The Post Office Nasty

Patience – or savlanut, as they call it in these parts – may well be a virtue. But it is most definitely not an Israeli one. And, while the natives are notorious for being incapable of standing in line, inability to queue is only one symptom of their lack of patience.

Walking Stuey and Dexxy through the labyrinth-like streets of Tel Aviv, lost motorists will often ask me to come to their rescue. Instead of stopping and listening to the directions that they have requested, however – as they would in any normal country – drivers here continue moving forward, almost expecting you to carry on giving them while running alongside their vehicle. The attitude seems to be: “I want to get there as quickly as possible, but I can’t wait for you to you explain to me how.”

Walking down Melchett, last week, a middle-aged cyclist asked me for directions to the beach, all the time continuing to pedal.

“If you stop,” I responded, failing to conceal a different type of impatience, “I’ll tell you.”

“This rough direction or that?” she screamed – signalling left and then right with each arm – as, continuing to look at me from over her left shoulder, she moved further and further away.

Resisting the temptation to stick out my left arm, I grudgingly held out my right.

Indeed, this may be the only country in the world where one gets penalised for trying to be courteous . . .

Last Friday morning, I trudged along to my post office, on Yehuda Halevi Street, to find out what treat lay in store for me. I had received one of those dreaded postal service collection notices, which in the UK usually signifies a parcel or goody of some sort, but here more often than not indicates notification of a road traffic offence. And, with three pending court hearings for speeding, I was fearing the worst.

I pulled my number from the dispenser, but – due to the rather less-than-warm greeting extended to Stuey and Dexxy by a fellow hairy beast – we waited by the open door so as not to disturb the patrons (i.e., my attempt at courtesy). We were no more than 30 feet from the counter, and with a clear view of the electronic board, on which I was keeping a beady eye.

About ten minutes later, as it ticked over to 91, I immediately strode over to the indicated clerk. It must have taken me all of six seconds.

Alas, just before I could get there, an old dear – hovering for a hesitation – submitted 92.

It is almost acceptable – even normal – in these parts to push in. The attitude seems to be: “With our lovely neighbours, who knows how long we’ve got . . . so why waste time queuing?!” Indeed, tell an Israeli not to push in and, the chances are, you will be met with an extremely quizzical gaze.

And rather than politely inform the old lady that “Sorry, madam, this gentleman was first” – the words one would undoubtedly hear in such circumstances in the UK – the twentysomething frecha behind the counter instead barked, Soup Nazi-like, at me:

“Me’oochar midai!” (Too late!)

I slid my hand between the glass and the counter, grabbed Frecha by the throat, and yanked her so violently towards me that it was a miracle that the glass didn’t shatter as her thick head thudded against it.

Well, at least I fantasized about it.

When the red mist had lifted somewhat – regular readers of melchett mike will know that it was not the first time that it had descended – I ruminated over what I was going to say to Frecha when my chance would finally come. Alas, still hardly collected, “And that is why you are working in a post office” was the best I could come up with. Needless to say, I didn’t use it.

In the end, when the old lady had finished and moved aside, waiting a metre or so behind her, I lunged at the counter like a sprinter through the finishing tape.

Frecha gazed at me as if I was demented.

“Maspik mahair?!” (Fast enough?!), I fired, eyeballing her with contempt.

Frecha didn’t flinch . . . though I did catch a hint of satisfaction as she pointed out the box on the collection slip ticked: “Available for collection from next week.”

“At ro’ah – hayiti mahair midai!” (You see – I was too quick!), I quipped, in a last-ditch, though futile, attempt to save some face.

With which, the three of us exited. Two tails were wagging. The third was firmly ensconced between its owner’s legs.

“Shpichen Sie Hebräisch?” A sticky situation in Ivrit

Ivrit, or Hebrew, can be a surprisingly dangerous weapon. And, following some tips on how to handle the natives, the best advice that I could give to the new immigrant to this country would be to make the most of his or her introductory ulpan (Hebrew school) . . . and not in the manner in which I made the most – or, at least, continually attempted to! – of mine.    

Ulpan Etzion front gate (former, original Baka campus)

Following my aliyah (immigration to Israel) in January 1996, I spent five months at the Jewish Agency’s Ulpan Etzion, in Jerusalem. This residential school, Israel’s first ulpan (in 1949), was the modern-day embodiment of Moses’ promise, in the Book of Deuteronomy, regarding the “Ingathering of the Exiles”.      

And, for your average twentysomething male (I was a considerably more virile 28 at the time), Ulpan Etzion was also the heavenly fulfilment of his fantasy, in no particular book whatsoever, about the ingathering of exiled Jewish totty from all five continents. Indeed, it was very much a case of take your pick (which all three of my first cousins who preceded me at Etzion obviously couldn’t wait to, marrying women – from three of those continents – whom they met within hours of touching down at Ben Gurion).      

Even if the “knocking shop” run from her room by a Russian resident of Etzion catered to non-residents only, the atmosphere during my time at the Ulpan – also known as a merkaz klita, or absorption centre – was certainly conducive to “absorptions” other than the purely linguistic. In my defence, my aliyah coincided with a sickening spate of suicide bombings, forcing me to swiftly adopt the Israeli practice at such times of finding solace wherever I could. What choice did I have?!      

None of this, of course, excuses the fact that the ultimate goal for me and Aussie Nathan – who sat on the opposite side of the classroom – in each tedious Hebrew lesson would be to catch as many pieces of flying chocolate in our mouths as possible while Esti, our teacher, was writing on the board. And she never did discover why seemingly spontaneous applause would break out during her lessons (i.e., whenever Nathan or I had been successful). After years of dreary employment, it was like being back at Hasmonean . . . only with girls to show off to.      

This honeymoon period in Israel, however, followed by continual employment in the English language ever since (my current boss refers to me only as “Shakespeare”), has left me with my own peculiar dialect of Hebrew – Hebrish – that constitutes a continuing source of embarrassment and frustration to me. Most humiliating of all (especially when I am only trying to buy a carton of milk), I speak it with an accent that causes most listeners to take pity and to respond in English.      

To me, Israel’s adoption of our ancient tongue rather than English – the international lingua franca since the early 20th century – makes its 1967 occupation of the Territories, with no apparent exit strategy, appear relatively sensible in comparison. Indeed, rather than naming major streets in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem after him, I would instead have ‘rewarded’ Eliezer Ben-Yehuda with a couple of grubby newspaper stands in the Ashkelon and Dimona bus stations.      

But I digress . . .      

On Sunday morning, I met up for coffee with my architect on Levontin Street, in the up-and-coming Gan Ha’Chashmal neighbourhood of Tel Aviv.  

Now, Shlomit is quite atypical of T.A. Woman. In fact, Shlomit is the very antithesis of her. She is refined and ladylike (that should not be taken as an insult, bra-burners!), and the very last person at whom one would want to direct a filthy utterance. 

Discussing plans for a new, Toblerone-shaped building to be erected on the opposite side of Levontin Street, I resolved to be clever and to show off my new Hebrew word – shpitz, or apex, recently taught to me by my friend Yuval (probably with the intention that I would, later, inadvertently misuse it to great comic effect) – to delineate that side of the building of most interest to me.

“Ani ma’adif et ha’shpich,” or “I prefer the cum,” I informed Shlomit boldly.

Shlomit stared down into her creamy hafuch (latte). 

When, some seconds later, the realisation of what I had said shot through me, I resolved that I would have to get myself out of the horribly stiff, sticky spot by either continuing the conversation as if nothing had happened or by confronting my malaprojism (beat that, Kopaloff!) head on.

My cheeks, however, were already throbbing crimson, meaning that the former approach was lost.      

“Oy! Ani kol kach mitsta’er . . . hitkavanti shpitz!” (Oh! I am so sorry . . . I meant apex!)      

Shlomit giggled, nervously, as I forlornly attempted to regain my composure and to continue our discussion about real estate as if I had not just ejaculated about semen.      

Had my faux pas – a fadicha rather than a fashla, it would seem – outdone even the (apocryphal?) group email sent out by the secretary of the large London law firm, requesting assistance after she had dropped a “clit” into the photocopying machine?!  

I was also reminded of the time that a former Canadian colleague at Amdocs – that most hierarchical and regimented of high-tech companies – mistook an instruction from our Israeli boss regarding an “otek” (copy) for a call of “motek” (sweetness).     

“B’seder (okay), motek” Dalit replied in kind . . . totally inappropriately to a woman with the sense of humour of an abscess. And, naturally, we never let her forget it. (Dalit laughed last, however, when another of our technical writers’ group, Andrew – in the elevator after lunch, one day – dripped ice cream onto the club foot of one of the Amdocs Vice-Presidents [most of whom appeared to consider themselves only a notch below Head of State].)      

Having made aliyah over 14 years ago, I can no longer call upon the pitiful excuse – as I did so shamelessly for so long – that “I am an oleh chadash” (new immigrant).

As they say in these parts, however, and usually in the face of far greater adversity, yih’yeh tov (it will be okay). And Shlomit, no doubt, now understands that she is dealing with a complete dimwit.      

To all readers of melchett mike, a slightly belated – though grammatically correct, this time – Chag Atzmaut Sameyach (Happy Independence).

The Tel Avivit’s Subtle Art of Seduction

The telephone build-up had been most promising. A, a 37-year old Tel Avivit whose telephone number had been given to me by my kiosk friend Sam, was clearly vivacious, intelligent and worldly.

And the initial chat, after taking our seats at the bar, was even more encouraging. A clearly knew as much about punk and indie music as I did, and considerably more about film. I was having a good time on a blind date, at last!

A remarked how surprised she was that I am single.

“Yes,” I thought to myself in a Seinfeldesque aside, “it is rather surprising, isn’t it?”

A had just got back from her first visit to London, and was having difficulty comprehending how I could have left it for the “Third World”.

After twenty minutes or so, and flowing with the positive vibes, A’s refreshing directness and, of course, her compliment, I decided to throw in a flirty little tease.

“Who knows . . . perhaps if things work out between us, we can move to London.”

A spent a few seconds digesting the proposition.

“That depends if you fuck good.”

I managed to remain on my stool, though – in order to regain my composure (lost not only as a result of A’s grammatical error) – I needed to buy some valuable seconds of my own.

“That Depends If You Fuck Good . . . Who was that by? Shakespeare?”

The banter continued. But my interest did not.

True, my physical attraction to A had anyway been borderline – almost my default category these days – but her shock tactics ensured that I remained on the English side of the fence.

“She’s probably just fed up with dates and all the game-playing that never goes anywhere anyway,” my friend Limor attempted to explain on Saturday. “And now she just figures that she might as well just speak her mind.”

And I wouldn’t argue with Limor’s assessment. Thirties and forties dating is like a game of chess. And A’s tactics had been to immediately sacrifice her queen, when patiently awaiting some subtle pawn play, followed perhaps by a delicate engaging of the bishop, might have been more likely to obtain a mate . . . and maybe even her knight.

Let’s face it, almost every man wants his woman to be the proverbial “whore in the bedroom”. But T.A. Woman has extended that – counterproductively in my view – to not being a lady outside of it.

And, if that is sexist . . . well then, call me Sid.

Getting ready to rock ‘n’ roll with Iran

“If you will it, Dude, it is no dream.”   

".אם תרצו, אין זו אגדה"

I open my one hundredth posting to melchett mike with a quote from my all-time favourite movie character, The Big Lebowski‘s Walter Sobchak.           

This Polish-Catholic American convert to Judaism – the brilliant creation of the Coen brothers and John Goodman – was, however, quoting some other dude with a long black beard.  

And whiling away the hours at ‘our’ kiosk on Rothschild yesterday morning – I’m working part-time these days (I am 42, y’know!) –  in 27°C heat (nine times the 3°C in my native London) was enough to make me feel that I am living the “dream” . . . if not precisely the one that Theodor Herzl (above right) had in mind.                       

But, whilst we were indulgently licking the ketzef (foam) off our hafuchs (lattes), in Tehran –  on the anniversary of the 1979 Islamic Revolution – Mahmoud Ahmadinejad was letting the crowds, but more importantly Iran’s enemies, know that his terror state is already producing weapons-grade uranium. And Iran’s claim to be a nuclear state, together with yet another call from its President for Israel to “be finished off”, makes Tel Aviv’s hedonism-as-usual somewhat surreal and me considerably more concerned than I was a few months ago.                      

Amongst the sun worshippers at our table yesterday morning was Martin Goldberg, a fellow ex-Hasmo (1975-1982).          

“I don’t worry about things over which I have no control,” Martin declared when I brought up the subject of Iran.                      

But isn’t that precisely what we should be worried about?!        

The truth is that I don’t really worry about such things either. But I certainly do think about them . . .

• My gas mask – allocated during the Second Intifada, in 2000 – was collected a couple of years ago, but never replaced. 
• Where is my “local” (bomb shelter)?
• Even if I find it, would there really be any point in going in?
• Would Stuey and Dexxy be allowed in?
• And, should the unthinkable become the inevitable, would there be a mass exodus from Ben Gurion?

I, for one, certainly won’t be going anywhere . . . other than, perhaps, to my mother’s in Netanya (surely the poisonous Persian dwarf isn’t interested in ex-pat octogenarians playing bridge by the sea?)     

Whilst it is always depressing to hear about incidents like those at the University of California and Oxford Union, earlier in the week – the sooner these knuckle-draggers find their caves in Afghanistan the better – there are no shortage of idiots here. And, though (unlike The Jerusalem Post) a proper newspaper, the daily, intellectual masturbation (left hand) in Ha’aretz never ceases to vex.    

In Wednesday’s edition, for instance, the Israeli novelist and playwright, A.B. Yehoshua – who, displaying such childlike naïvety, should probably be renamed A.B.C. Yehoshua – opined that peace with the Palestinians would neutralise the Iranian threat (full article).    

By Jove, A.B., so simple! So brilliant! Why didn’t we think of that?! A quick, lasting peace with the Palestinians . . .   

What planet do these tossers live on? Ahmadinejad is motivated by an Islamofascist hatred of Jews, not love for the Palestinians. And, until the last one of us has turned out the lights – or until he has, Allah forbid – he won’t rest.     

Iran under Ahmadinejad: entering a world of pain

Now is not the time for intellectualising or infighting – though we Jews excel at both – but for solidarity. After all, which of us would really want to be in Bibi’s or Barak’s shoes at this critical juncture in Jewish history?     

The very best that we can hope for now is that the little brown Hitler will soon, somehow, be deposed. Otherwise, quoting our antihero Walter (right) once again, Iran may well be “entering a world of pain”.    

In order to protect “three thousand years of beautiful tradition, from Moses to Sandy Koufax,” Israel will need to be prepared for all eventualities – even to “roll on Shabbos” – and will have to summon a different type of “will” than that referred to by Herzl. 

It had better be an iron strong one.

The Israeli male, a philistine with a small pee

Taking a Shabbes afternoon stroll through Jaffa last weekend, and feeling the effects of a liquid brunch, I had the sudden urge to relieve myself. And, spotting the wrought iron gates of a shack set back and largely obscured from the road, I took my chance.

“Zeh docheh” (that is revolting), Michal, my walking partner, hissed as I rejoined her a bladderful lighter, a (provocative) smirk of self-satisfaction emblazoned across my face.

Israeli women love a good hiss, though I immediately recognised this one to be symptomatic of the familiar female frustration that their anatomies – lovely though they are – simply do not allow them to do what ours can with ease.

Tel Aviv’s architecture has earned it UNESCO World Heritage Site status. It is not just the Bauhaus buildings themselves, however, but also the gaps between them, that make the “White City” such a wonderful one in which to live. It proved impossible in London’s semi-detached, side-gated suburbia to locate any discreet, impromptu pee stops between the Tube and the Isaacson household, resulting in many a desperate, late night dash – “Please God, help me make it!” – up the home straight. The male, post-ale stagger through Tel Aviv, on the other hand, is a blissfully relaxed one, with alleys conveniently located all the way to Melchett.

Like any chivalrous English gentleman (after regularly witnessing them wee in WC basins, I exclude our football fans from such characterisation), I only spend my penny discriminately (in line with the sign, right, which tickled me during my trip last year to the Caribbean) and out of view. While still urination (and arguably even indecent exposure) in a public place – and strictly speaking, therefore, a likely breach of the penal code – I believe it to be an inalienable expression of my manhood, and a rite which I will fight to preserve.

In our ridiculously PC age – in which it is no longer considered acceptable to give an attractive female stranger a friendly pinch or pat on the bottom, or even to compliment her on her breasts – were this advantage and privilege to be taken away from us, then what, dear reader, would be left?

The indigenous male, however, does not possess the refinement or finesse of the Englishman, nor even of little Stuey for that matter, who will only raise his hind leg by trees, corners of walls or discarded plastic bags (his target of choice).

No, Israeli men possess no such subtlety, indiscriminately discharging the contents of their bladders anywhere and everywhere. The sight of them proudly urinating against shop fronts in busy high streets is a familiar one, as is that of unabashed motorists taking leaks in the full glare of oncoming traffic – and we wonder about our accident rate! – when they could just as easily take a few steps behind their vehicle or down the embankment.

Perched upon the pavement, together with other cheapskates, outside Leonard Cohen’s recent performance in Ramat Gan, we were suddenly treated, during the interval, to the delightful spectacle of long lines of local Neanderthals peeing in our direction down the Stadium embankment.

Like Stuey perhaps, Israeli males are keen to mark their (occupied) territory and to simply be “top dog”. It is part and parcel of the macho Israeli psyche: “I am a gever (male), and I will take it out wherever I like.”

In spite of last week’s flash floods here, it is a continuing source of wonder to me how, with such a paucity of annual rainfall, the country’s agriculture survives such uncomfortably hot summers and almost entirely arid springs and autumns. Perhaps now, however, I have the answer: it is the continual watering of the Land by the uncouth Israeli male – providing showers of a rather different nature – which performs, however unwittingly, the critical role in its irrigation. “Jerusalem the golden”, indeed!

So, Michal, the next time the English oleh (immigrant) needs to pull out his “hose”, praise rather than scold him for performing his Zionist duty . . . and, still, with a sprinkling of class.

No Escape: Going to the Flicks, Israeli-style

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A quiet Israeli cinema (Lev Smadar, Jerusalem)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, I am talking French.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A French cock

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

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

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

Doss vs. Chiloni: Two Sides of the Same Shekel

“Too many dossim.”

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

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

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

Tel Aviv nightclub

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mahmoud and Mrs. P: Reflections on Armageddon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tel Aviv Gay Murders: A Rude Awakening

Just as there can be no substitute for a first hand witnessing of Ground Zero, where New York City’s World Trade Center once stood, walking past the gay and lesbian youth center on Tel Aviv’s Nachmani Street on Sunday evening brought home to me the true horror of what had happened there just the night before.

Amongst the grieving Tel Avivis and burning candles – in memory of Nir Katz, 26, a volunteer at the center, and Liz Trubeshi, just 16 (fifteen others were injured, four seriously) – were signs reading “Die le’homophobia” (Enough homophobia) and “Ahava loh sina” (Love not hate). They said it all.

Israelis comfort each other at the scene of Saturday night's killings

Outside the (mainly residential) building, I ran into Tzachi, a kiosk acquaintance. The front door of his apartment, he told me, is directly opposite the center, and on hearing the shots – of the lone, masked gunman – he loaded his gun in readiness. But he was too late. On exiting his apartment, Tzachi stumbled across two bodies, lying in pools of blood, in the building’s hallway.

I have been meaning to address the following question on melchett mike for some time now: what is it about homosexuality that so disturbs so many, otherwise reasonable, people? Actually, I will rephrase that: what is it about homosexual males that so disturbs so many, otherwise reasonable, heterosexual (ostensibly) males?

I have a few straight (ostensibly) male friends who recoil in disgust every time that they see other men holding hands or kissing (not uncommon sights in Tel Aviv). Another goes into a frenzy whenever he passes men’s clothes stores which he considers too camp. One doesn’t, I suppose, have to be a brilliant psychotherapist to come up with plausible explanations for such behavior.

But repressed, conflicted and/or closet homosexuals apart, why the hell should it bother anyone where some men like to stick their todgers (or take another’s)?

My religious cousin yesterday trotted out the “it’s unnatural” argument. I informed him that I had recently seen research indicating that over fifty percent of heterosexual couples either regularly indulge in or have experimented with – I don’t recall which (I didn’t take notes, but you get the point) – anal sex.

He retorted that, if everyone in the world was gay, it would signal the end of the human race. But not everyone in the world is gay. And what about single people, those with fertility problems, etc? Should we discriminate against them too?

It is interesting to note that male homophobes are, in general, not remotely disturbed by the sexual proclivities and activities of gay females. Especially not those of attractive ones. Very far from it, in fact.

Religious bigotry in Israel has certainly not helped the homosexual community. And unthinking chiloni (secular) Israelis have already pointed fingers of blame for Saturday’s attack at haredim (the ultra-Orthodox). Needless to say, that is totally wrong. It is far from inconceivable that a chiloni homophobe or just a plain nutter perpetrated the atrocity, or that it was the result of some internal dispute.

Conversely, kneejerk reactions that a haredi was unlikely to have carried it out are similarly unhelpful. Among the curious reasons provided in one particular comment to melchett mike were: “1. A haredi is recognizable with or without a mask. Beard, peyot, clothes, etc.  2. Most haredim neither have automatic rifles nor know how to use them.  3. Motzei shabbat [post-sabbath] seems an “unlikely” time for a haredi to act.  4. Where did he get the intelligence?”

It is as if, English football fan-like, many Israelis have chosen their side and will support it whatever. Such are the chasms in our society.

Anyway, another commenter to melchett mike, who opined that homosexuals are “just ill” and “halachically [according to Jewish law] should be put to death”, is merely modern, not ultra, Orthodox.

What this tragedy has brought home to me are the genuine dangers faced by Israel’s gay community (and others). Perhaps we should all be more careful in our discourse, even in our jesting, which otherwise may unwittingly create an atmosphere in which homophobic behaviour is tolerated. Whilst never having considered myself even remotely homophobic, perhaps I have not been overly sensitive to the gay community’s interests and concerns, recently penning a satirical post – Vot do you mean “gay” . . . like “happy”? (which is followed by the full gamut of commenters’ opinions) – on Tel Aviv’s Gay Pride Parade.

On Saturday night, the purpose of, and need for, such public displays of solidarity and pride suddenly and shockingly became much, much clearer.

I am sure we all wish they hadn’t.