasure of meeting in Berlin, but who, from a quick Google, appears to have a namesake who has been accused of beating up his tenants – as follows:

“speak with me about your problem. Not with Adam or something. And listen me: Never we make a deal together. Why? You cry too much. Your letter is for me a joke. Sometimes get childs not all, what they want. Berlin have much flats to sell. Good luck! Try it again. Not amused”

The German way of saying sorry, I imagine. I considered lecturing Steinich on the legal principle of good faith. For a second.

I am not going to waste any further melchett mike inches on any of these characters. They – and, in the case of Odgers and Nickles, the relevant professional bodies in Germany – will be hearing from my lawyers. But, if you have stumbled across this blog in performing due diligence on NOa.berlin, Adam Odgers and/or Deborah Nickles, be warned: before instruction, make sure that any property is already safely in your name.

As for Berlin, you might think this tale bashert, the Abishter’s way of telling me what my conscience hadn’t. It will certainly make me think twice, next time, before uttering “Only in Israel . . .”

[Update, 17.12.14: It seems I am not the only one to have been burnt by these unconscionable cowboys – see Carlo’s comment here, and following.]

I did it mike’s way . . .

“You’ve got too much to say,” I was repeatedly told, in my youth, by a French-teaching Welshman.

Since excitedly bashing out Virginal Meanderings, however, one typically dull commercial lawyer’s morning back in November 2008, I fear that I may now have said it all.

“Why do you have to write about things like that?” has been my poor mother’s refrain over those four years as I would ask her to proofread each and every new effort before hitting the Publish of no return.

“What would you like me to write about,” I would respond, “the crisis in the eurozone? People don’t read blogs for stuff like that . . . or, at least, not this one.”

“Gotta go,” she would then hang up, on her marks to dash to her PC, always calling back, minutes later, with something like: “It is actually quite good. You know who taught you to write like that . . .”

In each of their own individual ways, I take considerable pride in my 188 posts to melchett mike (far more than I would have imagined possible on that distant November morning). They are the book that I never wrote (and which, in spite of continued encouragement from various quarters, I see no point in writing).

In recent months, however, I have lost much of that urge to write.

I still, of course, have important questions. Like . . .

Why do Russian women feel the need to pose for every photograph – even at sites like Har Herzl and Yad Vashem – by pinning themselves up against the nearest wall or tree, as if for a Playboy shoot?

And why are charedim such God-awful drivers? Check it out for yourselves: Aside from the inevitable wankers in their 4x4s, the drivers obstructing the fast lanes of Israel’s highways nearly all have beards (Ivan “It is always the frum ones” Marks, it would seem, knew of what he spoke).

I also continue to enjoy fascinating encounters in my seeming unending search for the future ex-Mrs. Isaacson . . .

I mean what could have given my most recent JDate the idea that I would want to treat her – on our first (blind) date, scheduled for a mid-afternoon – to a meal in a boutique hotel? “I will be hungry by three o’clock,” Irit informed me, after we had finalized a time. “And I would like to eat at the Montefiore,” she added, as if arranging a shopping-and-lunch date with her Ramat Aviv Gimmel mother.

“Dog food again please,” by way of contrast, is the only demand ever made of me by the lovely female (see photograph below) with whom I am currently shacked up. “And that fetid bowl will do just fine.” A woman or dogs, then? Now there’s a toughie . . . oh yes, and there was no first date.

But I am set to embark, in November, on the next chapter in my continuing, studious avoidance of anything that could reasonably be called a career. And I am reliably informed that the two-year Israeli Tour Guide Course requires more diligence than comes naturally.

In a scene chillingly reminiscent of Marathon Man’s “Der Weisse Engel”, Ole Nipple ’Ead himself (who says the Law of Return is too exclusive?!) was recently spotted and confronted on Jerusalem’s King George Street by my old classmate, Paul Kaufman, giving me a great idea for a future tour . . .

• From the Footsteps of the Prophets to the Doorsteps of the Despots: Join ex-Hasmo hunter, melchett mike, as he surprises retired ‘teachers’ – DJ, Jerry, and many more – in the suburbs of Jerusalem.

So I log off, but do not shut down. melchett mike – the “Never forget” aid for damaged, eternal North-West London schoolboys – will always be here for your amusement, reminiscence and comments . . . and even perhaps, when I re-find the urge, the odd post (indeed, the best Hasmo Legend could well be yet to come, awaiting a combination of circumstances beyond my control).

In the meantime, thank you to all the commenters (all 7,502 of you) – from the sublime to the Shuli – who have contributed to making this such good fun.

Over . . . but not out.

http://www.justgiving.com/melchett-mike

How does it feel . . . to be taken for a ride?

It was Jonny Levene – whose taste in music (if not quiffs) was way ahead of that of the rest of us – who first introduced me to the great man, circa 1983/4. And I still recall precisely where we stood – Hall Left (yet another brilliantly conceived name from that modest individual, who chose anonymity over acclaim, charged with such things at Hasmonean High School for Boys) – as Jonny handed over his Walkman for me to have my first taste of Bob Dylan.

And Neighborhood Bully, the pro-Israel track from his latest album, Infidels, was probably a more fitting introduction to Dylan for a frum 16-year old than anything from the three evangelical/gospel releases that preceded it, following his 1978 encounter with Yoshke. And after borrowing (and not returning) Bob Dylan’s Greatest Hits – covering his early recordings (1962-66) – from another fellow Hasmonean (Saul Davis), I knew there was to be no going back to the Synthpop/New Wave that had permeated my early teens.

My all-time fave album cover: Bob and Suze Rotolo, Greenwich Village, February 1963

Since my enlightenment, I have acquired almost every Dylan album – there are over fifty – and I never allow more than a few months to pass without listening to all of them, from the very first, in chronological order. I don’t propose to explain here what makes Dylan great – you either ‘get’ the supreme originality of his poetry and turn of phrase, or you don’t – though I genuinely believe that Bob is both the greatest-ever singer-songwriter and living artist (however wide your interpretation of the word). For fans of Dylan (as of cricket, for example), one just never stops discovering.

In spite of all that, and numerous opportunities, I have never seen Bob ‘live’: I had heard the tales of disappointment, and always opted to leave him on my personal pedestal. When it was announced, however, some months ago, that Dylan would be visiting Israel for the third time – he performed here in 1987 and 1993 – in June, just a month after turning 70, I was sorely tempted to purchase a ticket for Ramat Gan Stadium: I had missed out on the visits of Morrissey and Leonard Cohen, and regretted both (“Mozza” especially).

I did not, however, in the end, relent, and – while I take no pleasure in I-told-you-sos . . . okay, just a little (especially when hundreds of shekels are involved!) – it came as no surprise when friend after friend reported how Dylan had played versions of songs which rendered them hardly recognizable and, though perhaps a blessing in the circumstances, refused to perform the de rigeur encore. Moreover, large screens, that should have enabled others than the wealthy/foolhardy (see Hanna below) to actually see something, projected the same, long-distance views that they already ‘enjoyed’: Bob had, apparently, prohibited the cameras from shooting him in close-up.

At the Western Wall for son Jesse's bar mitzvah, September 20, 1983

Most disappointing, however, even insulting, was Dylan’s total detachment from his audience: he didn’t so much as utter a “hello” or a “thank you,” far less a “shalom” or “toda.” Was it not reasonable to expect that Robert Allen Zimmerman would give Israel just that little bit extra? Or had Neighborhood Bully (lyrics) merely been hot air?

That Dylan is an odd Bob is not disputed. Working in the States, one summer,  I heard firsthand from a colleague – who had been employed at John Mellencamp’s recording studio in Indiana – how Dylan had been due to visit, one day, to work on a Farm Aid track. Dave recalled how the studio phone eventually rang, and the person at the other end croaked merely “I’m at the Pizza Hut” and hung up. As a consequence, a dozen cars sped to every Pizza Hut within a twenty mile radius to find their esteemed visitor! (See also August 2009’s Mook of the Month.)

As for those who excuse him – as an artist, or merely as Bob – from showing basic etiquette, I don’t share their generosity of spirit: anyone who has penned songs with the depth, humanity and general sublimity of Dylan’s cannot pretend to feign ignorance of simple courtesy.

A friend, Hanna, having spent 1,000 shekels (around £180) on a ticket for the concert (and perhaps, therefore, not wanting to lose face), claimed that she did not feel cheated: while admitting that it took her a while to identify songs, she felt that Bob had “put on a real show,” and that the audience had “no right to expect any more, because Dylan talks through his music.”

The broad consensus, however, was that Dylan had taken the piss. And it is an odd paradox for me, worshipping the work, while considering the man, Bob, a bit of a knob.

Who knows? Perhaps 4th Time Around, Bob won’t just be Blowin’ in the Israeli Wind. Though I won’t be there. And my advice to the uninitiated is to start acquiring Dylan’s studio albums – even the ‘lesser’ ones would be considered masterpieces had they been released by anyone else – and to enjoy recorded genius in the ‘stadium’ of your living room . . .

http://www.justgiving.com/mike-isaacson/

Operation Grandma: Sharp practice, or merely a mensch?

“Oh, I am so sorry,” I comforted my friend on the telephone on Sunday evening, after she informed me that her nonagenarian grandmother had recently passed away.

“Was it sudden?” I enquire, with sensitivity and interest (they say women like those).

“What? Your family had only just bought her a brand new 42 inch LCD TV?”

Grandma’s passing had, clearly, not been anticipated.

“They paid over 4,000 shekels for it, but only want two and a half?”

I sit up.

“When can I come and see it?”

My very own Mivtza Savta (Operation Grandma) was underway . . .

And Savta’s Sharp LC-42SH7E – or, to be completely accurate, LC-42SH7EBK (it is the black model) – is already enjoying pride of place in my living room (with the trusted Sony CRT [see I love my old TV] which accompanied me on aliya way back in January 1996 having been semi-retired to my bedroom).

Do I feel bad? No.

Was it wrong of me to have negotiated the price down even further, to 2,000 shekels? Perhaps.

Then again, I had been thinking in terms of a 50 inch and, thoughtfully, chose not to trouble the bereaving family with the fact – gleaned from hastily conducted Internet research – that the LC-42SH7EBK doesn’t exactly distinguish itself on AV review forums.

Moreover, I had both the respect and decency not to enquire whether Savta was one of those old dears who would have the telly on in the background from dawn till teeth-out time without so much as five minutes on standby (and what could that do to a Liquid Crystal Display?!)

So, far from being a shameless opportunist – like those so-and-sos who could hardly wait until the end of my grandfather’s shiva to enquire about his house – I have done the grieving family a real favour, and might even be a genuine contender for my very own Mensch of the Month award.

The Ashes series “Down Under” gets underway in a couple of weeks’ time, and I am having a private satellite dish installed just to enable me to watch that greatest of sporting rivalries from the comfort of my Melchett couch (while also using the opportunity to finally rid myself of the curse that is HOT). And when Andrew Strauss takes guard for the first ball, or Jimmy Anderson (pictured) charges across my living room wall to deliver it, I will spare a loving, appreciative thought for Savta . . . zichrona livracha.

Ashes to Ashes . . .

Piss-Taking, Principle and Pettiness: A Jaffa Tale

“.עדיף להיות חכם מאשר צודק” (Adif liheyot chacham me’asher tzodek)

“It is better to be wise than to be right.”

This is a much-used Hebrew aphorism . . . and one whose message I have always seemed to excel in missing or defying (though I am no different to most of my compatriots in that).

A few evenings ago, I went to eat in Jaffa with a friend. I see this friend – who doesn’t read melchett mike, but who, just in case (and without wishing you to prejudge him), we will call “Piss Taker” – every few months on his visits to Tel Aviv, when we invariably go for a long wander with Stuey and Dexxy, followed by some grub.

And, whilst I tend not to eat heavily in the evenings, Piss Taker – who, after gorging on his 5-star hotel buffet breakfast, is forced to spend the afternoon fasting – tucks in with abandon. In spite of that, when we last met, just before New Year, we split the cost of an expensive meal the large portion of which was on the congested journey through his alimentary canal.

On Monday evening, after sharing some mezzes – Piss Taker had, it seemed, left some food for other hotel guests that morning – I had a beer, while he ordered a couple of pricy glasses of wine and chocolate cake.

When Piss Taker (conveniently?) failed to notice the arrival of the bill, the voice of my late father rang in my ears: “Don’t be taken advantage of again!” (“Don’t sweat the small stuff” might have been better life advice, but it is rather late for that now – I share my dad’s determination never to be the freier, or fall guy.)

Unwittingly, though, Piss Taker had handed me the initiative. I picked up the saucer, and inspected the crisp piece of paper resting on it. The bill was for 190 shekels, of which a quick calculation showed my share to be less than 60.

“Here’s 70,” I stated with feigned assertiveness, returning the saucer with one 50 and one 20 shekel note, presenting Piss Taker with a fait accompli. “And it includes tip.”

“I would have just split it,” Piss Taker, clearly peeved, responded.

“And that’s the problem,” I only thought to myself, not wishing to inflame matters further.

“I would have just gone halves,” repeated Piss Taker, waiting for a reaction. Again (and rarely for me), I gave none.

It was not the money that mattered here (if you will excuse the cliché), but the principle. It was Piss Taker’s presumption that had got my back up. And it was not the first time.

Needless to say, the walk back to Tel Aviv was somewhat uncomfortable. Whilst not feeling that my actions had been unreasonable, I was experiencing familiar – and familial – Polish guilt. I considered explaining myself to Piss Taker, but decided that verbalisation would only make me feel more petty than I already did.

The following morning, I phoned a friend, Who Wants to Be a Millionaire-style, to get his take on events . . . though, ultimately, for him to reassure me that my stance had been thoroughly justified. Instead, whilst agreeing that Piss Taker was deserving of the epithet, he opined that it had not been worth taking a stand.

And I knew, of course, that he was right. But sticking to stupid principles is a bloody hard habit to ditch.

“Phone a Friend” then shared with me the tactics that he employs to counter Piss Takers: he refrains from eating all day, and then matches them dish for dish and drink for drink.

But isn’t such a ploy – stuffing one’s face to spite one’s stomach – as ridiculous as my behaviour may be considered petty?

Anyway, if you are reading, Larry David, here’s some material for a new episode of Curb . . .

One today! Reflections of the Rotter-in-Chief

It is one year to the day since melchett mike first appeared in the blogosphere (at least in its current format) . . . and what an enjoyable 12 months it has been! 

Bored at work one Monday morning – November 3, 2008 to be precise – I started surfing the Web to find out what these blog things are all about. I somehow stumbled across Bermant’s blog by Danny Bermant – son of the late Jewish Chronicle columnist, Chaim, and a few years below me at school – and, Yosser Hughes-like, declared to myself “I can do that.”

By the end of that same day, melchett mike was up and running – on the Blogspot blog-hosting service – with a rather parve first offering titled Virginal Meanderings. Just over a month later, on December 10, I migrated melchett mike to WordPress, a considerably more advanced host.

Word of melchett mike started to spread around New Year 2009 with my series of polemical postings on the Gaza War – F*ck you, too, especially, seemed to strike a deep chord as Israel came under the sickeningly hypocritical cosh of world opinion – though I believe that some earlier posts, which very few people have even read, are amongst my best:           

•  The Israeli 
• The Tel Aviv Whites 
• Gever Gever*: The Israeli Male 
• Tomorrow 
• Parking Shields: Careers for UK Graduates in Tel Aviv 
• Oy Vey . . . Advanced Excuses for the Committed Commitment Phobe 
• melchett mike’s Loss of Innocence: Blighty’s New Years Past

(To view other earlier posts, use the Posts By Month index in the right-hand margin.)

Then, at some point during the War, probably from the urge to think about something rather more cheerful, I wondered whether anything had ever been written about that subject which my closest friends and I, when we get together, talk about more than any other: Hasmonean Grammar School for Boys. Being at work again (seeing a pattern?!), I did a Google search, and, to my amazement, found absolutely nothing.

On January 14, 2009, I posted Hasmo Legends I: An Introduction to an Institution (which recently topped 15,000 ‘hits’, 50% more than the next most clicked-on post), which was followed in quick succession by Hasmo Legends II: Yids vs. Yoks – The Religious Mix and Hasmo Legends III: Cyril, aka Mr. Bloomberg (second and third in the ‘hits’ list, the trio also having amassed 1,100 comments).

With Stu (two of Osher's mythical "four dogs"), Suzanna Cafe, Neve Tzedek

Just the experience of writing Hasmo Legends has been great fun, forcing me to relive, almost systematically, so many great memories and characters. In fact, once I had started typing, I could hardly stop! And, perhaps, following a bit of a breather, there might be a few more posts in the ‘oven’ (I am open to suggestions, too, and to “guest” posts – from earlier and later generations of ex-Hasmos – on other memorable ‘pedagogues’ who slapped, slippered, or merely slobbered, their way through Holders Hill Road).

Receiving Osher Baddiel’s rant was of course particularly gratifying, as it encapsulated the Hasmo ethos far better than any descriptive account ever could (and I am further grateful to Osher for supplying me with the nickname in the title of this post, a source of considerable – if somewhat perverse! – personal pride).

It has, unsurprisingly, been extremely difficult to maintain the same level of literary prolificacy – I was averaging 13 posts for each of my first three months of blogging – but I am still striving to post at least once a week. melchett mike has received approaching 172,00 ‘hits’ since it migrated to WordPress –  an average, in 2009, of 497-a-day – and 3,750 comments. This is my 92nd post (including 19 originally published on Blogspot).

Whilst all of this might come across as jolly big-headed, I am not (although had I been less removed from the North-West London “Shabbes lunch scene” – at which I understand melchett mike has been very much a talking point – I might very well have been!)

I must confess, however, that it was nice being asked, at a recent lawyer’s do at the British Ambassador’s residence in Ramat Gan, whether I read “the Hasmo blog” (even though I vehemently object to that description of it!) Flattering, too, to have a woman I had never met approach me at a party in Jaffa and tell me how much she loves the blog. Though, most satisfying of all, was having an ex-Hasmo inform me that he prefers my non-Hasmo posts.

melchett mike has certainly given me a lot more satisfaction than any of my many and varied careers. And I know that, even if I stop writing tomorrow (and barring the demise of the Internet), ex-Hasmos at least – and probably their children and grandchildren too – will be dipping into Hasmo Legends for a very long time to come.

Ultimately, however, I do this for myself. Because I like writing. I also find this country and its inhabitants endlessly fascinating and amusing (and I hope that the cynicism of many of my posts is not misinterpreted as disaffection).

Thanks to all of you who have helped make melchett mike the lively place that it is, with special mention to (special cases!) Nick Kopaloff and Daniel Marks (even though he still suffers from the delusion that melchett mike is really his!) It would be great if more of you would comment on a regular basis (see Twatter). And, for the hard time I have given a few of you, my apologies. With so many Jews – especially ex-Hasmos – it was never going to be easy!

Keep reading . . .

A Blog on the Bog: Musings on the Public Convenience

The public toilet is the damnedest thing.

Notwithstanding the stunted adult male who still delights in assailing his friends’ senses with the sounds and smells of his bottom – something I never found amusing, even as a not particularly mature teenager – all matters posterior are generally kept to oneself (and, to varying degrees, to one’s partner).

The public lavatory, however, is the no man’s land of the buttocks, the domain where none of the usual rules apply (and I am not even talking “George Michael”).

I have always considered it a matter of some irony that, in the UK, this place is also known as the “convenience” and as the, unmistakably British, “Gents”. Indeed, at Menorah Primary School, NW11, I would hold my young bladder for an entire day to avoid its offensive odours (not least the emetic pungency of the urinals’ disinfecting chlorine bleach).

Truth be told, I have never truly got over this phobia.

In one’s forties, however, the public toilet cannot be altogether avoided. This is especially true at the Israeli workplace, like mine, providing bountiful – and more or less free – buffet lunches (if you get my drift).

The male managers here (of whom I am, regrettably, one) have at their disposal a WC containing two urinals – as always, chewing gum and pube-infested (a treat that the fairer sex misses out on) – and two cubicles.

The seats in each cubicle are less than a couple of metres apart, with a sizeable gap beneath, and an even larger one above, their half-inch partition. Owing to this uncomfortable proximity, in the event that the “Occupied” sign is displayed in either cubicle, I generally prefer to come back later.

Once enthroned, however, company cannot always be avoided. And I dread the sound of the opening toilet door, marking the end of my solitude and privacy.

Naturally, however, I attempt to psychically influence the entrant:

“Go for the urinals . . . pleeease!”

As I hear the adjoining cubicle door swing open, however, I know that my fate is sealed.

It is not socially acceptable, even in Israel, to attempt to identify and make small talk with the person on the other side. Anyway, how would one break the ice . . .

“Hello. Who is that?”

Even more unusually for Israel, it is not even “done” to talk on one’s mobile phone.

But why all the unnecessary awkwardness? I say lower the partitions, and enable defecators to at least see each others’ faces and chat as usual. What could be wrong with that? One wouldn’t then have to sit, in embarrassed mutedness, while all manner of eruption, emission and plopping are occurring just a few feet away.

Indeed, so uncomfortable am I in the toilet cubicle that I often find myself holding my ears to at least partially insulate my senses from this most oppressive of experiences.

Then there is the dash for the exit, to avoid the dreaded mutual revelation of the identities of the hitherto anonymous protagonists.

If I hear tissue-rubbing on the other side, however, I know that I have missed my chance, only emerging after my company has exited. The very last thing one wants is to end up at the wash basin, forced to confront the perpetrator of the ‘offences’ in the basin mirror.

Again, what would one say to him . . .

“Shekoyach!” (well done)?

No. That is most definitely an eventuality to be pooh-poohed.

Hendon: Just Nostalgic Illusion?

But not for long . . .

Hendon-but-not-for-long     

This was the street sign idea I proposed, as a small design project, to a conceptual artist friend.     

Jason and I both grew up in Hendon, the suburb of North-West London which most people – or at least those whose interests and aspirations extend beyond a healthy Jewish community and an excellent selection of synagogues (including, of course, the ones that you don’t go to) – long to get away from. And during university vacations, following months of undergraduate decadence, Jason and I would invariably bump into each other and catch up in Hendon Central, always reflecting – though with humour and no little affection – on the sheer dullness of our childhood home. Indeed, whenever a woman in whom I had an interest would ask where I was from, I would always mutter the response in an extremely throwaway manner. “Hendon” had always been a conversation stopper.     

Even ignoring Hasmo and its Legends, however, Hendon features more landmarks and places of interest than your average suburban neighbourhood: the RAF Museum, Police Training College, one end of Britain’s best known motorway (the M1), the Welsh Harp, Hendon Hall Hotel (where FA Cup Final teams would stay, a safe distance from any action, on the night before the big day), Middlesex University (if you couldn’t get in anywhere else), Barnet Copthall Stadium, and that paradise of the bored North-West London Jewish housewife, Brent Cross Shopping Centre.     

Hendon has somehow contrived, however, to be far less than the sum of its parts. I have no desire to even visit (and if I do, it will only be for free board and/or Brent Street’s excellent Lahore curry house).     

But, perhaps as with all childhood homes, nostalgia tends to drown out reality. And the memories of many former Hendonites are fond. Following his return to Israel from a recent visit, my cousin Marc said something that tickled me: “You know what, Michael, I walked down Brent Street, and it meant nothing to me.” Now, anyone who knows Brent Street will be amazed that this dreary suburban high street – with seventies eyesore, Sentinel Square, at its miserable heart – could ever have meant anything to anyone. But Marc and I regularly reminisce lovingly about the “old country” during our concurrent morning drives through the Israeli traffic.     

Or was the Hendon of our childhood really a better place?     

The neighbourhood supplied no shortage of characters. There were the Carmels who owned the greengrocery on Vivian Avenue, and whose hotheaded son Danny was constantly fighting with customers over one thing or another, often the handling of his fruit. Opposite them was irascible old Mr. Kaplan the grocer, with his unfeasibly strong Mitteleuropean accent, who was just as prone as Danny to upset patrons.     

And who can forget the Irishman charged with running the tennis courts at Hendon Park (below right), but whose little green (appropriately) hut – for booking the courts – was nearly always closed (judging by the hue of his cheeks when he eventually appeared, it was never too difficult to work out where he had been)? The usual form was:     

• turn up . . . to find the hut shut;
• start playing anyway;
• run off when the Irishman eventually appeared (because we were near the end of the match anyway . . . and Jewish, considering the 30p an hour fee better put towards the cost of our first flat or car);
• find refuge in the “corner shop” next to the Hendon Classic (cinema), where we would drive the Asian owners to distraction, leafing through their comics (and, later, other “mags”) with no intention whatsoever of making a purchase.

If Hendon’s most famous son was the great Test batsman Denis Compton, its celebrity resident was heavyweight boxing champion Henry Cooper, who once dumped Cassius Clay on his backside, but who would unfailingly offer a warm “hello” as he strolled his giant poodle up Brampton Grove. Carry On and East Enders actress Barbara Windsor also lived in Hendon, while eighties soul band Imagination frequented the local video shop on Sentinel Square (or was that Just an Illusion?)     

Talking of carry-ons, the forty-odd detached homes on our street, Edgeworth Crescent, seemed to house and generate more characters and drama than your average small town. And I am not just talking about the product of the lively – some would say perverse – imagination of award-winning author Clive Sinclair, who grew up next door and who, on revealing his Hendon roots, has been quoted as exclaiming “God help me!”     

Where there is now a Holmes Place and sheltered housing, however, once stood two ‘proper’, old-style cinemas: the Classic (opposite Hendon Central tube) and the Odeon (in the Quadrant). Hendon was also home to numerous traditional English pubs. The White Bear, on the Burroughs, provided shelter to a much-loved stuffed polar which disappeared with the pub’s character when it – like so many others – was converted into a vapid theme pub, the only discernible theme being its absolute dreariness.     

Another Hendon institution sorely missed is its football club, Hendon FC, which now groundshares with Wembley FC after, this year, being forced to leave its home of 80 years, Claremont Road.     

Another goal for the mighty Greens, as the away keeper reacts a tad late.

Perhaps it is just me (and the several dozen other saddos who watch Hendon),  but I always found it oddly gratifying being able to stand right behind the away goal and to viciously abuse the generic “fat useless c*nt” – i.e., every visiting goalie (irrelevant of ability and girth) – knowing that he would hear every word (and, often, respond). You can’t do that at Arsenal. And standing among us was another favourite son of Hendon, David “Got your number!” Bedford (with caricature, right), the former 10,000 metres world record holder and – more significantly for fans of Hendon – vice-chairman and champion of our ailing club.     

The Burroughs still provides a strong sense of a more distinguished past. And, on three consecutive General Election nights, we gathered beneath the balcony of Hendon Town Hall to hear Maggie Thatcher – whose constituency was neighbouring Finchley – deliver her victory addresses.     

The study room of the adjacent Hendon Library was where we revised for our O and A level examinations. Its stereotypically plain librarians – remember the lovely “Olive Oil”, anyone? – would never fail to take the bait of pranksters who would ring up asking for “Mike Hunt”. During the heat and pressure of summer exams – as frum (primarily Hasmonean) boys had their closest exposure yet to non-religious Jewish and Gentile girls – there were more Jewish erections in that room than on your average West Bank hilltop.     

Raleigh Close (Hendon United) Synagogue still is, for me, Shul. A reader of melchett mike has opined, interestingly, how Reverend Hardman z”l, Rabbi Silberg, and the incumbent Rabbi Ginsbury “so accurately represented, and represent, the state of Anglo-Jewry at the time”. And shammes (beadle) Moshe Steinhart (right) became an inadvertent communal legend, his wonderfully naive, malapropistic weekly announcements sparking more hilarity than your average stand-up comedian.     

Last month, at the lacklustre Kol Nidrei (Yom Kippur eve) service in Tel Aviv’s Great Synagogue, my mind wandered back to the atmospheric Raleigh Close Kol Nidreis of my childhood and youth, where Hendonite coreligionists whom one hadn’t seen for an entire year would spend the entire service awkwardly rearranging their garish kippot (skullcaps) – each with its own unmistakable year-long crease across its middle – on their often equally shiny bonces.     

But Hendon possessed a wider sense of community too. Every Sunday morning and summer evening, there were “pick up” games of football in Hendon Park, where Jewish kids, black kids, Greek kids, and those from local council estates, would all muck in very happily (Asian Muslim kids however never did, the first time we became aware of any “them ‘n us” tension, though it was of course to get much worse). And there were real characters there too (whatever became of “Mad” Dave?)     

But all that has gone.     

I still see Stuart – known as “Rushie” in those games because of his remarkably cool (for park football), Ian Rush-like finishing – on my increasingly infrequent visits to London. He still lives in Hendon, and bemoans the changes there, not least the increase in crime and general feeling of insecurity on its streets, which he blames on the influx into the neighbourhood of eastern Europeans.     

Whatever the accuracy of his analysis, there is a perceptible dearth of ethnically English people left in Hendon. These days, the roads not sufficiently desirable for Jews to inhabit are occupied primarily by Asians and the eastern Europeans who Stu so decries. There is virtually nothing “English” about Hendon left. And – however un-PC, and impertinent for a Jew, to say so – that strikes me as sad.     

Hendon was our shtetl, our East End: good times and great memories . . . though I, for one, would not want to be back there.