Washing, folding . . . and binning Ha’aretz?

I remain befuddled by the continuing international brouhaha triggered by Ha’aretz’s (self-titled) “exposé” of IDF abuses during Operation Cast Lead.

Amos Harel’s article, Yorim ve’bochim (Shooting and crying) – referring to the tradition of Israeli soldiers meeting to discuss their experiences of combat – should rather have been titled Shotfim ve’mekaplim (Washing and folding), as a significant part of the particular discussion featured in the article centred on whether or not soldiers had a duty to sweep and wash the floor, and fold away blankets, in a house commandeered from Hamasniks.

In an almost Pythonesque rebuke, Danny Zamir, the academy founder at the heart of the current debate, told participants “If you’ve spent a week in a home, clean up your filth.”

But, as one of the soldiers pertinently observed, “I don’t think that any army, the Syrian army, the Afghani army, would wash the floor of its enemy’s houses, and it certainly wouldn’t fold blankets and put them back in the closets.”

That immoral IDF!

In fact, this non-story – published in last weekend’s newspaper, following a PR build-up of which Max Clifford would have been proud – has left Ha’aretz with seriously runny egg on its face. As demonstrated by the ever admirable Melanie Phillips,  in her article in The Spectator, The Ha’aretz Blood Libel, it was one of the sloppiest pieces of ‘journalism’ that one can ever have had the misfortune of wasting one’s Shabbos afternoon on.

I have Ha’aretz delivered daily – it is a far better read than the English-language alternative, The Jerusalem Post – but I just don’t know how much longer my blood pressure can withstand its hateful analysis. I have started to feel that I might as well subscribe to Der Stürmer (or even The Guardian).

Anshel Pfeffer wrote an intelligent ‘reply’ to Ms. Phillips, in this weekend’s Ha’aretz. Whilst I share what he identifies as the newspaper’s main concern – “the deep moral and material damage [the Occupation] has caused Israel” – and his celebration of the healthy democracy which its existence represents, he misses what is so disturbing about Ha’aretz . . .

Whenever you see, under a title, the name Gideon Levy or Amira Hass – primus inter pares (there are several others at Ha’aretz) – unlike Forrest Gump’s “box of chocolates”, you always know exactly what “you are gonna get” . . . never an objective view of the facts, but always a twisted, poisonous, perversion of them: propaganda which portrays Israel as bully, and the poor, defenceless Palestinians – however armed to the teeth by their Islamofascist sponsors – as victims.

And so committed are Levy, Hass et al to their pernicious agenda that they never, ever surprise.

If this is what Israel’s “quality” newspaper has to offer, it is no surprise that Ha’aretz’s daily circulation – around 70,000 copies – is so low (considering that it has no real competition). And I, too, am now questioning whether I can justifiably continue to fund it, and its unholy team of ‘journalists’.

Sam Reiss z”l, 1903-1995

Few are the folk who do good deeds without fanfare, and who seek absolutely nothing in return . . . not thanks, not praise, not even recognition.

Grandpa, outside "the shop"

“Did he wear a bow tie and smoke a cigar?” is the usual response, whenever I ask an East Ender if he or she came across my maternal grandfather, Sam Reiss. That, however, was the only ‘loud’ thing about him.

“What a character!” they exclaim, when they realise that we’ve got the same man. And grandpa, whose Yahrzeit (Jewish anniversary of death) was on Sunday, was indeed an original. He even sported his trademark bow tie in recognition of his bar mitzvah parsha (Torah portion) being Bo.

Grandpa was born in 1903, in Galicia (south-east Poland today), close to the Hassidic centre of Ropczyce, home to the famous tzadik (righteous man) Zvi Naftali Horowitz. The Reiss family resided either in the village of Radomyśl Wielki or the town of Sędziszów Małopolski – grandpa used to mention both of them, and I am not sure that even he knew exactly which (Jewish suffering in the “Old Country” making it a rather taboo subject for his parents’ generation). He arrived in Britain as a baby, together with his parents and older sister Sadie. 

Family Reiss (circa 1938) Back row: Brothers Morry, Solly, Charlie, Alf, Joe & my grandfather Sam (separated by Alf's wife Bella & bar mitzvah boy Lionel Becker). Middle row: My mother Norma & grandmother Leah. Front row: My great-grandmother & grandfather Chana & Naftali, flanking Reiss sister Sadie, her husband Jack & son Alan Becker.

My great-grandparents, who had five more boys in England, were Dzikówer Hassidim (of the Ropczyce Hassidic dynasty) – followers of the tzadik Eliezer of Dzików, the son of Zvi Naftali of Ropczyce – and grandpa davened (prayed) at the East End’s Dzikówer Shtiebl, a small synagogue attended by immigrants from that part of the world.

A furrier by trade, grandpa took over the Brick Lane hosiery store of the brother of his new wife, Leah – who, for some curious reason, he always referred to as “Mrs. Reiss” – above which they brought up my mother, Norma, and her three younger siblings, Mavis, Stanley and Gerald. Grandpa then moved the business, now S. Reiss, to Whitechapel High Street, where the artistic flair of my dear late uncle Stanley developed it into a successful, niche, safari suit wholesaler.

This was the precursor of today’s Reiss global fashion chain (my grandfather gifted a store in Bishopsgate to his brother, Joe, which was in turn inherited by Joe’s son, David Reiss). After my visit to the shtetls (small, Eastern European, Jewish towns or villages) of Ropczyce, Radomyśl and Sędziszów, in 2000, it has been both wonderful and somewhat strange to stumble across Reiss stores on New York’s trendy Bleecker Street, as I did last month, and next to that bastion of ‘Englishness’, Trinity College, Cambridge, last summer. From such humble beginnings . . .

During breaks from the hardship of university life, I worked in “the shop” – it was always referred to as that, even though there were more than one – which grandpa believed would teach me a lot more about life. It certainly taught me a lot more Yiddish – whenever someone dodgy-looking walked in, grandpa would alert shop assistants with a cry of “ganef” (thief). As a result, his staff – which included Pakistanis, Sikhs and Greek-Cypriots – developed a command of Yiddish that would have put most British-born Jews to shame.

Grandpa, in his habitat

Until his late eighties – and with his ever-devoted Stanley always by his side – grandpa went into work six days a week, taking liberties and Sundays off in his nineties. Indeed, “the shop” was grandpa’s habitat, and – living for work, rather than working to live – it became an end in itself.

Grandpa had no interest whatsoever in the trappings of the good life that he could so easily have enjoyed. Only peer pressure ‘forced’ him to visit the new State of Israel (see the photo in my e-memorial to my grandmother), and, following another rare trip – to New York on the QEII (with my late brother Jonny) – he commented that “Broadway is just a poor man’s Tottenham Court Road”. In a similar vein, when my parents informed him that they would be visiting Hong Kong, he responded “What do you think you are going to find there? It’ll be like Petticoat Lane with Chinamen.” (And, on arrival, my parents gave each other a knowing look, as if to say “He’s right again.”)

Grandpa had a deep interest in, and understanding of, the stock market. When not in the synagogue, he would spend most of Shabbos (Saturday) devouring the Financial Times and Investors Chronicle. In fact, fellow-congregants of Raleigh Close (Hendon United Synagogue) had more questions for Grandpa on Shabbos mornings than they ever did for the Rabbi.

I would often while away Shabbos afternoons with grandpa in the periodicals section of Hendon Public Library, where he would further study the financial pages. It is to my eternal regret that I never showed the interest in “the markets” that he so wanted his grandchildren to – I would have gleaned more practical and invaluable information from him than I ever did from school or university.

Grandpa was a deeply modest man, uninterested in publicity, self-aggrandisement, or communal high office. In his own unassuming way, he was most definitely another Galician tzadik. In addition to being extremely charitable – letters requesting donations were still flooding in over ten years after his death – grandpa would never turn away anyone he knew, if they needed money during difficult times. When they could return it, well and good. When they couldn’t (or just didn’t), he would simply write it off . . . and suffer the inevitable verbal lashing from my grandmother!

Moreover, grandpa agreed to act as a financial guarantor for numerous refugees to Britain from Eastern Europe – at a time when many were scared to – thereby saving them from the tentacles of Nazism. When publicly thanked by such people, years later, at their family Simchas (joyous occasions, such as weddings and bar mitzvahs) – which he didn’t particularly want to attend! – grandpa would be rather embarrassed, and make nothing of it.

A man of simple pleasures, grandpa truly understood the words of Shalom Aleichem, “A kind word is no substitute for a piece of herring.” Post-synagogue gatherings at my grandparents’ home would generally commence with an in-depth critique of the herring served up at the synagogue kiddush (post-service ‘refuelling’). And I vividly recall grandpa scooping out the brains, or the “kop” (head) as he referred to it, of fish – a delicacy he claimed – which his neighbours, in Prothero Gardens, would save for him.

His grandchildren, even as young boys, were the beneficiaries of grandpa’s frugality, receiving crisp twenty and fifty pound notes in crafty handshakes, always accompanied by a wink and sideways jerk of the head to indicate that we mustn’t tell our parents. If Iceland’s banks had had the cash reserves that I had under my mattress, they would never have collapsed!

Though without formal education, grandpa possessed an innate literary streak, which produced a distinctive “people’s poetry”. He would make up verses especially for his grandchildren, whilst coining various other expressions that I have never heard elsewhere. For instance, out of superstition, he would never refer to death . . . only to the “dickybirds”. And grandpa was politically incorrect in the delicious way that so many Jewish East Enders were, carrying on the rich tradition of Yiddish irreverence (there are numerous great examples, which are too un-PC . . . even for melchett mike!)

Grandpa also possessed a healthy cynicism. Whenever there was a bar mitzvah in a non-religious family – who only attended synagogue in the run-up to (and, sometimes, only on) the “big day” – the Rabbi would always (as was incumbent on him), in his sermon, encourage the boy to continue attending. Unfailingly, grandpa would wryly whisper to his neighbours that the Rabbi was “flogging a dead horse” (and, again, he was right . . . of course).

Grandpa, I would like to think that you are looking down on us, your grandchildren and great-grandchildren, from “dickybird” country . . . and are proud that we have all, without exception, carried on your Reiss legacy of good humour, honesty, and straightforwardness.

“Moyshe”

Hasmo Legends VII: “Woody” Woodthorpe Harrison

Many Orthodox Jews entertain a genuinely held belief that all non-Jews – or “goyim”, as they usually refer to them – are anti-Semites, drunks, or both. It is not difficult to understand, therefore, how so many impressionable young Hasmo boys came to view their Gentile pedagogues as perpetually inebriated Oswald Mosleys. None of this nonsense, however, should cloud our judgment of Hasmonean’s former Economics and British Constitution teacher, Mr. Woodthorpe Harrison.

Mr. Harrison – or “Woody”, as he was affectionately known – most definitely did like a drink, but we never saw him drunk. And, while he may have made the odd comment about Jews, they were never nearly as offensive as those made by some of his Jewish colleagues. Commenters to melchett mike have already made reference to Albert Meyer, who would commence his first form classes with “You are all Jewish pigs!” Then there was “Noddy” Lever, who would rattle the coins in his pocket to demonstrate “Jewish music”. “What do you call a Jewish piano?” he would ask. “A cash register.”

With colleagues like Osher Baddiel, who would warn Hasmo boys to “Never trust a goy”, Mr. Harrison could have been forgiven for harbouring anti-Semitic views. He was too far too intelligent and educated a man, however, to let isolated bigotry cloud his judgement.

Woody did occasionally express his disappointment in us – “If I were to tell my friends in the City that you are the future Rothschilds, the Stock Exchange would collapse” – and, when especially disgusted, he would wonder out loud how boys encouraged by their religion to wash their hands before every meal could behave in such a fashion. These, however, were not intended as insults, but quite the opposite – Woody expected more of Jews than of his fellow Gentiles.

Woody's Oxford chums, Ted Heath & Harold Wilson

Mr. Harrison’s experiences at Oxford University and during the Second World War were the ones that shaped him. From the mid-sixties to mid-seventies, British politics was dominated by Prime Ministers Harold Wilson (Labour) and Edward Heath (Conservative). And Mr. Harrison saw them as his peers, having studied PPE (Philosophy, Politics and Economics) with them at Oxford, in the 1930s. Following his graduation, Mr. Harrison served in North Africa during the Second World War. He wore his officer tag proudly, and respected ex-Hasmo boys who subsequently enlisted in the IDF.

Mr. Harrison was married before the end of the War, and he related how he had been notified – whilst playing cards with fellow officers – of the birth of his first child. His new paternal responsibilities, he said, altered his perspective on life.

He was stationed in Greece by then, and involved in rebuilding its economy to prevent it falling to Communism. He related how a beautiful Greek woman had used her charms to try and obtain paper – which was in short supply at the time – from the money-printing press he was in charge of. And he was about to comply, until he recalled the words of Lord Acton: “Power tends to corrupt, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.”

By 1953, Mr. Harrison was living back in London with his family. Never much of a monarchist, until that point, he confessed to having had “a tear in [his] eye” after hiring a room over a pub to watch the Queen’s coronation procession.

Woody joined Hasmonean’s teaching staff around 1960. And, every Monday to Friday morning, he would drive his Mini Minor through the gates of the school without a care in the world, blissfully unaware of the antics of the day ahead. On one such, a potato was shoved up his car exhaust. Just another day at Hasmonean Grammar School for Boys.

Sporting his trademark Harris Tweed jacket and brightly-coloured bow tie, Woody would stride proudly towards his class, the day’s Times under his arm (and memories of North Africa perhaps to the fore). His ruddy head was a daily reminder of the miracle of the splitting of the Red Sea, a bald central ridge between two leaping waves of Ben Gurion-style white hair.

Eagerly awaiting Woody’s arrival, we would prance and skip around outside the classroom, in an effeminate display probably inspired by Monty Python‘s Upper Class Twit of the Year sketch. And, as he emerged from the shadows of Hasmonean’s poorly lit corridors, we would also feign mild anxiety attacks. “Oh dear! Quick! Teacher is coming! Quick! Quick! Oh dear!”

All of this would really piss Woody off (which was, of course, why we did it). “Oh, do stop that prancing around!” he would bellow. Another likely legacy of Woody’s army service was his firm view that men should act like men, and display leadership qualities (“Now, when you go into your bank, demand to see their balance sheet. And, if they refuse, demand to see the manager.”)

"Woody" and entourage, in the playground

Woody was clearly more interested in being a raconteur than a teacher. It was obvious that he invested little or no time, thought, or preparation in or for any lesson, and he would certainly never allow a syllabus to get in the way of a good story. In fact, for Woody, a curriculum was an unnecessary encroachment into 45 minutes of fond reminiscence – especially on college and the War – and enjoyable “shooting the breeze”. On asking Woody, for revision purposes, to list the subjects that he had taught that year, David Miller received a slap for his impertinence.

Unshackled by a syllabus, every Woody lesson, Economics or British Constitution, without exception, would go back to banks’ balance sheets, the Gold Standard, the inflationary Greek Drachma, the Queen’s coronation, or his cat (“Finnegan” or “Flannigan”).

“Have I ever told you about the Gold Standard?” was how Woody would commence a typical lesson. This was, apparently, the main economic issue during his time at Oxford. By the seventies, of course, it was a dead one . . . though no one had thought to inform him.

Alternatively, he would start “If you had a bag full of Greek Drachma notes, the bag would be stolen and the money left behind . . .”

Mr. Harrison was a clever man, who effortlessly completed The Times crossword every day. It was only a shame – or stroke of luck (depending on your perspective) – that his passion for Economics didn’t stretch past the Bretton Woods Gold Standard or post-War Greek fiscal policy.

Woody’s tangential meanderings were, anyway, always interrupted. It was “Miller time”:

“Please, sir, Marks is being a cad.”

“Oh, do shut up, boy!”

“Okay, sir.”

“No, I have the last word. Now don’t say anything.”

“Okay, sir.”

“I just said ‘Don’t say anything.'”

“I didn’t, sir.”

“You just did. Again. Now shut up, or you will get it.”

“Oh gosh, sir!”

“No!!”

And, when Woody tried to regale us with tales of his intimacy with another Greek ‘goddess’, we went into Pythonesque mode:

“Can we open the window, sir?”

“Yes, sir, it is very stuffy in here.”

Mr. Harrison was a decent man. And, unlike so many of his Hasmonean colleagues, he was rarely vindictive or cruel. He was, however, prone to eruptions, having been pushed too far by chutzpadik boys hell-bent on seeing him “lose it”. Any prank, however complex, always seemed worth the planning. Soon after opining that, if we purchased The Times every day, we would be halfway towards passing our exam, Woody entered the classroom to find all of us hidden behind our broadsheets:

“Put those damned newspapers down!”

We brayed. (Woody particularly disdained our poor impersonations of a donkey.)

“Oh, do stop braying!”

Reinvigorated, we brayed again.

“Stop braying! And put those damned newspapers down!”

Lowering them revealed all of us to be wearing Halloween masks. Woody went berserk, hitting Miller.

As with most Hasmo Legends, we were enjoying Woody’s lessons for all the wrong reasons, and the daily challenge of wreaking new havoc jeopardised our examination prospects. As a result, Woody’s two-year Economics A-Level course was abandoned at its halfway point, as new teacher Mrs. Stern was forced to cram the syllabus into just one year.

But Mr. Harrison’s lasting impression on so many ex-Hasmo boys (as seen by comments to melchett mike) had nothing to do with his teaching, but everything to do with his being colourful and different. And, in an institution where a teacher’s individuality usually seemed to hinge on his chosen means of corporal punishment, Woody’s wonderful eccentricity was a breath of fresh air.

According to melchett mike, Woody was still at Hasmo in 1979 (at least). Seeing as his former Oxford peers, Wilson and Heath, were born in 1916, it is reasonable to assume that, if he were alive today, Woodthorpe Harrison would be in his early to mid nineties.

If he is still with us, let us hope that he is enjoying his ripe old age. If not, there are surely angels in Heaven, in maroon blazers, braying sweetly specially for him.

Original draft: Nick Kopaloff & Daniel Marks.

Revised & edited: melchett mike.

[If any ex-Hasmo boys are in possession of a photograph of “Woody” Harrison – or any other good Hasmo photos for that matter – my offer of a soya roll, or one half of a chocolate rice crispies, in exchange remains ‘on the table’.]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part VIII: A Pearcing Insight (Part I)

Why Gilad must not be freed “at any price”

The thoughts of all Israelis (and Jews), both ‘left’ and ‘right’, must surely go out to Aviva and Noam (below) Shalit – the parents of kidnapped Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit – following the failure of this week’s talks, in Cairo, to obtain his release.

Israel was ‘only’ willing to release 325 Palestinian prisoners for Shalit – who will spend his one thousandth day in captivity this Saturday – and not the further one hundred or so demanded by Hamas, but deemed by Israel to be too dangerous and/or to have too much blood on their hands.

Even by its dubious standards, today’s (left-wing) Ha’aretz newspaper contained a ridiculously simplistic, not to say nonsensical, piece of supposed “Analysis” (full article):

there is a price, and if you are not willing to pay it, then in reality, you oppose freeing Shalit . . . This price is reasonable . . . It does not undermine our strength or our existence. It will not change the balance of power between us and them . . . Israel has always released hundreds and thousands of prisoners in exchange for a mere handful. After all, we currently hold some 12,000 prisoners, while they have only one. Yet they are not demanding that we exchange all 12,000 for him.

Well, thank you very much! Try telling that to the parents of a victim of a Hamas massacre, whether at the Passover Seder in Netanya’s Park Hotel (30 dead), Tel Aviv Dolphinarium (21), on Jerusalem’s Number 18 buses (45), in its Machane Yehuda market (16), Sbarro restaurant (15), Café Moment (11), or Hebrew University cafeteria (9).

It is the release of the men responsible for these atrocities (and various others) which constitutes Ehud Olmert’s “red line” . . . one which, I believe, he is right not to cross. (A Google search of the author of today’s piece, Nehemia Shtrasler, shows him to be a regular contributor to The Guardian. Quel surprise!)

Like a rat, Hamas preys on weakness. And that rat knows very well how highly we Jews – so unlike it – value the individual, human life, and our responsibility towards our sons and brothers. Even ignoring the legal, moral, and immediate security considerations of releasing these murderers – how many more Israelis would they slaughter? – giving in to Hamas’s outrageous demands is to invite further kidnappings, not just of Israeli soldiers, but of Israelis and Jews the world over.

So, whilst my heart goes out to the Shalits – if I were in their (unthinkable) shoes, I would also be pressing our Government to meet all of Hamas’s demands (and soon) – it is the responsibility of the State to to take a wider, and more detached, view.

Hasmo Legends VI: Rabbi “Sid” Cooper – the Pinching Preacher

Ex-Brampton Grove boy, "Our 'Enry"

When people talk about “Cooper, the greatest British fighter never to win a world title”, they are usually referring to Sir Henry (right), the former British, European and Commonwealth heavyweight boxing champion. There is, however, another “Cooper”, Rabbi Dovid – Emeritus minister at North Hendon Adass Yisroel Synagogue, and former Jewish Studies teacher at Hasmonean – whose supreme, if unorthodox, fighting skills also went sadly unrewarded on the world stage (coincidentally, for many years, the two Coopers lived in close proximity to one other, in Hendon).

The Punching Preacher

And while the two-time world heavyweight boxing champion, and ordained Christian minister, George Foreman (left) – “The Punching Preacher” – achieved international fame and riches, the pinching ability of Rabbi Cooper left its mark only on the cheeks and memories of ex-Hasmo boys . . . but what a mark!

Indeed, so ferocious was Rabbi Cooper’s pinching that he is thought to have earned his nickname, “Sid”, after the late Sex Pistol, Sid Vicious. On each and every rendition of the school song, Ner Le’Ragli (A Light unto my Feet), the word tzidkecha (Your righteousness) would, instead, be sung – with a hugely exaggerated first syllable – sidkecha, to the clear displeasure of Hasmo’s religious ‘elite’.

The Pinching Preacher

Rabbi Cooper (right) was as resourceful and versatile a pincher as the very best of punchers (who can switch between southpaw and orthodox stances, as circumstances and opponent dictate). He would employ the traditional “Yiddishe great-uncle” nuckle approach on cheeks, whilst reverting to thumb-and-index-finger tactics to extract maximum grip on upper arms (often protected by thick school blazers and jumpers). If only pinching were a recognised world sport, he surely “coulda been a contender”.

Rabbi Cooper enjoys a similar place to Cyril in the consciousness of ex-Hasmo boys fortunate enough to have sat ‘ringside’. And his classes were no less eagerly anticipated than the legendary Welshman’s. If the prevailing spirit in Cyril’s lessons, however, was one of the early stages of revolution, that in Rabbi Cooper’s was of all-out anarchy. Whenever a boy was on the receiving end of a pinch, the rest of the class would scream “De pinch! De pinch!” – Rabbi Cooper couldn’t pronounce his th‘s – as if the studio audience at North Hendon’s very own Jerry Springer Show. It was pure pandemonium.

At the point of terminating “de pinch” – which could last for as long as 12 seconds for serial and/or more serious offenders, and often with a final twist for good measure – Rabbi Cooper would let out a “humph”, reminiscent of the sound of exasperation Oliver Hardy would emit when Stan Laurel had landed him in “another fine mess”. And, in his intense concentration, to extract maximum remorse from his young victims, he would bite his lower lip.

We eventually devised an ingenious method of softening the effects of “de pinch”, blowing up our cheeks with air just before impact. But, as Rabbi Cooper always reminded us (and we never stopped to question why), “It’s got to hurt”. When we informed him how much it did hurt (usually exaggerated . . . though it did), he would retort “Yup, dat’s de idea!”

Rabbi Cooper’s corporal punishments – unlike those of so many of his (especially Jewish Studies) colleagues – were the product of an “old school” puritanism rather than a sadistic malevolence. A friend of mine, who used to attend North Hendon Adass, once quoted him as lamenting, in his Shabbos droshoh (sermon), that “We are not six miles from Soho; and I know, because I have measured it in my own car” (though I suspect the second part may have been the product of said friend’s overripe imagination). 

Indeed, so naive and unworldly was Rabbi Cooper, that he took it for granted that even young Hasmo upstarts would revere all things Holy in the same way that he did. At one stage, he held his lessons in his Synagogue, adjacent to the school – there was probably a shortage of classrooms and/or chairs in the latter – and, when our behaviour would get out of control (as it inevitably would), Rabbi Cooper would point up at the inscription above the Aron HaKodesh (Holy Ark, containing the Torah scrolls) and scream “Dah lifnei mi ata omed” (Know before Whom you stand).

When that didn’t work (as it never did), he would declare “Rrright [Rabbi Cooper also rolled his r‘s], I am now going to open the Aron HaKodesh.”  After all, how could that not fill us with the requisite awe? But after he had done so, and we had all started wildly cheering, Rabbi Cooper had reached the point of no return – he then had to remove a Sefer Torah from the Ark, and even open it on the Bimah (prayer desk). Needless to say, his noble efforts were in vain, and he was always left asking (rhetorically), “Is dare nothing sacred?”

As far as we were concerned, the rowed Synagogue seating was ideal, as it enabled us to stay out of reach of “de  pinch”. Chases up and down rows and aisles would often ensue, with only one winner.

In spite of his essential goodness, Rabbi Cooper was prone to the same small-minded intolerance – or, at least, lack of respect for private/family life – as his Jewish Studies colleagues. On overhearing Danny Reiss discuss with Henri Berest where they would be watching the following Saturday’s FA Cup Final – as so many, even relatively observant, households once did, “on the Shabbos clock” – he denounced Danny, in front of both headmaster Rabbi Roberg and his classmates, as “de roshoh [evil] Reiss” (it does alliterate nicely). Henri, on the other hand, avoided censure, no doubt because his family were members of the Adass rather than the United Synagogue.

My favourite Rabbi Cooper (and perhaps even Hasmo) story goes back to our first year at the school, and involves his – or, rather, the cheeks of his – legendary sparring partner, Max Gittelmon. We had just embarked on a new mesechta (tractate) of Mishna (the oral Talmud), in the form of those thin, crisp new paperbacks. Rabbi Cooper was extremely keen for us to preserve their spines, and instructed us, in no uncertain terms, not to fold back the covers. Gittelmon, however, having entered the classroom late, missed the instruction. Perfect! (Hasmonean was all about cruelty to classmates.)

After Gittelmon had taken his seat, Laurence Maslin and I – “Shekoyach [well done], Isaacson and Maslin, for ruining another shiur [lesson]!” – pretending to fold back the covers of our Mishnayes, informed him that Rabbi Cooper “wants  us to fold them back”. And, gullible to a fault, Gittelmon duly complied. When Rabbi Cooper spotted this, a few minutes later, Gittelmon’s cheeks received such a fearsome pummelling that he cried out a Golders Green version of “No más, no más” (no more, no more – the infamous words used by Roberto Duran, in 1980, to bring an end to his punishment at the hands of Sugar Ray Leonard).

Johnny Rotten & Sid Vicious

Perhaps playing along with the Sex Pistols (right) origins of his nickname (not!), Rabbi Cooper would regularly call us “rrrotters”, “a rrrotten lot”, and “rrrotten to the core”. He would continue the metaphor with his view that “there is always one rrrotten apple” (often yours truly). Another favoured reproach was “You are low.” He would simply despair at our chutzpah, commiserating with “de poor parents” (an expression that my father absolutely loved . . . and, no doubt, understood).

In spite of being extremely well-respected by his congregants – as a kind, learned, and God-fearing leader – Rabbi Cooper was simply not cut out to teach teenage delinquents. That he was allowed to do so is further proof (should any be required) of the complete lack of thought, not to say incompetence, so characteristic of Hasmonean (in those days, at least).

Rabbi Cooper was charged with invigilating our mathematics O-level examination and expected, quite ludicrously, to collect the papers of around a hundred examinees on his own. When he gave the order for “pens down”, seeing that he was unassisted, we took it as a ‘green light’ to steal extra time. When the head of maths, Jack Ordman, stormed into the examination hall some twenty minutes later, fuming, and claiming that he would be notifying the University of London Examination Board, we all knew that he was talking a lot of bollocks, as it would have reflected awfully both on the school and on him personally.

If Hasmonean’s decision makers had as much respect for a talmid chacham (learned man) as they expected us Hasmo boys to have, they would never have exposed Rabbi Cooper to such “rrrotters”. That said, our school days and memories would have been much the poorer for it.

De roshoh Isaacson . . . aka melchett mike

[To listen to a recording of the Hasmo School Choir from Speech Day 1983 – singing Baruch Habah, Ma Tovu, Ner Le’Ragli (featuring a just audible sidkecha), God Save the Queen, and HaTikvah (preceded by Mitch Taylor’s idiotic, and fluffed, request for a substitution of words) – click here. Thanks to Steve Graniewitz for supplying the recording, Eli Perl for uploading it . . . and Shimon Soester-Soreq for trying to! ;-)]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part VII: “Woody” Woodthorpe Harrison

Sticking it up the Swedes: a Sporting Purim Shpiel

Alfred Nobel! Greta Garbo! Ingrid Bergman! Ingmar Bergman! Britt Ekland! ABBA! Björn Borg! Sven-Göran Eriksson! Ulrika Jonsson! Can you hear me (if you are not under Sven), Ulrika Jonsson?! Your boys took one hell of a beating! Your boys took one hell of a beating!!

Okay, it was a Norwegian, not a Swedish, commentator who came up with a similar commentary – when his country’s footballers defeated England in a World Cup qualifier, in 1981 – but you get the idea.

And Israel’s 3-2 Davis Cup tennis victory, this weekend, over Sweden – the seven-time winners, who produced, in Borg, arguably the greatest player of all time – was no less of a giant-killing. Israel is now in the quarter-finals – where it will face Russia, in July (in Israel) – for only the second time in its history (the first was in 1987).

And the embarrassing home defeat was no more than the Swedes deserve, for their shameless decision to bow to domestic Islamofascist pressure to stage the tie behind closed doors (although, seeing as Sweden is always amongst the highest-placed developed countries in the international suicide rankings, it is perhaps no surprise that so many fundamentalist Muslims – known to be rather partial to the practice – have decided to settle there).

Just a few days after the attack on Sri Lanka’s cricketers in Lahore, by Pakistani Islamofascists, it was the perfect time to reaffirm the importance of sport in bringing people together. The significance, however, was sadly lost on the predictably unimaginative Swedes.

As a result of the Swedish spinelessness, I had considered issuing a melchett mike fatwa on all Jews who purchase “Volvoys” – what they call Volvos in Golders Green and Stamford Hill – but resolved that it would serve no useful purpose, because the company is now owned by Ford.

Boycotting IKEA would be far preferable, as the furniture retailer is far more accessible to the average Israeli than a Volvo – the store near Netanya, in spite of being amongst the most expensive in the world, appears to do a thriving trade – and because I have always hated the f*cking place, its labyrinths representing the ultimate shopping hell.

What I would only do for Israeli- Swedish relations

I would, however, be prepared to reconsider my call for a boycott if Ulrika (right) were to visit Tel Aviv, and ‘thrash things out’ with me in a spirit of mutual giving and openness. Purely in the interests of improving relations between our nations, you understand . . .

Anyway, a very happy Purim to Israel’s tennis heroes, Dudi Sela, Harel Levy, Andy Ram and Amir Hadad – our modern, sporting Mordechais – for sticking it up the anti-Semitic (let’s face it, that is what it boils down to) Swedes.

Is it just me? (Caribbean Trip, The Return)

I was really looking forward to coming home.

As well as my mum of course (and I’m not just saying that because she reads melchett mike!), I missed Stuey and Dexxy, ‘my’ kiosk on Rothschild (and decent coffee), Israeli food, and, in some strange sense, even my boss. And I had had enough of the Barmy Goyim (at least until Cape Town, January 2010).

But, not for the first time, on arriving at El Al check-in, at JFK – following my connection from Barbados – I felt strangely deflated (incidentally, most unlike all the corpulent Borough Park Jews in the queue . . . why shouldn’t they be weighed like baggage, and made to pay overweight?!)

What is it about seeing other Jews (and, no, not just Israelis) that does that to me? Might I be afflicted by the same “self-hating” disease that I have decried in so many others on this very blog?

When amongst non-Jewish friends (as I was in the Caribbean), I wear my difference with pride . . . even enjoying that they affectionately (I hope!) call me “Jewish Mike”. When back amongst my own, however, it all feels (to quote Jackie Mason) just a little “too Jewish”.

Is it just me?

There’s always a perceptible tension in an El Al queue. An impatience. And the travellers always seem so angst-ridden. Or am I just observing an unflattering reflection of myself?

Then there’s the Duty Free. Not as bad as at Ben Gurion. But my coreligionists are still very visible, frantically jostling for things they don’t need.

The umpteenth call for boarding. I push my luck and make a last-minute dash for the loo. But I needn’t have hurried. As I emerge, I am greeted by the sight of the March of the Penguins – as my chilonit (secular) work colleague refers to Hassidim – dozens of them, towards the departure gate. Where have they been? And why do they always have to be different, ignoring all the rules?

Then there’s the flight. God help me. I am only grateful that it is El Al, and that non-Jews don’t have to witness this.

Hours later, the plane has only just hit Israeli tarmac, and all the captain’s orders are immediately disobeyed. They’re standing, opening overhead lockers, talking on cellphones . . .

What is it about us?

Or is it just me?

Hasmo Legends V: Back to Melchett . . . and to Me (Caribbean Trip: Week 3)

My beach reading this past week, Coming back to me, cricketer Marcus Trescothick’s frank account of his battle with depression – which obviously proved an extremely therapeutic exercise for the former England batsman – far from depressing me, has caused me to become increasingly pleased with myself. And not because of my Hasmo Legends posts in themselves . . . but because they have served as the catalyst for online therapy for so many ex-pupils.

The trigger for the series was my realisation that the subject – and the many wild and wonderful Hasmo characters and stories – had, somewhat surprisingly, not been documented elsewhere. If anyone had predicted, however, when I published Hasmo Legends I, that the series would regularly be topping a thousand ‘hits’ a day, and soon a thousand comments, I would have said that they were suffering from a touch of the “King Paleys”. I have been reasonably successful in journalism and law, but making online self-help available to so many ex-Hasmo boys has given me a great (though not smug) sense of personal satisfaction.

Just a fun madhouse?

I shared my Hasmo experiences with boys who are still my closest friends today, nearly a quarter of a century after we left. And my memories of the institution were largely positive – of a fun madhouse, if you like – but I have been given cause to revisit them by the emotional depth and honesty of some of the comments to Hasmo Legends, which have taken the series to another dimension. And some of the more serious issues which have surfaced have taken me by surprise.

But should they have?

I certainly experienced my fair share of indiscriminate pinches, raps on the knuckles, slaps across the face, and even the dreaded plimsoll. The funny – or, perhaps, worrying – thing, however, is that, until now, I never really questioned such experiences . . .

• Rabbi Abrahams used to patrol the classroom with his arms at ninety degrees and the palms of his hands open and facing downwards, ready for action. I vividly recall the regular, generous slappings – to face and/or legs (he would move down there when one covered one’s face) – which he administered to me and my classmates, none of whose behaviour could ever be described as anything more than mildly mischievous.
• And Rabbi Greenberg most definitely was a sadist. On one occasion, the man nicknamed “Penguin” (and no less grotesque than the Batman villain) confiscated a Hebrew/English dictionary – not dissimilar from one of those long paint-colour card indexes – from me. He proceeded to bash me on the knuckles with it . . . so hard, that it exploded all over the floor. And, yes, he would look you in the eyes after every hit, to see if you were breaking. The c*nt.
• Even Mr. Johnson, who usually seemed the most placid of souls, once administered a particularly vicious beating – the worst I ever witnessed at Hasmonean – to our most gentle classmate, the late Ephraim Amini. Perhaps it followed one of those lunchtime visits to the pub, that other commenters recall.

It is so easy to chuckle now at Steve Posen’s eccentricities (the red shirt on Rosh Chodesh [a New Moon], for example), but wasn’t he rather too plimsoll happy to have been allowed anywhere near 11-year old backsides? And should Rabbi Angel’s chosen instrument for beatings – a thick wooden plank, which we nicknamed “Wacko” – really have been such a laughing matter? While such methods and tools may indeed have been a “sign of the times”, as some on melchett mike have suggested, they should have been no more acceptable then than they would be today.

More than any physical abuse, however, my own most painful memory of Hasmonean was the unkind (not to say unprofessional) attitude of Posen’s fellow biology teacher – and, later, deputy headmaster – Mr. Joughin, while I was working through my own teenage issues. Rehashing the details here, however, would serve no useful purpose.

Anyway, for whatever reason, I bear no grudge against any of the assorted misfits who taught at Hasmonean. And I don’t have the inclination, or the understanding of such matters, to analyse the causes of their abusive behaviour (various commenters to melchett mike have undertaken that task most eloquently). I would drink a beer (or cherry brandy) with any of them (except perhaps DJ, who I would throw one over). At the same time, however, I recognise that commenters’ experiences, and their effects on them, will differ from mine.

On Friday, I attended Kabbalat Shabbat (evening service) at Barbados’s Nidchei Yisroel (“The Dispersed of Israel”) synagogue, the second oldest in the western hemisphere. Founded in 1654, it was sold by the island’s then last remaining Jew in 1929. It reopened in 1987, following a beautiful restoration managed by the grandchild of Moses Altman, the first of a new wave of Jews to arrive here in the 1930s.

With Hasmonean so much on my mind at the moment– due to my need to moderate commenters’ occasional excesses (and the Fourth Test prompting even cricket fanatics to question how they ever liked the sport) – I couldn’t help but think how, in spite of its obvious importance for the many Jewish visitors to Barbados, our former Jewish Studies teachers would no doubt disapprove of the congregation: it has mixed seating, females count towards a minyan (quorum) and can recite kaddish (the mourner’s prayer), parts of the service are in English, and the syngaogue’s location means that congregants have no option but to drive there . . . oh yes, and they don’t forbid recalcitrant ex-Hasmo boys from taking photographs.

But Nidchei Yisroel, and its adjoining cemetery and museum, chronicling the fascinating history of Bajan Jewry, served as a welcome reminder of the many positives in our wonderful religion . . . something that the small-minded tyrants entrusted with our spiritual education – but who, instead, turned so many Hasmo boys against it – could never comprehend (never mind accept).

On a personal note, while I still experience a certain lack of focus from being the product of a ‘mixed’ marriage, it was also my good fortune. My sceptic Litvak (of Lithuanian origin) late father counterbalanced the unquestioning belief of my mother, of Chassidic Galician stock, so that our Passover Seder (meal) would always feature Reiss assertions of the God-inspired miracle of the State of Israel, with an Isaacson riposte of “So where was God at Auschwitz then?”

The line between a healthy (as I see it) scepticism, however, and cynicism can be a thin one. However ludicrous it might seem to me today, I was always petrified that more religious school friends who visited our home might witness my father transgress (however ‘mildly’) the Sabbath. On our walk home from syngagogue, one Saturday morning, with my classmate Jonny Finn – from Golders Green, but visiting relatives in Hendon – a short distance behind us, I begged my father not to ring the doorbell . . . to which he replied, “What do you think that they do when no one is looking?”

Whilst, thanks to my mother, therefore, I can never forget the importance of our tradition, my father ensured that the perversions of Hasmonean’s Rabbis had little chance of taking hold.

The Hasmo ‘religious’ experience, however, and its excesses, meant that children from more homogenous households than mine were either, in the case of Yids (see Hasmo Legends II), less likely to ever expand their Jewish horizons in a more enlightened direction, or, in that of Yoks, so completely turned off by Orthodoxy that not even ‘born again’ movements (such as Aish HaTorah) could ever ‘rescue’ them.

On a rather different note, I have received a few emails from readers of melchett mike expressing concern at the issue of defamation. I don’t intend to provide a summary of English libel law here (Google it), but if what you write is factually true (or a reasonable opinion based on such facts), you have nothing to worry about, and no need to hide. For that reason, while I have no problem with anonymous comments to other posts on melchett mike, I will not permit them on Hasmo Legends, to protect the people being written about. The series and comments thereon, more than others on melchett mike, operate on a basis of trust and personal responsibility, which would otherwise be too open to abuse.

I have added a disclaimer/comments policy to the About this Blog page. Please take the time to read it. If you are unhappy with anything you have written thus far, please contact me and I will amend or delete it. The bottom line is this – if you would not be prepared to back up your comments in a court of law (however unlikely that it would ever come to that), just read melchett mike . . . don’t comment to it (though that would be a shame).

There is no malice behind Hasmo Legends, merely a desire to tell the truth. The question should be not why I – or, rather, we – are doing so, but, instead, why the supposed ‘professionals’ entrusted with our education and growth did the things that they did.

Hasmo Legends is open to everyone. Some individuals have commented more than others. And some comments have been rather ‘heavier’ than others. But please don’t be deterred. As long as you are telling the truth, or expressing your reasonable opinions based on it, feel free to share your experiences, good or bad, funny or sad.

And, if you visit Israel, please do look me up. Why more of you haven’t taken the plunge, but chosen instead to remain in the ‘ghettos’ of North-West London, is a source of continuing bewilderment to me. As my old Hasmo mate, Joey Garfinkel, always reminds his apikores (heretic) friend, “Every arbah amos (roughly, four steps) that you walk in Eretz Yisroel (Israel) is a mitzvah (good deed)” (which is just as well for me).

My next post in the series, on a Legend named “Sid”, is reddening nicely – like a pinched cheek, in fact – in the melchett mike ‘oven’; but I just felt the need for a little introspection and stocktaking . . . until it is fully-browned.

[If anyone is in possession of a  photograph of the great man, I’d be willing to offer a soya roll for it . . . or half (i.e., “one half”) of a chocolate rice crispies. In fact, I would be grateful for any good snaps – of the asylum, its staff or inmates – as I could then dedicate a complete Hasmo Legends post to a “pictorial history”.]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part VI: Rabbi “Sid” Cooper – The Pinching Preacher

What we Israelis can learn from the Islanders (Caribbean Trip, Week 2)

“When da plane full, dare nut enough room fer all de bags.”

We landed in Barbados, on Friday evening, only to discover that my suitcase (as well as numerous others) hadn’t made the flight from Antigua. “Lost Baggage” staff at the Liat Airlines counter merely shrugged their shoulders. I shouldn’t have assumed that my case would be on the next flight (there are several a day), either. “It should get ere in a coupla days.” When I queried as to what I was supposed to wear in the interim, they just chuckled. “Clothes cheap on da island.” And I would be entitled to 50 Bajan [=25 US] Dollars to cover the cost (of a pair of flip flops, perhaps). Anyway, they had absolutely no idea why I was getting so worked up.

I was pulling my hair out, too – during the lunch break of the Antigua Test (which, incidentally, was great) – having to queue twenty minutes for a sandwich . . . when, on entering the shop, I was third in line. And, when I finally was served, the Subway employee, with excrutiating slowness, arranged the tomatoes, cucumbers, and olives, etc, as if she was planning to enter her yeasty work of art to the Tate Modern (Damien and Tracey, that’s my idea!)

As I have now learned, however, trying to tell a Caribbean Islander that you are in a hurry is about as effective as informing an Israeli that you respond better to politeness. The stereotype of the Islanders – portrayed memorably in a British TV ad for Malibu rum (“Imagine if we Caribbeans took life as seriously as the rest of the world”) – is remarkably accurate. One informed me, yesterday, that the supermarket was a “five to ten minute walk” away. It took me no more than a minute and a half.

Enjoying the important thing in life (last Tuesday)

It has taken me over a week to adapt, but I am starting to appreciate the huge benefits of such a laid-back approach to life. These people just don’t get stressed about anything. They don’t care how much you earn, paid for your house, or tip, about your relationship with your God (and which of His commandments you choose to observe), or whether you are right, left, straight, gay, or a little bit of both. They exhibit a wonderful simplicity and seamlessness, not seeming to give a toss (excuse the puns) about much other than cricket . . . and, even then, not in the aggressive, jingoistic way that the English, for example, ‘enjoy’ their sport.

I tried to imagine a similar scenario to the airport one involving Israelis (somewhat tragically, I am often informed that my behavior is getting me extremely close to becoming a ‘real’ one) . . . The testosterone-challenged (too much) males of the species would have referred Liat staff to the private parts of their mothers (“Koos ima shelachem”), whilst their hysterical female mating partners would have been feigning to pass out and begging their men to calm down, all the while fanning themselves with a copy of Yediot (the closest Israeli equivalent of the British Sun ‘newspaper’ . . . but without the tits [if you exclude Bibi and Katzav]).

In another week and a half, I will be back in Tel Aviv, with fellow Israelis breathing down my neck as I withdraw cash from the ATM, attempting to push in front of me in every imaginable excuse for a queue, and generally being aggressive and discourteous. I am currently involved in a building project, and hearing how my partners address our architects and other hired professionals, during our weekly meetings, makes even this lawyer shudder.

So, what is it about Israelis?

We think too much. We question too much. We agonise too much. We say too much (often when it doesn’t concern us). We kvetch (complain) too much. We argue too much. We are over-cynical. And we are certainly too competitive and covetous. Woody Allen sums it up best, when he says that “Jews are just like everyone else . . . only more so.” And I would take that one step further: “Israelis are just like Jews . . . only more so.”

My (almost anti-Semitic sounding) view is that there are just too many Jews squeezed into so tiny a land mass. It often feels as if you are living amongst several million Sigmund Freuds, Alan Sugars, and Woody Allens (with several thousand Bernie Madoffs thrown in for bad measure). And, sometimes, the sense of suffocation causes me to fantasise about taking my leave, not just from Israel, but from Jewish life in general (whilst, at the same time, recognising that I probably wouldn’t last too long in such self-imposed exile).

True, the safety issues that Israelis have to contend with are rather more existential than those relating to bowlers’ run-ups. We can’t, however, perpetually use the matzav (security “situation”) to excuse our behavior, much of which is caused, not by our lovely Arab neighbours, but by our own greed, jealousy of, and lack of respect and tolerance for, our fellow compatriots and coreligionists (not to mention others).

I love my Land, and Israelis have many qualities, not least of which are a candour and straightforwardness not exhibited by my other compatriots, the British. At last week’s Test, England cricket supporters unfailingly greeted every outspoken utterance of flamboyant, exuberant West Indies fans with sycophantic laughter, which – amongst themselves (and on their own “patch”) – would undoubtedly, instead, have taken the form of racial slurs and epithets. But, there I am, being cynical again.

We angst-ridden Israelis (and Jews), with some justification, are always worried about what might happen tomorrow. And we are so busy competing and achieving, that we have forgotten (if we ever really knew) how – like the Caribbean Islanders – to “live the now” . . . and just be.

Hasmo Legends IV: Sick in the Head – Mr. Chishios

“Uh-sack-sohn . . . you spastic! You sick . . . you sick in the head!”

This, apparently, is the traditional Greek Cypriot method of encouraging, and instilling a sense of self-worth and confidence in, a boy. Or it is, at least, the Chich method.

Jewish children are not cut out for Physical Education. True, many like playing football, the more sophisticated might try their hand at cricket, while the self-reliant tend to enjoy tennis. Others, however, prefer merely to be spectators. And the rigid discipline of P.E. is most definitely “not for us”. So, in joining Hasmonean, Mr. Chishios (inset, and middle row, fifth from left, in the staff photograph in Hasmo Legends I), obviously hadn’t done his homework.

“Chich”, as we branded him, was in sole charge of P.E. at Hasmo, which he ran from the fiefdom of his gymnasium. He was assisted, on a part-time basis, by a likeable black-cab driver, Mr. Hackett (back row, furthest left).

A coarse, short-tempered and politically incorrect (politically wrong would be a more accurate description) immigrant from Greek Cyprus, Chich would throw around the “spastic” insult as uncontrollably as, err . . . well, as, err . . . a spastic. And, with similar gay abandon, he would bring his favourite Dunlop trainer to bear on, admittedly cheeky, young Jewish backsides.

I don’t recall Chich himself having any particular sporting ability to speak of (though that would have made him no different from the vast majority of his Hasmo colleagues, in their respective fields). I remember, too, being contemptuous of the basketball moves which he would proudly demonstrate to us, prancing towards the net and pivoting like a swarthy Mediterranean “fairy” (in fact, if Chich had been the first male Shirley Valentine had met on her holiday, she would have been on the first flight back to Liverpool). Anyway, showing a Jewish kid a “lay-up shot” is about as useful as showing a black one a profit and loss account.

For someone who, when out of his trademark tracksuit, sported an offensive – even by early 1980s standards – purple suit, Chich placed a strange importance on dress codes, forever insisting on the wearing of jockstraps and “wahsocks” (white socks). I don’t (as others do) recall him checking for the former by peering down at “me crown jewels”, but, so obsessed was he, I wouldn’t have put it past him.

Aside from his favoured terms of abuse, Chich was also famous for his beloved minibus and multi-gym. Considering the relative affluence of most Hasmo pupils’ parents, the minibus seemed to take an Age to finance. And Chich greeted the arrival of the multi-gym like a gift from the Greek gods. Most pupils also viewed it as extraterrestrial, venturing nowhere near the uninviting mass of metal and pulleys.

I will most remember Chich, however, for his “cross-country” runs through the graveyards and golf courses of North Hendon. With the inevitability of Phil Taylor in the “arrers”, Nachshon would always come in first, with Melnick not far behind (making a nonsense of Chich’s oft-articulated view that Hasmo’s Yids were bigger “spastics” than its Yoks). There would then be an almighty gap to everyone else, especially to the sizeable group of stragglers (including yours truly) at the very back, who – as soon as Chich was out of sight – would start walking. The danger in such a course, however, was that Chich had the unerring, and unnerving, ability to appear from absolutely bloody nowhere, yelling “Spastic!” and slippering backsides with the deranged excitement of an escaped paedophile suddenly finding himself at a bar mitzvah party.

My favourite Chich story relates to the occasion on which we were patiently sitting in rows in the gym, waiting for him to emerge from his office. His young son George (which Chich pronounced, with soft French Js, “Joj”) – an annoying little runt who always seemed to be around (he had probably been expelled from his own school for continually calling other kids “spastics”) – was again present; and, on this occasion, Elbaz thought he could get a laugh by telling him that his dad was a c*nt. And he certainly did get a laugh. A big one. Though it was one which soon turned to stunned silence, as we watched George, as if in slow motion, wander off to his dad’s office, from where we heard him say, in his pre-pubescent voice (reminiscent of Dick Emery’s “Dad, I think I did it wrong again” character): “Da-ad, Elbaz says you’re a c*nt.” If Greek Cypriots had displayed as much resolve and fury in staving off the Turks as Chich did in emerging from that office, his country would never have been divided.

Due in no way whatsoever to Chich, our year, at least, had a decent football team, beating, inter alia, JFS (incidentally, featuring new signing Elbaz [“free transfer” might be a more accurate description] . . . though I believe JFS has since tightened up its admissions policy).

There were four “Houses” at Hasmonean – Carmel, Hermon, Jordan, and Sharon – and I recall experiencing a strange sense of pride on pulling on the green of Jordan (though I have absolutely no idea why).

School Sports Days, however, held at Copthall Athletics Stadium, were particularly farcical (even by Hasmo standards). At various such Sports Days, I participated in the discus, javelin and shot putt events . . . even though the relevant Sports Day was the first time that I actually set eyes on these objects, never mind attempted to project them. I ended up stabbing the javelin into the ground (in order to register one valid throw), and put my back out trying to putt the shot.

Notwithstanding all of the above, and even his questionable attitude towards Jews – he once, on a minibus ride, attempted to explain his intense dislike of crooner Frankie Vaughan to me (and it had nothing to do with his voice) – I found Mr. Chishios curiously likeable, or, at least, not objectionable in the DJ/Gerber mould. In fact, I think I was so embarrassed by the behaviour and nonsense of most of Hasmo’s Jewish teachers, that I attempted to disassociate myself from them by fraternising with the non-Jewish ones.

Jews are more adept at exercising their self-deprecating sense of humour than their bodies. As Woody Allen has observed, “Swimming is not a sport. It’s what you do to stop yourself drowning.” And I can still picture Baum, a rather rotund boy, heroically trying to complete a long-distance race on Sports Day, while my classmate, Paul Kaufman, followed him around the inside of the track, tormenting him with an open packet of Golden Wonder.

Mr. Chishios can, therefore, perhaps be forgiven his excesses, and even pitied, after unwittingly stumbling across a culture – both sporting and otherwise – so very alien to his own.

[Even if you have already related Chich stories (in earlier comments), please “cut and paste” them here. And, if you have a photograph of him, please let me know.]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part V: Back to Melchett . . . and to Me (Caribbean Trip: Week 3)