Monday, 29 December 2008


The time of week when I most think of this non-entity of a blog is Friday night. It starts in shul, me sitting hidden away in the alcove that is my place, assuming no one has pinched it or there is no simche with brothers, uncles, nephews and cousins far removed from all over the globe taking up the spare and not so spare seats. It is always my seat, chair is more like it, and a rather wobbly one at that, that goes first as I have a revered minhag passed down to me from previous generation to tuck in kugel and salad after the candles have been kindled and if I turn up to shul late, well, unlike a plate of kugel, whatever is missed is shul can always be made up.

The only downside of course being that my seat gets pinched and unfortunately I'm not one of those who shove people off MY seat. First because I don't really have a seat as that was nicked ages ago and second the place I do have to rest my posterior is in reality no more than a tiny space improvised once a week to serve as a repose for my tired self in an area which would otherwise have remained unoccupied. There is no table to rest my siddur in the corner I would never call home and it only really serves its weekly purpose when everyone is seated, for as soon as the point of rising to your feet arrives and all posteriors turn to west I'm squeezed into my little space with a gap to breathe only when the guy in front brings his rear end towards me while shokeling forward and like a swimmer I catch a bit of air at each alternate stroke.

As said my permanent place was stolen eons ago by a smug-face bastard who turns up to shul one of the first and settles into 'his' place as if he has a life tenancy if not a freehold over the place. At his funeral they will lament how punctual he was at the services while those following my cortege will hear sniggers if they only mention the word shul in the eulogy. So let me put it on the record: he is a thief and I am his victim. Let them say over my dead body what an angel I was that even when my seat was stolen in fluorescent-light robbery I turned my nether cheeks and parked them on the equivalent of a double red route during Monday morning rush hour where at any time I may and often am asked to move on to suffer the humility of joining in with a full throated Lecho Doidi in full standing view while those seated have the privilege of catching up on their sleep. And dare no one mention that the real reason for me keeping shtum is that I possess the pusillanimity of the main ingredient of the Friday night soup and like a good Jew don't want to make a fuss -though he will get it- and have the whole shtibel staring at me and muttering, not only does he turn up to lechi neraneno but he turns over the whole place. Go back to where you came from, fress your kugel and in case you haven't noticed some people do prefer to daven. Oysvorf!

So there in that little corner shielded from the glare of the strip lights above and the stare of the eyes around me I can indulge in some day dreaming, insights into the Sedre, some people call them, while heads round me fall like nine pins for a taste of the more authentic nocturnal visions. Truth said I have had an opportunity to stock up on material for my musings. After the shower that is de rigueur for every God-fearing Jew on a Friday afternoon, prostrated on my bed while waiting for the water droplets to be absorbed in my towelling robe or evaporate from those areas the towel can't reach I get the chance to leaf through the weight of newspapers that one cannot get through Shabbos without.

The 150gsm card that the Tribune is printed on, the multi-sectioned Hamodia, the free London Jewish News whose only merit is that it's free and possesses on the comments page some prominent bosoms, clad of course, what do you think we are? A bunch of proste goyim? the one and only JC, oy! what we do without it! we may be blessed with about 5 newspapers and advertisers servicing the holy square mile but how would we discover what's really going on in our midst without the JC? Who's abusing whom? Who stole what? Who by custody and who by penalty? So they don't have a columnist with the sagacity of buffoon yitzchak or tell us which rebbes are in town. I mean that's only because they can't fargin us our gedoilim while the best they have to offer are Rabbis, cough, splutter, Bayfield and Romain. But anyhow I was listing the papers to be perused while drying from the pre-shabbos douche to which must be added the clutch of non-Jewish papers to help me catch up with the doings outside Stamford Hill, NW London and that long and narrow horn-shaped strip on the eastern Mediterranean, not to mention some smatterings of Broughton Park and Brooklyn, NY.

To be continued, to be sure, bli neder, im yirtse hashem, I'm not promising, I do have a chasene tonight and I have to pick my brother up from the airport, but mertseshem I'll really try...

Sunday, 12 October 2008

A Krugerrands worth

So much has been written and said about the near collapse of our banks but still I can't resist my two Krugerrands worth, the liquidity of my bank having put paid to tuppences, so here goes:

1. Poor poor Scotland. If Alex Salmond and the SNP had their way Scotland, with its 2 main banks glengarries in hands at the door of the Treasury, would by now probably have been an Iceland no. 2. We may have had to freeze their bagpipes and whiskey vats using anti-terrorist legislation. And what really makes you shiver is imagining those Scottish balls covered with no more than a kilt frozen by the nefarious English. Some sobering thoughts for go-it-alone nationalists having downed a Glenmorangie too many.

2. It was this government and this prime minister as chancellor that took away the regulation of banks from the Bank of England and transferred it to the FSA. But it would be too much to expect some remorse from a gloating prime minister triumphant for 'rescuing' banks he helped destroy in the first place. The near collapse of the banks happened under his watch and it was his job to hold the nation's purse strings rather than throwing them open. But instead of some words of contrition he presents himself as the Saviour for rescuing us from the tsunami he helped create.

3. The good thing about living in Hackney is that we don't need to wait for a depression to run out of money as there is very little to start off with. So fortunately having nothing means there is nothing to lose in Iceland. Spare a thought for Barnet, though. The shnorer traffic may start moving in reverse from GG to SH once word gets out.

Saturday, 20 September 2008

Grateful grace

Firstly thanks to the many nice people who've left comments. Thanks too to those established writers who've written to me privately not wanting to damage their reputation by publicly associating themselves with this blog. I share your concerns and will respect your privacy. Secondly, or, this being Stamford Hill, second of all, thanks to the millions who've yet to discover this site and so the pressure to continue has been manageable whereas if pleas were coming in by fax, email, post and phone not to mention a demonstration on my doorstep as if this were a threatened cemetery in Eastern Europe I would have barely been able to cope.
As things are it feels more like a neglected cemetery in North London which it being one of our own we can tolerate foxes devouring corpses so as to prove that we have nothing against the welfare of animals and all the fuss about circling poor chickens above our heads is no more than fabrication by those who seek nothing less than our total annihilation and to prevent us from building lofts for as it is written in the scriptures 'How goodly are thy tents, O Jacob, thou front dormers O Israel. As thy extensions are spread forth, as concreted gardens besides thy ceramic floor tiles, as thy Previas which thou hath parked under the trees that Hackney hath refused to cut down or prune.'

That was a long sentence. No question about that. But I am now sitting here and gambling with myself whether I shall be able to pull myself out of bed tomorrow morning for Selichos or whether I should give in and go to a midnight service and enjoy a Sunday lie-in instead. I think I shall gamble on the morning and if I don't make it I shall have the benefit of having retired early and slept in which is the good of both worlds as they say. But there is a third world, meaning the world to come, which is of course not a 'third world' but to the contrary is promised to beat anything the first world has to offer, and sleeping in won't earn me rewards over there. Yet they also say a bed in the hand...

It's this time of the year when we count up our sins and indulge in telling God what a hoary bunch we are and wonder aloud what on earth made him choose us. Yet choose us he apparently did and so we beg his forgiveness which apparently he likes being done at the hour the milkman does his rounds. God does move in mysterious way though I doubt on a milk float.

My sin is that I started a blog and have written nowhere near enough and so I shall make no resolutions since they will only cement my absence from the blogosphere. I will merely say that I shall endeavour to make a more regular appearance and hope the year will give me tickles of sufficient intensity to cause me to laugh out loud on these pages.

And the entire nation shall say Amen!

Sunday, 20 July 2008

Springfield Park

Like every blogger I too promised to myself when opening the blog that I would keep it regularly updated but now notice that it is over a month since I last wrote. And it's not as if not much has happened in that time. So I shall try and keep up the momentum.
I was struck by a piece in the latest issue of Hackney Today titled 'Park that nearly wasn't' about the history of the opening of Springfield Park. The entire area of Springfield Park had been put up for sale for development (plus ca change...)

Sunday, 15 June 2008

Religious Logic

Thursday night, the one before last, I was putting my little one to bed and I said, 'Tomorrow, we can listen to music with our breakfast'. The reason why tomorrow and not today or yesterday is that we were just coming out of the mourning period of the 'Sefirah', meaning the counting days. Counting what? you may want to ask. To which the reply is, 'counting the sheaf', which is not a Jewish version of counting sheep though the rules and regulations governing the Sefirah are of no less a soporific effect.

The period of counting starts on the 2nd day of Passover despite that what is actually written in Leviticus is 'from the morrow of the Sabbath'. This being Judaism an argument broke out and Sabbath was taken to mean the 1st day of Passover though not without some dissenters. Anyhow, the counting culminates on day 49 which was last Sunday, a day before the festival of Shevuos (aka Pentecost). Shevuos translates as 'weeks' which kind of makes sense since the count of 49 days equals 7 weeks.

The actual counting takes place every evening after the evening prayers when a blessing is recited praising God for sanctifying us with the commandment of counting the sheaf, and what a benevolent God he must indeed be if for nothing else. Following the blessing amid much fervour, swaying, flailing of arms, waving of clenched fists, eyes screwed up tightly, we count, 'Today is 27 day[s] which are 3 weeks and 6 days to the sheaf', or whatever the number for that day is. The sheaf is a reference to a sacrifice of a sheep and a sheaf that was brought in the temple to celebrate the first harvest.

And now to the soporific bits. Should you forget to count one night you may continue counting but without the blessing since you're missing a number in the middle. According to some opinions on the matter 7 'complete' weeks are required and nothing less will do. You can’t dial your friend with a digit missing from their phone number so why on earth should God defy nature and lift up his receiver if you’re missing a number to Him? Therefore, the proper obligation is not being fulfilled so you can count but not praise God as praising God for sanctifying you with a commandment you are not technically obliged to carry out may be uttering God's name in vain and that is just not on. Sorry mate, wrong number.

I hope drowsiness is not setting in because we haven't yet reached the mourning bit. The Sefirah is also when according to legend the disciples of Rabbi Akiva died en masse some time around the turn of the 2nd century AD. No less than 24,000 of them. Legend is never satisfied with the incident itself and must ascribe causes and effects. So in accordance with legend’s own legendary logical system the cause of the plague was that Rabbi Akiva's disciples didn't treat each other respectfully. Since one of Rabbi Akiva's teachings is the maxim that the biblical prescription to love thy neighbour as thyself is 'a great principle in the Torah' one must conclude that either he wasn't the best of teachers or they weren’t the best of disciples. But let's pass on that one for now.

What I'm getting to is that during the counting period there is nested within it a mourning period for the 24,000. There is plenty of disagreement on when the mourning is to take place but it is generally agreed that it is to last for a period of 33 days within the 49 days. The form of mourning is not to shave or have a haircut, not to hold weddings and not to listen to music.

My little boy had had a haircut on the Thursday prior to the festival when according to some the mourning had come to an end but according to others it hadn't. It was therefore the perfect opportunity to avoid the queues, queues being an essential part of the haircutting experience when three quarters of Stamford Hill descend upon the barbers, pere et fils, to have their hair seen to. And why all at once? Aren't there enough barbers to service the large number of heads? Surely it calls for an indignant editorial in the Hamodia, a front page leader in the Tribune, Buffoon Yitzchok spitting blood and Alex Strom making a feeble attempt at reason that the askonim must get together and arrange for more hair salons in Stamford Hill. We call on the gevirim to line the pockets of the barbers to provide priority to Yidn. Planning laws must be shaken up so that every vacant shop is turned into a barber on erev Shevuos. What is required is an urgent call from the Rabbinate for a team of voluntary hairdressers accompanied by a press release from Rabbi Pinter.

Well, the problem is that apart from a select number of barbers in the Stamford Hill vicinity few barbers know how to cut a Jewish head. I mean rid it of hair of course. Not that Jewish hair grows in a certain way or that the hair has to be circumcised. It is just that like all else we do, we do like to fuss.

Leave the sidelocks, all 10 inches of them; trim the beard but leave it natural at the side; cut the moustache but don't dare touch the beard; zero from forehead to nape of the neck but not a strand of hair off the sidelocks; cut the head on no. 4 but no straight line at the back; straight line but not with a razor; and so on. As any of the Jewish barbers will tell you, whether they be Greek Cypriot, Bangladeshi or Mohican, there is a Jewish way for cutting hair. Get it right and you'll have Stamford Hill on your doorstep 5 times a year negotiating a discount because they keep you in business. Mess up and you'll be decried from Manor House to Seven Sisters.

I might as well let you into a bit of a secret, while I'm at it. If you are minded to go for a Jewish cut, no one, but really no one, knows the rules like George at the Cypriot barbers of Hair by George on Amhurst Park. He will berate you like a rabbi if you want to touch your beard, ask 'what's wrong?' if you want to leave your hair long and beard short, warn you of the consequences of appearing in shul with a straight line under your chin or above your collar, advise on the fine line between thinning your sidelocks and doing away with them altogether. To top it all his chair doubles as a confessional while tending to your instructions. I suppose that should really be called an ecumenical cut.

So there I was with my little one in a ‘Jewish’ barber less than a week before Shevuos but sans the queues. And all thanks to a good Jewish argument. 2 Jews, 3 opinions (and 5 cheesy jokes), as they say. Thursday was still a day early according to the prevailing opinion so the most rigid opinion holders stayed away. Remember this is Stamford Hill where unless it is planning or parking rigidity always wins the day and beats the hell out of the rest. According to this opinion the mourning ends on the first of the 3 days of 'restrictions' which was a day later. The 'restrictions' being not the cutting of hair or the listening of music but not ascending to Mount Sinai or 'approaching' a woman, nudge nudge.

The connection to Mount Sinai is this. According to rabbinical exegesis Shavuot is also the day that God chose his chosen people and handed them the Torah on the Mount. The story is recounted in Exodus where we are told that 3 days prior to the big day, God commanded the Hebrews to restrain themselves from intercourse and not to ascend the mountain. This being the introduction to the festival of Shevuos it was decided that this is where the mourning must end. So although approaching a woman or ascending the mountain is no longer considered prohibited during these days the band can finally strike up and the hair can be shed according to all opinions.

And so I arrive at the point of this post. My boy wanted to know why is it that he could have a haircut on that Thursday but not listen to music until Friday. I shrugged as I felt a bit guilty for his early haircut. I probably also wasn't bothered trying to explain to him all the above especially before bedtime. The kid is only 4.

I am not about to tell you his witty reply to his own question as I am not my sister-in-law and definitely not my neighbour. Their children are just phenomenal. Not that you would suspect anything amiss if you met them, but just listen to their mums whose credibility we have no reason to doubt and you realise that what we are witnessing are an entire bevy of future Groucho Marxs and Albert Einsteins merged into one. Besides, his self reply was not witty at all. All he said was, 'oh, because we may cut our hair today but we may only listen to music tomorrow'. 'Exactly!' I replied marvelling at his precocious grasp of rabbinical epistemology.

He did however get me thinking. I was wondering is it he who has grasped the logic of religion at a tender young age or is the logic of religion such that it makes perfect sense to the mind of a 4 year old as well as to those who retain that mindset into adulthood?

Answers on a postcard please.