Fiasco Cricket (Caribbean Trip, Week 1)

Just got back from a day of beer and beach cricket, at Antigua’s Runaway Bay, that helped us to forget the fiasco – rather than renowned Caribbean “calpyso” – cricket  of yesterday . . . the shortest match in Test cricket’s 132-year history.

The second Test, between West Indies and England, at the new Sir Vivian Richards Stadium, was abandoned after a mere 14 minutes and 1.4 overs (for Americans, that’s ten pitches). The staggering incompetence of the Antiguan cricket authorities, in not preparing a suitable outfield, was best summed up (as many things are) by Sir Geoffrey Boycott: “They can’t even organise beach cricket, let alone Test cricket – they’d probably arrange it for when the tide is coming in.” The words “piss up” and “brewery” also come to mind. Though, I suppose it was Friday the thirteenth.

Chatting up footballer Emile Heskey’s cousin (right) in the pub afterwards was only small consolation . . . especially since, as my kind friend John pointed out, she was more Sol Campbell than Naomi.

I spent the entire ten hour flight from Tel Aviv to New York, on Monday, engaged in a titanic struggle for control of the arm-rest with the “Monkey” (the generic name I assign to certain types [the majority] of Israeli men) sitting next to me. And, as in the recent conflict in Gaza, no clear victor emerged. Now, I admit to having a problem with many of the locals in Israel. I have an even bigger problem, however, with those who have left (including “Monkey” and, it seemed, the majority of Monday’s flight). Israel’s human exports – unlike those of its fruit – are, on the whole, not the choicest. Moreover, while it is complete prejudice, being a diehard Zionist, I just don’t like Israelis who leave Israel. And, whenever I used to hear them in London, I always had a strong urge to tell them to “go home”.

New York City is a wonderful place. It is not the most beautiful city on earth. Nor are its restaurants or nightlife the best. And the city’s residents won’t win any awards for being the most charming or interesting. It does possess, however, a certain indefinable magic, quite unlike any other city I have been to, and some day I hope to spend more time there.

I visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art – where I was somewhat disturbed at being far more preoccupied with our sultry WASPish tour guide than any of the works of the Great Masters she was attempting to illuminate (male nature . . . or philistinism?!) – and also Ground Zero.

Over seven years since 9/11 (and six since my last visit to the site), you know what I thought when I saw the photos of, and memorials to, all those innocent and brave civilians and firefighters? I thought “You murdering fucking Muslim bastards” (no asterisk this time). Apologies for nothing more profound . . . but that is what I thought. And, since that horrible, horrible day, the bastards have only become more radical. (Before the “PC brigade” start accusing me of racism, they would do well to remind themselves of the hijackers’ religion, and the name in which they carried out their demonic acts.)

Anyway, thankfully for me and the eight thousand-strong Barmy Army (travelling England cricket supporters), the Test match has been rescheduled for tomorrow, at the old Antigua Recreation Ground. I only hope it goes ahead this time. Otherwise, we will have to spend even more time on Antigua’s  white sandy beaches, playing cricket and drinking beer . . . and who would want that?!

A Hard Life (Caribbean Trip, The Off)

It’s a hard life. Here I am, in the Dan Lounge at Ben Gurion Airport,  guzzling as many free drinks as my bladder will allow (and enjoying them even more in the knowledge that I shouldn’t even be in here).

And that is not the end of the hardship. I am off to the Caribbean, to see the 2nd and 3rd cricket Tests between England and the West Indies (I just hope that they last longer than the 1st, and have packed my bat and pads . . . just in case the call comes).

Stuey and Dexxy know my “off on hols” routine by now – wandering around my apartment all day, vacillating on crucial issues, like which t-shirts and baseball hats will be truly indispensable – and they were not happy bunnies (never mind dogs). I couldn’t look them in the eye as I walked out the front door . . . though my housesitter, and ex-(brief) girlfriend, Liat’s breasts will make far better pillows for them than mine ever could.

I spend the first few days in Manhattan, before flying to Antigua on Thursday, just in time for Friday’s Test. Eight days there. Then off to Barbados for twelve, before flying home via NYC.

My mother has been very magnanimous on my leaving, telling me to bring back a nice Antiguan or Bajan girl, colour unimportant. Thanks, mum. And I will keep you all posted on my exploits in that regard.

That’s all for now. Must go and fight with Israelis, for things I don’t really need, in the Duty Free. So, until my next update (Oversexed in the City?), work hard . . .

Leah Reiss z”l, 1899-1989

Today is the twentieth Yahrzeit (Jewish anniversary of death) of my maternal grandmother, Leah Reiss (née Levy), and another e-memorial (I posted the first on the Yahrzeit of Jonny, my late brother) presents an excellent opportunity to remember a real character and, in her own unique way, Eishet Chayil (woman of valour) . . .

If there is a Platonic ‘universal form’ of Polish Grandmother, my guess is it will not be too dissimilar from “Grandma”. Neighbours would often hear her call out to her then fifty-something year old son – when he picked my grandfather up for work – to check that he hadn’t forgotten his chocolate!

Missing the Business: On Tel Aviv beach in summer . . . Grandma sporting a pearl necklace!

Grandma was born, at the close of the nineteenth century, to new immigrants –  from Rozwadów, Galicia – to the East End of London. She married my grandfather, Sam Reiss, a furrier by trade, who took over her family’s hosiery business on Brick Lane – the precursor of today’s Reiss global fashion chain – before moving it to Whitechapel High Street (where one store is still trading today). Grandma lived for her family and “the business”, and my mother grew up on a counter rather than in a pram.

A firm believer that “blood is thicker than water”, “Auntie Leah” would do anything for her own, especially nephews and nieces, for whom she would often stand up against tyrannical parents. Sadly, this benevolence did not extend to my grandfather’s family, who (for no good reason in particular) could do no right in her eyes, and the relationships between the numerous Reiss sisters-in-law made those of the Dallas Ewings seem harmonious!

And Grandma didn’t give her children’s spouses an easy ride either. When my uncle dared to date a French-Egyptian girl, from a non-Orthodox family – and, perhaps more significantly to Grandma, one of modest economic means – Grandma flew to Paris, unannounced and uninvited, to inform the girl’s mother that this was a wedding that would not be happening (it did). Grandma would also often chide my father – like any good Irishman, fond of a glass or three of the “hard stuff”, when popping in on his way home from synagogue – for drinking too much (my grandfather would wink at him, as if to say “ignore her” . . . which my father always did!)

All Smiles: Jonny, Me, Mum & Grandma (circa 1968)

There was a flip side, however, to all of this. Grandma was a woman of rare substance and steel, and, when my brother Jonny’s problems began, she came into her own – Jonny would go round to Grandma, already in her seventies, for TLC, at a time when no one else could cope with him.

Grandma was a worrier as well as a warrior –  her motto should have been “Work won’t kill you, not worrying will” – and, whenever we told her to stop, she would reply “If I don’t worry, who will worry for me?” To her way of thinking, worrying – far from being harmful– was essential.

The most memorable story involving Grandma, however, and the one which perhaps best illustrates her unique character, relates to the occasion on which she was a passenger in my mother’s car, stopped for speeding on Hendon Way. My mother wound down her window, but Grandma was not taking a back seat: “Thank you, Officer,” she interjected, “I am so pleased you stopped us . . . I always tell her that she drives too fast.” And there was no way my mother was getting a ticket after that!

Grandma only had peripheral vision for the last ten or so years of her life, though her immense pride would never allow her to admit it – in an attempt to get to the East End, to ‘help’ in “the business”, we would sometimes catch her trying to feel her way down to Hendon Central Tube station.

A cliché maybe, but Grandma . . . they don’t make ’em like you anymore. Hope you’re not giving the Angels too hard a time!

“Little Michaeleh”

Hasmo Legends III: Cyril, aka Mr. Bloomberg

Arguably the greatest Hasmo Legend is the school’s former French master, Mr. Alan Bloomberg, known to all merely as “Cyril”. So numerous and wonderful are the stories surrounding this man that thousands of North West Londoners who never even attended Hasmonean are familiar with the nickname. I have never heard a definitive explanation of its origins – in fact, the only one I have heard relates to the Nice one, Cyril record, inspired by the former Tottenham Hotspur left-back Cyril Knowles – but it fit the slight, eccentric Swansean perfectly, and stuck (though, of course, no one dared call him it to his face).

The large majority of teachers at Hasmonean could be divided into eccentrics, sadists and downright lunatics. That Cyril fits into the first category is a testament to a humanity and humour, however weird, not displayed by too many of his staffroom colleagues. As a result, while Cyril’s eccentricities might have been ridiculed, he was not disliked.

Bring together two or more thirty to fifty-something ex-Hasmo boys, and they will soon regale you with the most wonderfully entertaining stories pertaining to Cyril and his French lessons. I can vividly recall desperately trying to get to sleep every Monday evening, to hasten the arrival, on Tuesday afternoons, of double French, an hour and a half of unbridled hilarity. And I can honestly say that, if I could choose to revisit any ninety minutes of my life, I would not select a memorable “conquest” or a game of football (even my beloved Leeds United effectively clinching the First Division Championship at Bramall Lane in 1992), but just one of Cyril’s French lessons.

Cyril was meticulous to a fault. If we had overpowered him, pinned him to the floor, and forcibly measured the length of each bristle of his trademark pencil-thin moustache, I am certain that we would have found a range differential of no more than a tenth of a millimetre. He kept immaculate records of attendance and test results. And, if he made a mistake, he would pull out a tiny penknife from his inside pocket and scrape the infringing ink off the paper.

My personal favourite Cyril story – and, no doubt, that of most of my former Form 1BK classmates (see photograph below, a year later, with Cyril, our Form 2AB form master) – actually dates back to our first ever lesson with him, in Room 13, in our first week at Hasmonean, circa September 1978 . . .

Cyril compiled his register for the coming year by going through the alphabet and asking boys to raise their hands when he called the letter matching their surname. A hapless Israeli, with very poor English, put his hand up when Cyril called “A”. “Yes,” he said eagerly, “Amnon”. Then, some half an hour later, when Cyril had reached “Z”, Amnon put his hand up yet again. “Zakaim,” he said, rather more gingerly this time, the penny having dropped. Cyril went absolutely mental, his brand new register ruined on the very first day of the new school year. He probably spent that entire evening scraping through thirty-odd names (Zakaim left the school shortly afterwards, probably delighted to get back to the relative normality of Israel, never to be heard from again . . . though he will remain forever in our hearts).

Form 2AB (circa 1979) Front row: Gittelmon, Whitefield, Nachshon, Winer, Reiss. 2nd row: Kenley, Frank, Elbaz, Cohen A, Alexander, Amini (z”l), Cohen J. 3rd row: Bolour, Melcer, Yarrow, Israel D, Israel A, Hakimian, Schneider (who Cyril would later, when he first laid eyes on the developed photograph, absolutely bollock for wearing Reactolite lenses!), Yours Truly, Cyril. Back row: Mencer, Topol, Schuldenfrei, Leigh, Myers, Berack, Lange, Hazan.

Cyril punished misbehaviour by dishing out what he called “sides”. “Take four sides” (the minimum), he would bark, “two on Obedience and two on Sensible and Decent Behaviour” (preceded, sometimes, by “You’ve wasted my time, now I’m going to waste yours“). Oddly, for such a resourceful man, he never came up with any new topics, which made things difficult for repeat offenders, who had nothing new to add on the subjects. We would fill the “sides” with absolute drivel (“I must be obedient, because it is important to be obedient, because obedience is important . . .”), after it became clear that Cyril never took them home for evening reading.

Cyril would dismiss boys from class with a cry of “Get out, you lout!” And, with the exception of his “star pupils” (Bassous and Coren in our class), who could do no wrong, the rest of us were all, at one time or another, referred to as “wretched creatures that you are”.

Unlike some of his sadistic colleagues, however, Cyril rarely resorted to violence, a quick and incisive wit (if, again, weird) being his weapon of choice. There was, however, one occasion on which he pulled three boys – Garfinkel, Kelly and Kenley – into our classroom (Room 12, I think, “over the bridge”), for making faces through its window. Cyril had his back to the door at the time, and my perennial partner in mischief, Grant Morgan, and I – who had been banished to stand at the back of the class earlier in the lesson – had grassed the three up in the classic fashion: “Sir, there are these boys . . .” Yanking each one in turn by his sideburns, from their standing positions downwards (as if shaking a lulav), while yelling “Stop annoying meeee” (at increased volume with each victim), one half expected the sides of each of their faces to be ripped off from ear to chin. And the looks of shock on those faces as a result of the unexpectedly vicious assault – I can still picture Kenley’s exactly, over 25 years later – had Morgan and I laughing so hard that we were reduced to our haunches.

Cyril’s lessons, even more than most at Hasmo (as it gave more daring boys an opportunity to test his famous unpredictability), were frequently interrupted by requests for spare chairs. On one occasion, this happened so often that Cyril became infuriated, vowing that “the next boy who knocks on this door is gonna be for it” (another one of Cyril’s favoured expressions). And we didn’t have long to wait. Cyril rushed to the door, an enraged Welsh dragon puffing smoke, and pulled it open in order to administer another Chinese haircut. . . until we heard the now famous words: “Oh! Sorry, Mr. Chichios!”

Cyril possessed a wonderful sense of both drama and comic timing. It was as if the classroom was his stage. And his performances were usually captivating. He would read out examination results in ascending order. On one occasion, he reached the top mark without having called the name of Marc Reiss. Lifting Reiss’s red ink-covered exam paper to the class, as if it was diseased and he didn’t really want to be touching it, Cyril commented that marking it was “like wading through a sewer”.

Cyril, on his “stage”

Even though they would be sitting right in front of him, Cyril employed the highly effective dramatic device of referring to errant pupils in the third person, beginning sentences with “This boy . . .”  Indeed, one of Cyril’s favourite putdowns was “He is like an idiot. No. He is not like an idiot . . . he is an idiot!”

True, Cyril enjoyed the odd cringeworthy play on French words – for example, “Toute suite” (the instruction he would give his wife [who, for some reason, we referred to as “Agnes”] when she picked him up from school), and “Was he pushed? No, Eiffel” – but he also possessed a wonderful turn of phrase, coming out with some truly memorable lines:

• He would occasionally regale us with tales of his post-war military service in Burma, but – not being able to imagine him in the pith helmet he was obviously so fond of – I once asked Cyril what he was doing in the army, to which he fired back “What do you think I was doing? Sipping cocktails?!”
• He summed up his contempt for football by describing it as “22 grown men chasing a pig’s bladder”.
• And, Cyril’s amusing nicknames for pupils tended to stick – Anthony Levy, for instance, who once hesitated with an answer, became “Errr Levy” for the remainder of his Hasmonean days.

Every few weeks, Cyril would administer a test for revision purposes, with each boy’s answers being marked by the boy sitting in front of or behind him (“mark out of twenty, sign your name, and pass it back in the usual manner”). Cyril would comment on each mark individually, ranging from “very good indeed” down to some expletive or other, with all those just clearing double-figures being greeted with the term “scraper”. More cheating occurred in those tests than in most middle-class suburbs of Paris, seeing as a single-figure mark resulted in “extra work”. It was remarkable that Cyril so rarely became suspicious that the vast majority of marks fell into the “scraper” category. And, to this day, I have never heard of a half being referred to, as it was by Cyril, as “ten and one half”.

No nightmares now, boys!

Other than “Un bon vin blanc” (Cyril’s demonstration of the full range of French sounds), “Bonjour monsieur” and “Asseyez-vous” – our greeting to, and reply from, Cyril on his entry to the classroom (with his books piled perfectly one on top of the other) – hardly any of us can now speak a useful word of French. That is, however, less the fault of Cyril, and more that of the then archaic syllabus. Judging by the appallingly unimaginative Lectures (French texts), the publishers of our textbooks, Whitmarsh, were obviously oblivious to the fact that anyone in France was called anything other than “Jean” or “Marie”.

In fact, the full extent of our practical exposure to all things Gallic consisted of a one-day ferry trip to Boulogne . . . from which we returned with no French, but plenty of flick knives (don’t ask me why) and pornographic playing cards (no need to ask why). When a more progressive French teacher joined the school, and dared to set her own, more practical examinations, Cyril – fearing his hegemony was being challenged – would refer to her merely as “the wretched Mrs. Samuels”.

We knew how to push Cyril’s ‘buttons’, and they rarely failed to work . . .

• He had particular contempt for those boys – in our group, Reiss, Mencer and, of course, Elbaz (or “Elll-baz” as Cyril referred to him) – who should, hearing French at home, have been better at it. When any of them underperformed, we would generally prompt him with “Sir, that boy is French-speaking.” And Cyril rarely failed to take the bait, hissing “Yesss . . . French-speaking.”
• Cyril didn’t like his routine disrupted, which he felt it was by the fourth year Israel Trip, a one-month study visit to Jerusalem, attended by about a third of his French class. Following our return, he scornfully blamed every underperformance by any of us on the trip. The class would gleefully, in unison, greet every wrong answer or low test result with “Sir, that boy was on the Israel Trip.” And Cyril, again, would always rise to the bait . . . even when the boy in question hadn’t even been on the trip!
• Even a seemingly straightforward request by a pupil to remove his school blazer could be blown up into a major incident. Cyril, commencing with his trademark “Hmmm . . .”, could deliberate on such a request for several minutes – weighing up the weather conditions, whether he himself  felt the need to remove his jacket, etc – before reaching a decision (and would sometimes even hand out “sides” to the maker of the request for, irony of all ironies, wasting the class’s time).

We were more than willing participants in the drama of Cyril’s classroom. For example, Morgan, who always marked Elbaz’s tests (as we always sat in the same places), was ever keen to expose the “French-speaker’s” mistakes to Cyril and the class, whilst pretending that he wasn’t aware of the boy’s identity: “Sir, this boy,” he would begin, holding up Elbaz’s exercise book. When Cyril would enquire whose work Morgan was marking (even though he knew), Morgan –  who had been marking the same exercise book for months – would, theatrically, slowly examine the name inscribed on the front cover. “It’s Elbaz, sir . . .”

Paul Kaufman used to use French lessons as a vehicle for his impressive and amusing take on Call My Bluff. On one occasion, he succeeded in convincing Cyril that the French word bas (meaning “low”) derives from deep-swimming sea bass. Cyril was taken in for some time, until – when it dawned on him (probably assisted by us) that Kaufman was selling him a whopper – he suddenly exclaimed his renowned “Wait a minute!” (which sounded more like “Wayderminnit”), and ‘rewarded’ Kaufman with a generous helping of “sides”.

In fact, there was no greater challenge or enjoyment than getting Cyril to dish out “sides” to a classmate. On one occasion, Whitefield, too academic to be a “lout” or a “wretch”, but wanting to be part of the fun and games, started mimicking Cyril’s trademark “Ohhh” sound (which sounded similar to Loh [the Hebrew for “no”], and – though I have never had the pleasure –  how I imagine a Welshman sounds on reaching the height of sexual arousal). Boys would often mimic this sound within earshot of Cyril, and then scarper. On this occasion, Morgan and I, sitting behind Whitefield, and sensing the opportunity, egged him on. The noises got louder and louder, and Cyril, cunning to a fault, pretended not to hear them . . . until he pounced. Suddenly regretting his ill-conceived departure from “Swotdom”, Whitefield turned round to us, entreating “It wasn’t me, was it?” He couldn’t complete the question, however, before our heads started nodding vigorously, providing Cyril with the confirmation he required.

Mr. Bloomberg was a cultured man (certainly more so than most of his colleagues), once even taking us to the opera, La Traviata. . . something he probably regretted, when one “wretch” (either Kenley or Gittelmon if I recall correctly) rolled an empty soft drink can down the aisle, causing a racket (and, no doubt, more anti-Semitism amongst the British middle-classes).

Mr. Bloomberg, who is now in his eighties, still lives in Hendon (we attended the same synagogue, Raleigh Close, where one of his former pupils, Mordechai Ginsbury, is now his Rabbi). He enjoyed his retirement, going on regular cruises with his wife, but was also struck by tragedy, in 2001, when his daughter-in-law Techiya was killed, and son Stephen and granddaughter Tzippi paralysed from the waist down, in a drive-by shooting by Palestinian terrorists.

Mr. Bloomberg, thank you for all those happy hours and memories. On behalf of all your ex-Hasmo pupils, I wish you all the very best.

“Don’t take that photograph, you wretch!!”

[Thanks to “That’s not French, that’s Morgan” for helping to jog my memory of Cyrilisms. Next on Hasmo Legends, “Sid” or “Chich” . . . haven’t yet decided which! And if any of you have any good Hasmo photos, especially of Legends, please get in touch.]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part IV: Sick in the Head – Mr. Chichios

Steven Berkoff: Showing Up the Berks

I’ve devoted quite a few melchett mike inches over the past month, since the start of the war in Gaza, to the self-hating Jews: Harold Pinter, Gideon Levy, Alexei Sayle, and, most despicable of all, Gerald Kaufman. But I have just come across an interview, in last week’s Jewish Chronicle, with the British Jewish actor, writer and director, Steven Berkoff, who made the following observations . . .

“England is not a great lover of its Jews. Never has been. The English way of life is culturally rather refined if not effete. There is a slight distaste of the foreigner. There is an inbuilt dislike of Jews. Overt antisemitism goes against the British sense of fair play. It has to be covert and civilised. So certain playwrights and actors on the left wing make themselves out to be stricken with conscience. They say: ‘We hate Israel, we hate Zionism, we don’t hate Jews.’ But Zionism is the very essence of what a Jew is. Zionism is the act of seeking sanctuary after years and years of unspeakable outrages against Jews. As soon as Israel does anything over the top it’s always the same old faces who come out to demonstrate. I don’t see hordes of people marching down the street against Mugabe when tens of thousands are dying every month in Zimbabwe. They quite like diversity and will tolerate you as long as you act a bit gentile and don’t throw your chicken soup around too much. You are perfectly entitled occasionally even to touch the great prophet of British culture, Shakespeare, as long as you keep your Jewishness well zipped up. As long as you speak like us and get rid of your accent you are perfectly acceptable. In Spain, they used to call these people marranos — secret Jews. Well, I’ve never been secret.”

Mr. Berkoff, as they say in these parts, kol hakavod (respect) . . . ata totach (literal translation “you are a cannon”, but really meaning that you are a top bloke!)

(Full interview)

melchett mike’s Gaza Crisis Appeal

The refusal of the BBC and Sky to broadcast the appeal to raise funds for Gaza is nothing less than heartless and cruel. Okay, he’s a washed-up, wife-beating alcoholic . . . but he shed tears for his country.

Alright, I shouldn’t joke about such matters, and, by way of apology, would like to publish melchett mike‘s very own Gaza Crisis Appeal . . .

The recent three-week conflict took the one and a half million residents of Gaza completely by surprise. Even though they themselves elected Hamas, they were duped into believing that they were voting for a benevolent party seeking peaceful coexistence with its neighbour, and had absolutely no idea that they were, instead, choosing to be governed by Islamofascist terrorists, whose very raison d’être is the destruction of Israel. Also, it simply never occurred to them that Israel might want to defend itself after suffering eight years of rocket attacks.

Moreover, ordinary Gazans had no inkling that the same Islamofascist terrorists whom they had elected would use them, their families and their children as “human shields”, and their  homes, schools, hospitals and mosques as arsenals, to fight from and hide behind.

melchett mike can guarantee that, contrary to what is believed by many Jews and Israelis, the world aid organisations coming to Gaza’s assistance are in no way anti-Israel, and also that all donations will go directly to the innocent victims of the recent conflict . . . and none whatsoever find their way into the hands of Islamofascist terrorists, for the purpose of rearming with deadly weapons and/or filling their own pockets.

So, send in your hard-earned cash! After all, wouldn’t you have done the same, during WWII, for the poor residents of Hamburg and Dresden?

How your donation could help . . .

£10 could help buy a Gaza child a new illustrated school textbook, replete with delightful, educational caricatures and cartoons. 

 

£50 could help buy a Gaza child his or her very own Grad or Kassam rocket, an essential toy for any youngster.

 

£250 could help send a Gaza child to an educational summer camp (where he or she won’t just learn soccer skills), to be supervised throughout by excellent role models. 

£500 could help a Gaza child lose one of his or her parents, by sending them on a once-in-a-lifetime journey to f*ck virgins.

 

 

And, rest assured, if there is any cash left over from the Appeal, it will be used to provide ageing Nazi war criminals with a more comfortable retirement. 

Thank you for your generous support . . . melchett mike knows it will ‘change lives’.

(Naturally, melchett mike would dearly love to volunteer on the ground in Gaza, himself . . . but, sadly, as an Israeli, he is not allowed to enter. Anyway, the nightlife in Tel Aviv is far better.)

Hasmo Legends II: Yids vs. Yoks – The Religious Mix

Anal (or Madam), Ant (or Veggie), Bacteria Boy, Bad Back (or Cliffhanger), Banana (or Gunga), Banquo (or Ghost), Beetroot (or Purée [yours truly!]), Bubble, Chips (or Gumface), Choirboy, Chuttocks (or, the rather less subtle, Massive Arse), Crab, Egg, Fish, Flake, Gnu, Gonzo (two boys), Gus, Jelly, Lanky, Magic (or Tricky), Monkey, Mosquito, Mouldy (two boys), (Paki) Mouse, Mutley, Ox, Potato, Rassen (Fassen), Robot, Lionel (Blair), Shitter, Slobbes, Slow, Sly, Smella, Spider, Stavros, Teabag, Tsoyvelah (or Waverleh Quaverleh).

These are the nicknames (not including plays on names) that I can still recall, from my year (of ninety boys) alone, some 24 years after leaving Hasmonean.

Piss-taking was rife at Hasmo, though it rarely crossed the bounds of acceptability (unlike the actions of the pupil living opposite the school, who took a pot-shot at Headmaster Rabbi Roberg’s office with an air rifle, penetrating the window). It wasn’t the piss-taking, however, which marked Hasmo apart. What made it the special place that it was, I believe, were the unique racial, ethnic, but especially religious, conflicts and tensions inherent in the school, its teachers and pupils.

Playground footie: Yids vs. Yoks

While I understand that Sabbath observance is now a prerequisite for admission, until 1985 (when I left), at least, only around a third of boys were religious. To save time picking teams for playground football, we just played Yids against Yoks (pejorative Yiddish for Jews and non-Jews, respectively).

Around a quarter of teachers were not Jewish, while a similar number were merely Jewish “lite”. And all of them used to tear their hair out having to deal with the narrow-minded stupidity of the controlling religious “elite”. At one stage, for example, literature considered subversive – including, I seem to recall, George’s Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four (about as sexually explicit as an illustrated Bible) – was banned from the syllabus and school library.

As with most things Hasmonean, however, there was usually a humorous side to the meeting of the secular and the religious. For instance, our non-Jewish fourth year form master, Mr. Joughin (back row, fourth from right, in the staff photograph in Hasmo Legends I), could not master the harsh guttural pronunciation (as in German) of Mincha (the afternoon prayer), instead calling us to prayer with his adapted “Minkerisation”.

Hasmonean’s emphasis on Jewish Studies – compulsory every morning, with an after-school Yeshiva Stream for those who couldn’t get enough (or, as in my case, parents who had had enough!) – resulted in an unbalanced education, to the detriment, especially, of the less bright and/or non-self-starters.

To make matters worse, the general level of teaching of Jewish Studies was appalling, with little or no thought given to what might capture the interest (and there are plenty of aspects of Judaism which can) of  the less learned or diligent boys (myself included). All I can recall from seven years of Gemorah (Talmud) study are scenarios of one man’s ox goring another’s in a public or private thoroughfare, which had little relevance in 1980s Britain (even in the shtetl of Golders Green). Yes, I know, Talmud study teaches one logic, and how to think . . . but a half-decent educator should have had a ‘plan B’ to offer our recalcitrant Yeshiva Stream ‘B group’. When Rabbi Abrahams, remarkably progressively for Hasmonean, decided to devote one school year to an explanation of the Siddur (daily prayer book) – relevance! shock horror!! – there was a tangible spirit of revolution in the air (though it was one which, sadly, never took wider hold).

So, whilst the more serious, religious boys became more serious and religious, the less religious ones generally lost any interest they might have carried over from their Jewish primary schools or Sunday Cheders (Hebrew classes), which was an opportunity sadly lost.

The religious “elite” generally promoted a rather narrow, unhealthy view of the world (either reinforced or corrected in pupils’ homes). I will never forget our class being advised by Rabbi Schmahl –  a kindly man, and otherwise one of the more normal members of the “elite” –  that we should never stand too close to the tracks on the Underground, because there could always be a Goy (non-Jew) who wanted to push us on. That is quite shocking news for a 14-year old to have to absorb, especially since my father’s colleagues in the medical profession – who my folks used to entertain at our home –  had not exhibited any obvious genocidal tendencies. Anyway, as a result of Rabbi Schmahl’s advice, over subsequent years, I proceeded to push non-Jews onto the tracks . . . before they could do so to me.

Amongst the religious “elite”, there was a small, but seemingly influential, number of anti-Zionists, who somehow succeeded in getting Hatikvah (Israel’s national anthem) banned from school assemblies and speech days. They were led, it seemed, by Osher Baddiel (middle row, third from right), who, it was said, fasted on Yom Ha’atzmaut (Israel’s Independence Day). The ban represented pure spinelessness on the part of the school’s decision-makers, seeing as the vast majority of pupils and teachers staunchly supported the State (Rabbi Roberg would later retire to Jerusalem). And it only served to strengthen the Zionist spirit of the boys, who would smuggle in Israeli flags, and sing Hatikvah with renewed gusto, to spite the fundamentalists (yes, we have them too), who it was a joy to watch writhe in discomfort.

Many of the religious “elite” also exhibited a distinct sneering superiority (especially towards the less religious). Even as a young boy, I picked up on the irony of Dr. “Jerry” Gerber (front row, third from right) screwing up his eyes and addressing pupils as “You arrogant boy”. Gerber also somehow managed to take the word Goy – not one with particularly pleasant connotations at the best of times – to a new low, making it rhyme (in a uniquely horrible Golders Green way) with the French fauteuil.

A story comprising a mere two words best illustrates, for me, the arrogance of so many of Hasmo’s religious “elite”, and the oft-justified, Chutzpadik reaction of pupils thereto. On visiting the school, shortly after leaving, with Grant Morgan – my former partner in crime in Cyril’s lessons (though, sadly for me, not in business) –  a newish addition to the teaching staff, Rabbi Fine, poked his head out of the Art Room Annexe window. Looking down his nose (both literally and figuratively) at us, while furrowing his brow, he queried “Yessss . . .?” (as if to ask “Who are you?”) Grant, never short of a riposte, looked up, and replied, conclusively, “No.”

Berkoff: Separated from DJ at birth?

Then, regrettably, there was Mr. Jacobson (front row, third from left), known to all as “DJ”, he of the sinister nippled forehead. Whilst the similarly benippled Stephen Berkoff is only a baddie on stage and screen, DJ’s persistent machinations and snide comments caused him to be widely detested by pupils – with the exception (one would hope) of his poor sons, who were also at the school – and, even, colleagues.

DJ seemed to consider himself de facto Headmaster of Hasmonean, which was odd, seeing as most didn’t even recognise him as Deputy (which, apparently, he officially was). And, if you weren’t “Golders Green religious”, or didn’t go on his summer walking trips – to be that desperate for a summer getaway, one would have to have had paedophiles for parents – he could be extremely vindictive. After I returned to Hasmonean, following a short spell at Haberdashers at the start of the sixth form, DJ delighted in constantly taunting me: “Isaacson, why don’t you go back to City of London?” He riled me and a friend so much, on one occasion, that we conspired to ambush him outside his home (a plot which, sadly, never came to fruition). In fact, when I first heard Morrissey sing “Hang the DJ”, I was convinced that he must have been a Hasmo boy.

Jack “on the gate”, an archetypal East End rough diamond if ever there was one, couldn’t resist attaching “the c word” to every mention of DJ’s name, which, naturally, we delighted in (and even encouraged). Indeed, I learned, and owe my love of, the word – surely the most expressive in the English language – to him. (Jack claimed to have fought in the Battle of Cable Street . . . though, if one believed every ageing East End Jew who has claimed that, and the related stories that they tell, Stalingrad, in comparison, starts to resemble a handbag tiff at a Wizo coffee morning.)

There was also the Ashkenazi/Sephardi (Jews of European/North African origin) thing going on at Hasmonean, with a sizeable minority of boys from Adenite and Indian families. Ethnicity, however, was never an issue at the school, and, until I made Aliyah (emigrated to Israel), ethnic Jewish stereotypes meant nothing to me; so much so, that I was completely oblivious to Eric Elbaz – easily the most mischievous boy in our year (and, arguably, the school) – being Moroccan. . . which, with the benefit of hindsight from my later experience in Israel, he so obviously was! Elbaz, after (inevitably) being thrown out of his own class, would utilise his considerable footballing talents to joyfully and tirelessly crash footballs against other classes’ windows, and then scarper before teachers could nail him. Naturally, Grant Morgan and I would inform Cyril – “Sir, it’s that wretch Elbaz” – but the boy had all the qualities of a Teflon frying pan.

Hasmo’s ethnic mix was further enhanced, in 1979, by the addition to every class of a sprinkling of  refugees from the Iranian Revolution, their rich Farsi accents always giving them a wonderfully naive and startled demeanour. That was when we were in Form 2AB, representing the initials of our second year form master, a certain Mr. Alan Bloomberg.

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part III: Cyril, aka Mr. Bloomberg

“Dame” Gerald: Our very own “Uncle Tom”

He just had to go and open his poisonous gob . . . and just when I’d thought I’d put my Self-Hating Jew series to bed!

I purposely excluded any reference to Gerald Kaufman from earlier posts on Harold Pinter and Alexei Sayle, because I had thought, hoped, that his relative silence on this occasion might be due to his pragmatic assessment that this war – one of self-defence, following eight years of near daily rocket fire – was, indeed, justified. I mean even his “intellectual” bedfellows, in Israel’s doveish Meretz party, were supporting the IDF’s actions this time.

Few opportunists, however, can resist an opportunity. And, true to form, Kaufman was just biding his time . . .

In the House of Commons, on Thursday, the Labour MP for Manchester Gorton launched a diatribe against Israel (full Hansard transcript), so irrational and vitriolic – even defiling the memory of his own grandmother – that it took by surprise even those with bitter experience of this hateful, self-hating, excuse for a Jew.

Some of my best friends are Jews

After a lengthy prologue of self-justification, reminiscent of those who prelude their anti-Semitic sentiments with “Some of my best friends are Jews . . .”, Kaufman invoked the memory of his Polish grandmother, murdered by the Nazis in her sickbed: “My grandmother did not die to provide cover for Israeli soldiers murdering Palestinian grandmothers in Gaza. The current Israeli Government ruthlessly and cynically exploit the continuing guilt among Gentiles over the slaughter of Jews in the Holocaust as justification for their murder of Palestinians.”

The only person guilty of “ruthless and cynical exploit[ation]” is Kaufman himself . . . of his Jewishness, and (seeing as he has little regard for that), even more shamefully, of the memory of his own grandmother. In view of her tragic fate, I suspect that she would have considered a homeland in which Jews could finally defend themselves, following two millennia of persecution by various hosts, a meaningful consolation (if there could be one) for the victims of the Holocaust.

That right of self-defence, however, is the very one that Kaufman, by his wilful perversion of the facts, denies us. If his grandmother had a grave, Kaufman might as well have gone and spat on it.

While Kaufman, 78, a former Cabinet minister, claims to have been “brought up as an Orthodox Jew and a Zionist”, it is incomprehensible that anyone raised with even the most basic of Jewish or Zionist values would have the inclination or insensitivity, not to mention lack of understanding, to make the analogy – as did Kaufman, most despicably, on Thursday – between “the Jews fighting for their lives in the Warsaw ghetto” and Hamas “militants”.

Indeed, one doesn’t have to be a Jew or a Zionist to see the absence of any moral parallel whatsoever between the victims of Hitler’s systematic destruction of European Jewry and those killed in pursuit of their declared aim of destroying the Jewish State.

Judge a person by his friends

It is most telling that, on Thursday, Kaufman – who once branded Ariel Sharon “a war criminal” (a label which he ended Thursday’s polemic by assigning to the entire Israeli Government) – was keen for the House (and the country) to hear that Yasser Arafat was “a friend of mine”. What a mark of distinction! For someone who read philosophy at Oxford, however, Kaufman employs the most bewildering of moral compasses.

Whilst a student at Manchester University, in the late 1980s, Kaufman, to our immense surprise, answered a call to defend his anti-Israel views to Jewish students at Hillel House. There we lay in wait, all college precocity and naivety, with our clever questions and infallible arguments, to wipe the floor with this “Jewdas”. But, in an awesome display of oratory, Kaufman, without so much as a scratch, left us to wander off to the pub, wondering how we didn’t manage to land even one decent blow. That evening, we witnessed the triumph of rhetoric over truth, presentation over substance, and the skills which the articulate Kaufman has employed in Parliament, to his malevolent ends, so effectively over the past forty years.

O Jerusalem!

In 2002, Kaufman’s BBC film, The End of the Affair, documenting his disillusionment with Israel, was broadcast over Jewish New Year. Kaufman’s arguments were so irrational and full of spite – including that Orthodox Jews were “infesting” Jerusalem (language which Hitler himself would have been proud of), and that Israel’s architectural planners had turned Jerusalem into a eyesore (an argument so ridiculous, even Stevie Wonder chuckled) – that, some days later, on Yom Kippur, he was abused by fellow congregants, even in his most proper and Anglicised of synagogues, St. John’s Wood.

While some British Jews criticized such treatment in a house of worship, I was not amongst them. Only someone so supremely arrogant could have had the temerity to show his face to coreligionists following so ferocious and malicious an assault, not just on Israel but on Jews.

One can only speculate whether the root cause of Kaufman’s self-loathing might have been his lack of acceptance by mainstream Anglo-Jewry (perhaps even more conservative in his native Yorkshire), for the very reason that he is known in Parliament as “Dame” Gerald. Whether mere speculation, or more, Kaufman should at least learn to “mince” his words.

Kaufman is also an outspoken critic of fox hunting, and – knowing that he is often accused of being a self-hating Jew – has seen the irony in being subjected to anti-Semitic taunts by pro-hunt demonstrators.

But, you see, Gerald, there’s the rub –  we Jews, like foxes, can run, but we can’t hide. Your lifetime of sycophancy, and attempts to ingratiate yourself with the British Establishment, by bashing Israel, have fooled no one. Those in it, who don’t like you because you are a Jew, like you even less because you are a cowardly Jew.

But, most tragically, Gerald, your Bubbe would be as thoroughly ashamed of you as we all are.

Hasmo Legends I: An Introduction to an Institution

During the recent festival of Hanukkah, we Jews celebrated the Hasmonean legends. But there are other, more modern – and, many would argue, more relevant – legends of Hasmonean, who had a profound and enduring influence (though not always for reasons they would have wanted) on the lives of thousands of London’s Jewish males. A Google search, however, sheds little or no light on these characters (in every sense of the word), former teachers at Hasmonean High (previously Grammar) School, known to all merely as “Hasmo”.

Memories of these pedagogues have lingered with ex-“Hasmo boys” for even longer than the aftertaste of Mrs. Bannister’s meat loaf, and we celebrate them no end whenever we get together (much to the annoyance of wives, and other non-Hasmo alumni, who may be present). But documenting them for posterity, and having a central site for ex-pupils’ comments and stories (though see “NOTE” below!), seems a most worthwhile undertaking for melchett mike. And I am certain that even the non-Hasmo alumni among you will enjoy being taken into “one crazy yiddishe mamma” of an institution (I use the word advisedly) . . .

Hasmonean, a voluntary aided comprehensive, was founded in 1944, in Golders Green, by Rabbi Dr Solomon Schonfeld (left), who was still in the process of saving thousands of Jews from the Holocaust. It moved to its current site, in Hendon’s Holders Hill Road, three years later. To the best of my knowledge, it is still the largest Jewish boys’ school in the UK (perhaps even Europe).

Hasmonean, 1950

Whenever I inform someone that I attended a religious boys’ school, I receive a look of pity. But anyone who attended Hasmonean should not be pitied (or, at least, not for that reason) . . . we had the time of our lives!

Chutzpadik: Hasmo Boys (date unknown)

The “fun and games” were largely attributable to the Chutzpah, and uniquely Jewish sense of humour, of the boys, who felt they could get away with most things in such familiar, safe surroundings. When, on one occasion, English teacher Mr. Marks (back row, second from right, below) asked “Has anyone got any work for me?”, one boy (the son of a well-known local Rabbi) replied “Yes, sir, you can go and clean the playground!” Moreover, many pupils would see teachers out of the school environment, in their communities and synagogues, and that reinforced a “What is the worst that can happen?” attitude in already Chutzpadik Jewish boys.

The entrepreneurial Jewish spirit also contributed to the lively atmosphere of the place, with many an Adidas holdall stuffed not with textbooks but, rather, chocolate (and, in the summer, ice pops ) for resale. The dinner hall, too, saw a brisk trade in soya rolls and chocolate rice crispies; while, behind it, pocket money was frittered away playing “penny (or, rather, 10p) up the wall”. There were also the self-mocking “cha’penny bundles”, in which a half-penny piece would be thrown in the air, with boys scrummaging for it as if their lives depended on it.

Rabbi Dr Schonfeld’s belief in the principles of Torah im Derech Eretz (literally, “The five Books of Moses with the Way of the Land”), a fusion of traditional orthodoxy and the modern world, was undermined by the total lack of Derech Eretz (more commonly used to mean decent, polite and respectful behaviour) displayed by so many of the pupils.

But how could any but the most mature boys be expected to behave with Derech Eretz, when confronted by the incompetence, lack of professionalism, eccentricity, and/or (in one or two cases) borderline insanity exhibited by such a large percentage of the teaching staff?! Of the 32 teachers in the photograph below, there are three I don’t recognise. Of the remainder, the number who most parents would have embraced as positive role models for their sons would likely have been in single figures.

Hasmonean teaching staff, circa 1979

To my mind, the main problem that beset Hasmonean was over-familiarity, and the blurring of the professional and the personal. As aforementioned, many teachers and pupils lived in the same communities, often attending the same synagogues. Even if they didn’t, we would often see other teachers when visiting different synagogues (when staying with friends, for example, or for bar mitzvahs).

One story, in particular, comes to mind when I reflect on such “blurring”. During much of my time at Hasmonean, I was convinced that a certain Rabbi Abrahams (standing furthest right, above), known to us merely as “Abie”, was picking on me. And I told him so on numerous occasions. He ardently denied the accusation, even mockingly using it against me when I really did misbehave. At the end of what was supposed to be my final day at the school, before moving to Haberdashers’ Aske’s for the sixth form (I returned shortly afterwards), Rabbi Abrahams offered me a lift home (something he had never done during the previous five years). Once in his car, he confessed to having picked on me, because I – or, more accurately, my parents (who wouldn’t have known him from Adam) – hadn’t invited him to my bar mitzvah. I was flabbergasted.

Though not, I suppose, an exclusively Hasmonean phenomenon, boys with brothers at the school suffered from continual, damaging comparisons, and just couldn’t win – they were damned for having a naughtier sibling (“you are just like your brother”), and damned for a cleverer one (“you are nothing like your brother”).

My cousin, Daniel, had, by the time I got to the school some two years after him, built up quite a reputation for mischief. Soon after my arrival, I was dragged before the then acting headmaster, Rabbi Roberg (front row, fifth from right, above), by the same Rabbi Abrahams (to be fair to him, this was before my bar mitzvah!) Looking at Rabbi Roberg, Rabbi Abrahams uttered a mere two words: “Reiss’s cousin”. The two Rabbis exchanged knowing looks, and – no clean slate, no judging on merits – my fate, for the next seven years, had been sealed. (Incidentally, I have bumped into Rabbi Abrahams on numerous occasions since, and bear him no ill will. That was just Hasmonean! He was also the only teacher who ever got me even remotely interested in religious studies.)

Nor was sympathetic counselling Hasmo’s strong point. One boy, who was a large hamper “short of a picnic” (and who, these days, would have been referred for special needs education), was told by a teacher that he was “sick and need[ed] help” (the same boy used to look up skirts of girls from the local comprehensive on the 240 bus home . . . so, perhaps, we were the ones who “need[ed] help”!)

My late brother, Jonathan z”l, had also been a pupil at the school. It transpired that he had been exhibiting worrying behaviour, and playing truant, for some months before the then headmaster, Mr. Stanton (front row, fifth from left, above), decided to alert my parents to it . . . not by calling them to the school, mind, but by waiting for a chance meeting at a dinner party! On the day after Jonathan passed away (I was 12 at the time, and my parents wanted to shield me from the funeral), not a single member of staff approached me about it. I remember bursting into tears on that morning and, for all any of the teachers cared, I could have still been sobbing at 4:30.

A wonderful story that I heard recently shows that Hasmo still excels in the lack of professionalism stakes. A boy was hauled before an external psychologist for supposed behavioural problems, only for it to be discovered, some twenty minutes into the discussion, that they had really wanted his younger brother. To add insult to injury (and, perhaps, also to prove that Hasmo can always go one better), instead of a teaching professional summoning said brother, the boy was told to fetch him, which he proceeded to do by entering a packed classroom and announcing to his brother that “The psychiatrist wants to see you.” The boys’ father, a friend of mine, was none too pleased.

If not unprofessional, many other teachers at Hasmonean were simply incompetent, bearing testament to the saying that “Those who can’t do, teach”. The fact that Hasmonean was (and still is) never far from the top of the various school league tables was in spite, rather than because, of those teachers. If you were not a self-starter, or were more interested in the arts, you could be left to stew. But a combination of most parents’ ability to invest in private lessons – though, alas, not in sufficient chairs for pupils (lessons were interrupted an average of once every three and a half minutes by a boy bursting in and squawking “Sir, have you got a spare chair?”) – and the Jewish emphasis on the importance of education ensured that most “Hasmo boys” did not suffer, in the long term, from such incompetence.

That is not to say, however, that all teachers were incompetent. The first subject of my series on, and arguably the greatest of, Hasmo Legends – former French master, Mr. Bloomberg (front row, furthest left, above), known universally as “Cyril”  – was far from incompetent. But, what he lacked in incompetence, he made up for in eccentricity. Watch this space.

The next instalment, however, will conclude my introduction, by looking at other aspects of Hasmonean, especially its religious mix and attitude towards the State of Israel.

[NOTE: I have thought long and hard about whether or not to include actual names in this series of posts, not for fear of being defamatory (truth is an absolute defence), but because it is not my aim to be vindictive. With some reservations, I have decided to include them, because not to would detract from my purpose of “painting the full picture”. If you wish to comment on posts, kindly bear the defamation issue in mind, and don’t hide behind a veil of anonymity (please provide your full name and email address). As a general “rule of thumb”, if you stick to the facts (however extreme!) of your story , rather than resorting to opinion/name-calling, there should be no problem.]

Next on Hasmo Legends, Part II: Yids vs. Yoks – The Religious Mix

Hitting Turkey where it hurts

Israeli tourism to Turkey hit an all-time high in 2008, with over half a million Israelis (me included) visiting between January and October alone. Israelis rank tenth amongst all nationalities entering the Third World country, which boasts Istanbul and some cheap resorts. (Ynetnews article)

But enough is enough.

Following Prime Minister Erdogan’s grossly hypocritical tirades against Israel’s war on terror (see my earlier Mr. Erdogan . . . you’re the Christmas turkey! post), and the Bnei Hasharon basketball team’s ordeal in Ankara last week (Jerusalem Post article), the time has come for Israelis to hit the hypocritical Turks where it hurts most . . . and I don’t mean in their asses (that would be counter-productive), but in their pockets, by choosing a different vacation destination.

Turkey’s arch enemy, Greece, would be a fitting choice. Its islands have better beaches, entertainment and, most definitely, culture (if not Russian totty) than Antalya, Bodrum, and all those other tawdry resorts put together. One is also less likely to be accosted by some fat, greasy, moustachioed male looking for some unsuspecting kosher ‘meat’ to stick on his unwashed ‘skewer’.

I, for one, won’t be visting Turkey again (and can now dispose of all those corks). But the next time there is a terrible natural disaster there, let’s tell them how shit they’ve been to the Armenians and the Kurds before automatically proffering our support.

Wankers.

(Apologies for melchett mike having become rather less refined over the past fortnight . . . frustration at all the hypocrisy has brought out the cruder side of me!)