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 . . .

No Escape: Going to the Flicks, Israeli-style

No less than the virtually de rigeur pushing into queues here, the saving of spaces in them with unmanned shopping trolleys (see also Parking Shields), and the continual, blatant invasions of personal space – most infuriatingly, the crowding and looking-over-shoulders at ATMs – the lack of decorum in Israel’s cinemas is a phenomenon that no ex-pat Englishman can ever get used to.     

No, going to the movies in this country is not, as in others, an “escape” . . . merely a reminder.                           

Talking loudly during films is seemingly compulsory here. So, whenever I have the opportunity of selecting my seat once inside the auditorium, my decision is based not on its position in relation to the screen, but its proximity to clusters of Israeli women already seated . . . and talking.                           

In fact, tell an Israeli about the release of the first “talkie” – The Jazz Singer, in 1927 – and he will probably enquire as to why talking was not allowed in cinemas before that.                           

Last Saturday, for the last leg of an unusually agreeable first date, I took the lucky girl – who cannot have failed to have been impressed by my sophistication – to see Ingmar Bergman’s Fanny and Alexander at the Tel Aviv Cinematheque (local women being the fickle, unpredictable creatures that they are, however, I would not recommend the purchase of any new hats just yet . . . though Fanny on a first date might, perhaps, be a good sign).                

Despite my success in ignoring the proclivity of the projectionist to, without warning, cut from the middle of one scene to some unrelated point in the next – a long-favoured pastime amongst Israeli projectionists – I could do little about the loud belching from the left side of the auditorium which peppered the three-hour epic.           

And my date, who had seemed a rather demure soul until that point, earned numerous brownie points for her savage verbal assault on the bloke in the row behind us who had forgotten to turn off his mobile phone.              

A quiet Israeli cinema (Lev Smadar, Jerusalem)

Whilst I am not generally prone to acts of violence, the possibility that I might, one day, twat someone in the cinema here cannot be altogether ruled out.                         

It is not just the incessant loud chatter that so infuriates, but the seeming deep-seated need of Israeli cinemagoers to commentate on what they are seeing. During Saturday’s film, on every occasion that the striking Emilie Ekdahl character appeared on screen, an elderly woman seated behind us seemed to consider it incumbent upon her to exclaim “Eizeh einayim!” (“What eyes!”)        

And, as if they don’t see enough Jews here, the entry of any Jewish character (Isak Jacobi on Saturday) or theme, however remote, into a film is always the cue for an excited buzz amongst Israeli audiences. Indeed, the always animated reaction to a movie’s protagonists and plot often renders the Israeli cinematic experience more akin to pantomime.                                 

Audience reactions here are also markedly unpredictable. I have sat through terribly sad films that have provoked mirth, and hilarious ones which have passed without so much as a titter. This owes rather less to the language gap (in the case of foreign films) than to the unusual – or, to be less kind, f*cked-up – Israeli psyche.                                 

I must also give mention to the old boy, a Cinematheque regular, who would appear to have somewhat misconstrued the concept of home cinema, barking out his temperature comfort requirements to the usher – and to the entire cinema – in mid-movie. I don’t know why they don’t just give him the air conditioner remote and have done with!                            

And the extremes of Israeli behaviour do not end in the cinema auditorium. At the foyer reception to mark the opening of last year’s British Film Festival (also at the Cinematheque), in the presence of the British Ambassador to Israel, I cringed in horror as the refreshments were gobbled up – and even stuffed into pockets – in a display that would not even be witnessed at a Hendon Adass kiddush (synagogue reception).                                 

The Israeli cinematic experience is a microcosm of life here. From the discomfort of your seat, you can view – and in 3D – all the chutzpah, bad manners and neuroses that Israelis have to offer. And, for a mere 35 shekels, it represents extraordinarily good value!

Hating the French . . . racist, or merely human?!

Walking the streets of Tel Aviv these days, it is impossible to go very far without one’s hearing being assailed by a sickening nasal sound. And I am not referring to the delightful manner in which Israelis clear their sinuses (before projecting the dislodged contents onto the pavement without a thought for adjacent pedestrians).

No, I am talking French.

Like Germans entering France in May 1940, the French have arrived in Tel Aviv in their hordes. And they have only been a little more welcome, male and female Frenchman alike bearing tasteless testament to the deleterious consequences of gaudiness and too many hours spent under the sunbed (though North Africa is probably as much to blame as France for these roasted peacocks, jangling and clunking under the weight of excessive gold).

Israelis, hardly paragons of best manners, loathe the behaviour of the French – though perhaps they resent the competition – even scapegoating them for Tel Aviv’s increasingly unaffordable property prices (thankfully, the French have tended to settle the streets in the immediate vicinity of the Mediterranean, a safe-ish distance from Rothschild).

Whoever invented the French language must have had a single guiding principle: “How do I come up with a sound that will drive other nations to sheer distraction?” And my instantaneous, though subconscious, reaction every time that I hear it is for my cheek muscles to contort my mouth into a De Niro grimace, that psychotic inverted smile which “Bobby” pulls in the movies whenever he is about to “whack” someone.

When spoken by the male of the species especially, the language turns me into a Tourette’s case, giving me the irrepressible urge to utter “the ‘c’ word” (not that, as regular readers of melchett mike will attest, I normally need too much encouragement). And the Frenchman, like the c*** in your high school class, has absolutely no self-awareness of that quality.

Following the arrogant, pretentious excesses of Eric Cantona (who could only be French), Thierry Henry restored the dignity of the Frenchman in English football. But the dastardly Hand of Frog ‘goal’ (left) that broke Irish hearts 12 days ago – cheating them out of a place at next summer’s World Cup in South Africa – showed that Henry had us duped. And, instead of admitting his offence, and going down in history as both a great footballer and a gentleman, Henry will now be remembered as a cheat in the mould of that repellent Argentine degenerate, Maradona.

Breaks yer heart: Parisians watch German soldiers enter the capital (June 14, 1940)

To the Englishman, memories of white flags being raised over France in 1940 are as repugnant as thoughts of the Hand of God doing so in Mexico City in 1986. It took the French all of six weeks to surrender to the Germans – it is no coincidence that the central strip of the French tricolore is white – a noble feat which they then surpassed by establishing the collaborationist Vichy regime.

But are our neighbours across the Channel any more worthy of our contempt than, for example, the Belgians or the Dutch, who surrendered in two and a half weeks and four days, respectively? And, cowardice aside, what is it about the French that so gets under our skin?

Far from displaying a modicum of gratitude to the British for fighting for his nation’s freedom, De Gaulle subsequently made every effort to exclude the United Kingdom from the European Community (now Union). And his successors, too, have stabbed the British in the back at every given opportunity.

For some peculiar reason, known only to themselves, the French are persuaded that they are superior to everyone else. In art. In style. In food. And, most inaccurately of all, in bed. According to a global sex survey, the French only spend an average 19.2 minutes on foreplay, while we Brits spend 22.5 minutes (I have been known to spend even longer . . . especially when I have company).

In spite of its close proximity to London, I have visited Paris just once, and then only for a cousin’s engagement party (yes, he did). But it was enough to discover an absence of hospitality – shopkeepers feigning not to comprehend a single word of English as I groped for morsels of O-level French – that gives me no urge to return.

Since S, the French girl who paid me midnight visits at Jerusalem’s Ulpan Etzion (the aptly named “absorption centre” where we lived for five months following Aliyah), I have not even come close to dating a French woman. Moreover, my extensive Facebook and mobile phone lists contain a mere single French entry. And, having known Yael for ten years now, the thing that still strikes me every time that I meet her is how nice she is for a French woman. The exception to the rule.

A French cock

So, Thierry Henry – arguably, until a week and a half ago, the greatest living Frenchman – reverted to type, proving that it is no coincidence that the national emblem of France is the cock.

Call me a “racist”, but . . . when it comes to the French, xenophobia takes on a rationality that makes it, if not a virtue, then common sense.

Dedicated to Bridlington Gert and his noble crusade against racism in all its forms (oh yes . . . except that against Jews).

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.

Doss vs. Chiloni: Two Sides of the Same Shekel

“Too many dossim.”

This is the almost universal response I have received from Tel Avivim these past weeks, when I have informed them that I am considering a move to the country’s capital (though many of them probably do not even consider Jerusalem as such).

Dossim (singular doss) is Hebrew slang for the ultra-Orthodox or charedim (though it can also be used, usually less pejoratively, in relation to modern Orthodox dati’im le’umi’im).

Its dearth of dossim aside, Tel Aviv has more to offer than Jerusalem in nearly every department: arts and entertainment, food and drink, nightlife, shopping, sport. It also has the sea. Jerusalem has the Old City (though so does Jaffa), Israel Museum and Yad Vashem.

Tel Aviv nightclub

But the other thing that Tel Aviv has a lot more of than Jerusalem is poza (pose) and bullshit. Big bullshit. And I need a break from this city. And fast.

The faces on the shdera (Rothschild Boulevard) that I not so long ago greeted with warmth now elicit little more than a perfunctory smile. And, as for the regulars at the kiosk who insist on sharing their views on nearly everything – but invariably worth nothing – with anyone sufficiently unoccupied (and kind) to listen, I can hardly bring myself to look at them. Like the Israeli football pundit, each one “talks a great game” in his or her respective field or area of knowledge – real or, more often, imagined – but you can list their collective achievements on the back of a Tel Avivit’s thong.

And I find the Tel Avivi‘s “Too many dossim” verdict more than mildly offensive, sounding, as it does, rather too much like “Too many Jews”. Anyway, it is as ridiculous a generalisation as claiming that Tel Aviv is full of godless chilonim (seculars) who fornicate with strangers in nightclub toilets (most of the Tel Avivim I know would never dream of such a thing, having sufficient respect for their womenfolk to use the back alley).

Whilst I could never be referred to as a doss, my fairly typical Anglo-Jewish upbringing means that neither will I ever be labelled chiloni. And I am very pleased about that. Your average proud chiloni usually possesses a code of values not far above that of the politician or, still worse, real estate agent. And I certainly don’t see anything so wonderful in the chiloni Tel Aviv lifestyle that gives its practitioners the right to look down their noses at their compatriots forty-five minutes down Road Number 1.

Israel’s charedim, too, are far from perfect. One would like to say that they don’t tell others how to lead their lives, and that they don’t “throw stones”. But, of course, they do both (the latter literally). On the whole, they set a pitiable example, providing ample ammunition to detractors who didn’t require much to start with. (See my earlier post, The Good, the Sad and the Ugly.)

It is quite clear that the overwhelming majority of Israel’s Jews fit into the category of either doss (in the widest sense) or chiloni. Those occupying the sparsely-populated centre ground are, primarily, from traditional (though not Orthodox) Sephardic (North African) families, but extremely few Ashkenazim (Jews of European origin).

Jewish practice in the Diaspora, on the other hand, being far less polarised, works a great deal better. I don’t believe I ever heard an English Jew describe Golders Green, or even Stamford Hill, as containing “Too many frummers” (the Yiddish equivalent of dossim). Anglo Jews display a solidarity – even if out of necessity – that is sadly lacking in Israel, where chiloni and charedi are in a continuous, and perhaps inevitable, scrap over the size of their respective slice of Israel’s political, social and economic cake.

Growing up in London’s United Synagogue, we would often joke about the co-religionist who would come to shul on a Shabbes morning, and then go and watch Arsenal or Spurs (his football team) on the very same Saturday afternoon. And favourite players would often even be guests of honour at bar mitzvah parties!

Such a halfway house would be virtually incomprehensible to doss and chiloni Israelis (though for opposing reasons), for whom its enabling factors and conditions – mutual religious tolerance and respect – is, tragically, as much of a pipe dream as peace with our Arab neighbours.

Suicide is Painless: Dating Etiquette in the Holy Land

Whenever I am asked how Israelis compare to the British, there is one single reoccurring experience that always springs to mind as best illustrating  the cultural, social and psychological differences between my two sets of compatriots.

“Do you have brothers and sisters?”

This is a compulsory first date question. Indeed, it is on that mental ‘note’ that we serial first-daters keep in our mental ‘pocket’ just in case our mind is blanked out by the devastating appeal of the stranger sitting opposite us or, as is more common, by the thought “What the f* ck am I doing here?!”

“I had a brother, but he died.”

In England, this was invariably the cue for a swift glance floorward or (for the more self-assured woman) a courteous extension of sympathy, and – in both cases – the immediate changing of the subject.

The odd bold bird would go a bit further.

“How did he die?”

 “Suicide.”

She looked sorry she asked.

But not here. Israeli girls go further in every sense.

“How did he do it?”

The first time I was asked this question, I thought I was on some cruel Israeli dating version of Candid Camera. But judging by the frequency with which I had to field it thereafter – on about two out of every three first dates – it soon became obvious that I was the one who would have to be making the psychosocial readjustment.

I don’t know why it should matter to a potential second date how Jonny took his life, but it would certainly appear to.

One could argue that the army and the “matzav” (political and security situation in Israel) desensitize Israelis to death . . . or, not giving the natives the benefit of the doubt, that they are just remarkably tactless. And it does sometimes feel as if that part of the cognitive process that inhibits other nationalities from asking grossly insensitive questions is just missing from the mental makeup of most Israelis.

New olim (immigrants to Israel) – especially those from the UK, where the natives tend to be rather less frank – often cite Israeli openness and directness as one of the main reasons they prefer it here.

Indeed, in Israel, it is better to be asked such questions than not to be asked at all.

Last Saturday evening, I went on a blind date arranged by Sidney, my real estate agent.

Eylat was refreshingly normal for a Tel Aviv woman, reasonably attractive, and studying for a Ph.D. (and not in Retail Therapy). I hadn’t been blown away, but Eylat was a considerably better proposition than any of the apartments Sidney had shown me.

And, on my stroll home from the Dizengoff café where Eylat and I had shared a two-seater, I resolved that I would look kindly on the fact that Eylat could not have been far off 40, was in possession of a rather oddly shaped mouth, and larger thighed than I tend to like. In fact, I would reward Eylat with a second date.

I was now feeling distinctly regal. In fact, if I had been double-jointed, I would have patted myself on the back for my generosity of spirit.

So, on Sunday morning, I sent Eylat an sms, notifying her of her good fortune. And, a few hours later, I received the following reply:

“Mitz’ta’eret, aval zeh loh ma’tim – be’hatz’lacha.” (I am sorry, but it is not suitable – good luck.)

I was flabbergasted. Where was the appreciation for my selfless grant of a second audience?! Anyway, our conversation had been pleasant and had flowed, and was totally devoid of that bane of the first date: the awkward silence.

But then it occurred to me . . . after enquiring about my sibling situation, Eylat had not followed up on the news of Jonny’s death in any way. She simply didn’t care. The warning sign had been there, but I had been too preoccupied with the concessions I would be granting Eylat to notice it.

Suddenly, the memory of all those tactless women seemed a whole lot better . . . and, from now on, I will no longer wish for what in Israel is considered cold indifference.

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.

Hasmo Legends XVI: 1959 School Photograph

A fortnight ago, ex-Hasmo Robert Coe  (1957-1964) commented to Hasmo Legends I that he had a Hasmonean school photograph in his possession dating back to 1959.

Robert has now gone to the trouble (and no little expense) of having the wide-angle shot (above) professionally scanned. And, even though the only person I recognise in the photograph is WW Stanton – I hope readers of melchett mike might fill in the gaps – it really is quite wonderful. Saved to my laptop, I can zoom in and see every ugly mug – and there are plenty! – with frightening clarity.

I obviously cannot send the 3MB file to every reader individually, and – as photo-sharing websites such as Flickr cannot do the full photograph justice – a Tel Aviv graphic designer friend, Steve Davis, has done his best on his website. [May 2018 update: thanks to David Kahn, Robert Coe’s scan has now been replaced with the following numbered one, for the purpose of identifying everyone in the photograph – see list below. The uncircled faces are the ones whose identities are wholly or partially unknown. Kindly help fill in the gaps, or correct any errors, by comment below.]

• Full photograph (numbered)

BACK ROW
1. Lawrence Trenton, 2. Elliot Stern, 3. David Berkoff, 4. Alan Cohen, 5. Lawrence Pinnes, 6. Stuart Lustigman, 7. Alan Davidson, 8. Millik Wettreich, 9. Frank Hunter, 10. Stephen Leveson, 11. Roger Kaye, 12. Andrew Chason, 13. Jeffrey Kelter, 14. Barry Davis, 15. Alvin Cohen, 16. Simon Shaw, 17. Anthony Kloss, 18. Jeffrey Krausz, 19. Mark Schimmel z”l, 20. Danny Jung, 21. Harvey Gabutta, 22. Stephen Greenman, 23. Anthony Finn, 24. David Kaye, 25. Keith Fisher, 26. Howard Kendler, 27. Lucien Jacobs, 28. Monty Frankel, 29. Robert Reiner, 30. Seymour Popeck, 31. Gerald Sinclair, 32. Malcolm Westbury, 33. Peter Klein, 34. Gershon Hager, 35. Noach Schwartz, 36. Roger Gulprin, 37. Barry Hersham, 38. Alan Segenfield, 39. David Konigsberg, 40. Ronald Hofbauer, 41. Unknown, 42. David Lapian, 43. Jonathan Schonfeld, 44. Frank Lissauer z”l, 45. Michael Scharma, 46. Michael Goldman, 47. Victor Aptaker, 48. Avrohom Lopian, 49. Bernard Birnbaum, 50. James Jacobson, 51. Gerald Cromer z”l, 52. Joey Oppenheimer, 53. Henry Shuldenfrei z”l, 54. Malcolm Flax, 55. John Lewis z”l, 56. Ronald Icklow, 57. Jeffrey Seligman, 58. Michael Rockman, 59. Michael Samad, 60. Paul Vegoda, 61. Gerald Lanzkron, 62. Raphael Mankin, 63. Peter Beckel z”l, 64. Stuart Plaskow, 65. Alfie Hecksher, 66. Moishe Tesler, 67. Leon Storfer, 68. Arnold Pezaro, 69. Neville Kaufman, 70. Malcolm Lewis z”l, 71. John Sobell, 72. David Birnbaum, 73. Geoffrey Nemeth z”l, 74. Stewart Block, 75. David Scharfer, 76. Robert Rosenbaum z”l, 77. Michael Frohwein, 78. Malcolm Berkoff, 79. David Kahn, 80. Menachem Persoff, 81. Paul Cohen

SECOND ROW
82. Jonathan Weingarten, 83. Anthony Klug, 84. Judah Hartstein, 85. Benny Moscovits, 86. Michael Weitzman z”l, 87. Jeffrey Pack, 88. David Herman, 89. Stephen Pater z”l, 90. Brian Harvey, 91. Edward Ofstein, 92. Brian Platts, 93. Shimon Bowden, 94. Anthony Finer, 95. Stephen Bloom, 96. Anton Alexander, 97. Peter Mirzoff, 98. John Chart, 99. Alan Spivack, 100. Laurence Miller, 101. William Tym, 102. Ronald Sabach, 103. Lawrence Racke, 104. Hershey Masher, 105. Alan Koch z”l, 106. Howard Glyn, 107. Michael Freeman, 108. Simon Fishburn, 109. Glen Vald, 110. David Domaine, 111. Graham Colover, 112. Danny Handler, 113. Neil Kaufman, 114. Barry Chapper z”l, 115. Norman Weiniger, 116. Alan Kanerick, 117. Stuart Coots, 118. Michael Wreschner, 119. Frank Taylor, 120. Alan Joseph, 121. Jack Gordon, 122. John Gardner, 123. Ian Paine, 124. Unknown, 125. Barry Chippick, 126. Alan Roberts, 127. George Gabor, 128. Michael Silman, 129. ? Barnett, 130. Anthony Stanton, 131. David Cohen, 132. John Chart, 133. Jeffrey Hillel, 134. Ivor Ostroff, 135. Brian Levy, 136. Leslie Foux, 137. Stephen Samson, 138. David Suffra z”l, 139. Lionel Shrago, 140. Alan Feigenbaum, 141. Michael Davidson z”l, 142. Seymour Reisman, 143. Laurence Son, 144. Daniel Rosenbaum, 145. Barry Rosen, 146. Henry (Zvi) Goldblum, 147. Neville King, 148. David Stern, 149. Mark Held, 150. Howard Bluston, 151. Danny Ost, 152. Percy Mett, 153. Geoffrey Levine, 154. Benjamin Richman, 155. Sam Kahn

THIRD ROW
156. Ian Kane, 157. Jonathan Rosenfelder, 158. Andrew Braude, 159. David Grodzinski, 160. Henry Frank, 161. Ian Leslie, 162. Ellis Tuhrim, 163. Michael Hunter, 164. Elchanan Sussman, 165. Michael Rosmarin, 166. Ian Shapiro, 167. Sam Deutsch, 168. Emmanuel Wislicki, 169. Unknown, 170. Harold Marshall, 171. Ronald Green, 172. Daniel Hager, 173. Frank Posen z”l, 174. Maurice Corb, 175. Stuart Stern, 176. Monty Eisenthal, 177. Marcel Lemer, 178. Yitzchak Jacobson, 179. Leon Lewis z”l, 180. David Lanzkron z”l, 181. Omek Davis, 182. Jeffrey Turner, 183. Maurice Peckman, 184. Gaby Goldstein, 185. Norman Spindel-Isserlis, 186. Meir Persoff, 187. Michael Issacharoff z”l, 188. Michael Shulman, 189. John Blustin, 190. Sidney Grant, 191. Jeffrey Samuels, 192. Unknown, 193. Andrew Zarach, 194. Michael Fishburn, 195. Lionel Yehuda Sanders, 196. Aubrey Markovitch, 197. Harvey Sadur, 198. Michael Feldman, 199. Harold Klug, 200. Barry Arfin, 201. Sonny Bauernfreund, 202. Michael Mays, 203. Leonard Bondi, 204. Unknown, 205. Unknown

FOURTH ROW
206. Brian Feldman, 207. Benjamin Rowe, 208. Saul Laniado, 209. Robert Josse, 210. David Gabb, 211. Samuel Abramsky, 212. Leonard Courts, 213. Johnny Wosner, 214. Alec Sudwarts, 215. Ian Wilder z”l, 216. Unknown, 217. Stephen Halpern, 218. Eli Kohn, 219. Kenneth Freedman, 220. Yehudah Schwartz, 221. Ramiel Howitt, 222. Geoffrey Schisler, 223. Jack Berger, 224. Joey Grunfeld, 225. Unknown, 226. Michael Zysblat, 227. Shimmy Eisenberg, 228. Victor Simons, 229. Barry Hammond, 230. David Bowden, 231. Gabi Handler, 232. Joe Sudwarts, 233. David Landau z”l, 234. Phillip Klinger, 235. Samuel Herald, 236. Harvey Simons, 237. Michael Shine, 238. David Eckhart, 239. Michael Israel, 240. Paul Benveniste, 241. Menachem Paran, 242. Freddy Lemmer, 243. David Steiner, 244. Mark Zlotogorsky, 245. Barry Flack, 246. Michael Fisher, 247. Anthony Deutsch, 248. Jonathan Weil

FRONT ROW
249. Arieh Kruskal, 250. Brian Deutsch, 251. Avrohom Mannes z”l, 252. Unknown, 253. Unknown, 254. Alan Pines z”l, 255. Harry Lipman, 256. Peter Swymer, 257. Michael Fisher, 258. Larry Suffrin, 259. John Samson, 260. Leslie Litner, 261. Romy Tager, 262. Elroy Dimson, 263. Michael Newman, 264. Stuart Weisrose, 265. Jonathan Simons, 266. Richard Feinmesser z”l, 267. Ivor Mindel, 268. Robert Coe, 269. Jeffrey Herman, 270. Geoffrey Gilbert, 271. Anthony Blasebalk, 272. Jonathan Lubell, 273. Roy Sunderland, 274. Howard Frankfurt, 275. Anthony Selby, 276. Michael Neuberger z”l, 277. Barry Schechter, 278. Howard Meltzer, 279. Stephen Posen, 280. Irving David, 281. Ronald Feuchtwanger, 282. Yitzchak Katzenberg, 283. Melvyn Morley, 284. Roger Field, 285. Gerald Grunwald, 286. Aaron Bakst, 287. Samuel Ryness z”l, 288. Jonathan Thumim, 289. Unknown, 290. Unknown, 291. Nigel Schindler, 292. Anthony Rosenfelder, 293. Unknown, 294. David Lyons, 295. Kelvin Sheridan

STAFF (“Teachers” may be overdoing it)
A. Moishe Ellman, B. Moishe Katzenberg, C. Bernard Steinberg, D. Archie Mohr, E. Hymie Lewis, F. ? Wald, G. Albert Myer, H. Eric J. Frank, I. William W. Stanton, J. Dr Abraham Levene, K. Sydney Bailin, L. Jonny Denham, M. Sidney (Salman Mendel) Greenbaum, N. Benno Reich, O. Bernard V. Grossman, P. Leo Cohn, Q. ? Hinckley

As navigating around the full photograph can be a little cumbersome, I also attach it in the following sections (thanks here to ex-Hasmo Adrian Reiss [1960-1963], the second in a long line of mischievous Reiss’s at the school – see the “Reiss’s cousin” story four paragraphs below the staff photo in Hasmo Legends I):

• Section 1
• Section 2
• Section 3
• Section 4
• Section 5
• Section 6
• Section 7
• Section 8

Thank you, Robert, Steve, Adrian and David, for your sterling efforts.

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part XVII: Undated Masters Photograph

Hasmo Legends XV: “Polly” Sue Schneider

It all started as a dare.

It was circa 1981. I had just married into the Schneider household and was getting used to being regaled every evening at the dinner table with Hasmo stories related by Tony, Daniel and Saul, my new husband’s three boys. My children, Nadia, Adam and Gideon Levene (who attended non-Jewish schools), were already most adept at affecting brilliant imitations of “Cyril” and “Mad Dog” without ever having encountered either.

One evening, the Hasmo story-of-the-day seemed even more outrageous than usual and I quipped “Oh come on, it can’t really be like that. You’re exaggerating.” To which Daniel, who usually remained quite quiet until he wanted to drop a bombshell, retorted “If you don’t believe us, why don’t you come and see for yourself? They need a new French teacher. I dare you to apply.”

All eyes were on me.

“Go on, mum.”

“You’ll be able to tell us what goes on in the staffroom.”

“You’ll be able to see if Cyril can actually speak French.”

Before I knew it I found myself in Rabbi Roberg’s office.

I had the strong feeling that the ensuing interview was only being conducted because it ought to be, and that, as far as Rabbi Roberg was concerned, it didn’t really matter anyway because, after all, I was only a French teacher. When he heard that my degree was in German and Spanish too his eyes lit up, presumably thinking of the cost-effectiveness of this arrangement. I insisted that I had had no experience of teaching German and had forgotten most of what I had learnt. So, of course, I was told I would be perfect for the sole A-level student (who, incidentally, was quite brilliant and taught me a thing or two).

Rabbi Roberg – who must have noticed my Ealing, or at least non-Golders Green, accent – also asked me if I could teach English. When I told him that I didn’t think I was qualified to do so, he assured me I would be fine and that he would give me a GCSE class!

Thus I found myself sheepishly agreeing to start teaching almost immediately. And I thought the dare was just to apply for the job.

I did, however, stipulate that I couldn’t possibly teach from the legendary Whitmarsh, which resembled a pre-war soldier’s manual using expressions which hadn’t been used in France for more than a century. Each chapter in the book told an inane story using the grammar of the week and was followed by equally inane questions lacking a glimmer of originality, creativity or initiative (probably why Hasmonean boys loved it so much, as it almost invited them to be chutzpadik in their answers). I was cordially asked to choose whichever textbook I pleased. Needless to say most boys preferred the “manual” to the modern “whole language” approach that I introduced with the text book called Tricolore.

Besides the nightly dinner time stories, I knew very little about Hasmo, and after my first day there, I assumed that it was a school for mainly disadvantaged families. This was occasioned by the scruffiness of the uniforms: blazers hanging at all angles, scraggly ties, scuffed shoes and kippot that seemed to have been deliberately stamped on and rubbed in the ground – I’m sure they had been. I remember how dumbfounded I was to find that one of the “deprived” children, who I had already picked out as needing extra care and attention, was picked up from school in a Rolls Royce.

Somewhat miraculously, I taught at Hasmo for four years and was, I think, the first female member of staff to tackle a full-time job there. In truth, I had, until Mike contacted me, subconsciously erased these four years from my memory. For those in the know, it wasn’t exactly a recommendation on a CV. I subsequently took an amazing EFL teaching diploma, taught in universities in Israel and became a teacher-trainer myself.

I shudder to think what I would have thought if I had supervised my own teaching at Hasmonean. I do remember being quite insistent upon trying out new methods, speaking French in the classroom and being considered a bit of an idealistic “new girl” in the staffroom for attempting the impossible. I was also considered to be rather weird because I could be constantly found marking homework, not something approved of in that environment. I also remember the withering feeling of having to give in to using the “old methods” if I wanted any sort of quiet in the classroom. Only the magic words “test” would have the desired effect. Nothing but nothing produced silence like this holy word.

Talking of holy, it’s altogether quite amazing that I was accepted in the staffroom at all since I didn’t fit into any particular category. First and foremost I was female, quite an anomaly in itself. Then I was a practicing Jew (the newly Bnei Akiva‘d variety), who fraternized with the gentile/secular elements . . . and, horror of horrors, accompanied them on pub lunches. I’m sorry to report that these weekly sessions were no more than a jollied-up version of our staffroom capers. That is to say, more quips about the antics of the pupils and grouses about the “others”. Which reminds me that one of Jeff Soester’s favourite comments was that he loved it when certain Rabbis wrote on reports “Learns good”.

Nonetheless, I felt quite comfortable talking to most of the Rabbis, some of whom were extremely genial. Rabbi Abrahams always used to bounce into the staffroom smiling and singing some trendy song and would often tell jokes or talk about his time in Shanghai. Also Rabbi Kahan was always very pleasant and partial to a joke or two. I was constantly moving between the two sections of the staffroom while the bewildered members of the “opposition” bemusedly looked on.

When I think about it now, there was comparatively little real tension in the staffroom, given the differences of world views. This presumably was because we needed a rest from the “enemy” outside the staffroom doors. The only real “fight” was focused on the ubiquitous tea towel that the Rabbis insisted on drying on the urn and which Mr. Marks always snatched off the urn, wrinkling up his nose and complaining bitterly of the smell.

I was treated with the utmost respect by all the staff. Cyril, of course, never mentioned the “ridiculous” book I had introduced as it didn’t matter anyway as far as he was concerned because he didn’t use it and it was only for the lesser mortals that I taught!

Jonny Bokor, had he not been such a lovely man, might have gained a black mark from me because he insisted on calling me “Polly”. You guessed it – he allocated me to put the kettle on if I was free before the morning break. My gentile/secular friends couldn’t suppress their smirks when I went into servile mode rather than defend my usual feminist approach. I do remember having some amazing laughing sessions in the gentile/secularist corner. Ivan Marks, Jeff Soester and Liam Joughin were masters of satire when it came to caricaturing the pupils. It works the other way round too you know.

One particular occasion in the staffroom that I haven’t managed to erase from my memory was when an extremely plain, portly, homely, ultra-Orthodox lady who had come in for a few days as a substitute fell back on her chair and landed with her legs open and in the air. The men in the gentile/secular corner who were all facing her had to sit upright, attempting to stifle their guffaws and after I had helped the poor lady up and she had left the staffroom, Ivan Marks gasped “I’m so glad she had her head covered otherwise I might have been turned on!!”

Entering the Hasmo world from the Ealing one had introduced me to a completely new view of religion, some aspects of which really shocked me. I naively assumed that Judaism would be taught in such a positive way that pupils would be able to enter the world confident about their religion and convinced it was the right way. I had hitherto been completely unaware of the culture of fear of the secular demon. Fear of coming into contact with any thoughts that might be contaminating. Fear of anything that did not adhere to the accepted way of thinking.

I remember bouncing in one morning having watched an excellent programme on TV – with David Attenborough, I think – and singing its praises, only to find that there had been an emergency assembly forbidding the boys to watch it (which of course meant that it would now be watched by the majority of them, who otherwise wouldn’t have dreamt of doing so). I also have memories of history teacher Mr. Johnson painstakingly drawing bra and pants on every single female nude statue that appeared in the new history textbook he had ordered about Greece and Rome.

I suppose one of my biggest crimes (and I’m sure there were many) was teaching some Beatles songs to my English GCSE pupils. Happily, they were far more worldly than me and warned me of the significance of “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds” before Rabbi Roberg embarrassedly asked me not to teach it (how did he know what it meant when I didn’t?!)

I have to praise to the hilt the gallant boys in my son Gideon’s class who sympathized with his predicament and acted like angels for me. Gideon had begged me to take him out of Latymer and allow him to go to Hasmo with his friends and have a good time. Mr. Marks never forgave me for allowing my son to commit such Hari Kari. The rest of my pupils? Well, apart from them forcing me to run out of my classroom on a couple of humiliating occasions, shaking from head to toe in fury, to Rabbi Roberg and/or Mr. Joughin (one of the few teachers pupils were terrified of), I came out relatively unscathed.

The real miracle of Hasmonean in those times (and perhaps nowadays too) is that it managed to turn out some wonderfully articulate, upright, worthy young men, who are now proud parents and successful professionals. Some of them I have the privilege of bumping into in Israel, where we have lived since 1986. And I feel very proud that I knew and taught these “miserable wretches” . . . as most of them undoubtedly once were.

Sue Schneider, Jerusalem, October 2009.

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part XVI: 1959 School Photograph

Mahmoud and Mrs. P: Reflections on Armageddon

With all the talk and speculation about a nuclear Iran, it is impossible, living in Israel – especially in the centre of Tel Aviv (the intersection of the lines forming the “X” on Ahmadinejad’s map is widely believed to be Melchett) – not to ponder the possible, dreaded scenarios.

No one here appears to be any the wiser about the likelihood, or the timing, of an Israeli attack on Iran. And those who are certainly don’t talk about it. What I did, however, hear about a year ago – from a journalist who claims to “know people” in “defence circles” – is the following:

The US State Department has resolved that it is not in America’s interests to spearhead, participate in, or even to be seen to be behind, an attack on Iran. It prefers to leave the Israelis and Iranians to their own devices, to fight matters out – to the death, if necessary – between themselves (ironically, the quintessentially Jewish “don’t get involved” approach).

On learning of this decision, Israel – in order to force America’s hand and deter it from a policy of isolationism – informed the US that, if Israel were to suffer an obliterative (could there be any other for a country of this size?) nuclear attack, it would use its nuclear-armed submarines to take the rest of the world down with it.

Farfetched, I know, but it does possess a certain cold logic. And, if Iran were to strike first, part of me certainly would want Israel to at least take out all of those enemies that have made our lives so difficult for the past sixty-odd years.

My guess is that the reality will be somewhat of an anticlimax. On turning on Sky News, on waking up on one seemingly ordinary morning, we will be greeted with the news that the deed has been done: Israel and/or the US has bombed Iran.

But then it’ll be “nappy time”: Will Iran still have the capability to return the favour? Would there be a warning? And, if so, how much?

Not living in a modern building, my apartment does not have a mamad (reinforced room). And, despite having lived on Melchett during the Second Lebanon War, I have absolutely no idea where the nearest communal shelter is.

Anyway, given a few minutes or thirty, I would still choose to do the same thing . . . and it does not entail squeezing into a dark, dank monolith with scores of platzing Israelis.

Being single, however, the big question would be “With whom?” Pardon the egocentrism, but,  if the worst were to happen, it should at least be at a time when I am in a relationship. I mean imagine having to work through lists of past dates, flings and girlfriends in the knowledge that there is a nuclear missile on its inexorable way.

Although at least, in the latter scenario, there would be no need to pretend . . . you know, that you really do love them, that you miss them, or just really want to catch up. You’d just scream “Get yer arse over here, girl . . . and quick! And NO undies!”

And, if no one were available, well . . . it would just have to be Mrs. Palmer and her five lovely daughters. From one wanker – a dickhead with a warhead – to another.

But that would be a depressing final act, and – to quote Lenny again – really “no way to say goodbye”.

No way to say goodbye (Allenby, yesterday morning, on the way to the shuk)