Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur

 Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur.

So it is that we approach the half way point of the Jewish High Holy Days. Last weekend the vast global Jewish population welcomed in Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year but without those Auld Lang Syne traditional melodies ringing in our ears. Nor do we go through that now familiar rigmarole of linking arms, jigging in between swords in tartan or watching either Moira Anderson or Andy Stewart caressing our ears from our TV speakers at the yearly Scottish Hootenanny and then launching into a rousing rendition of I'll Take the High Road. But hold on both of the aforesaid are no longer alive but their spirit lives on. 

And, after all those Jewish festivities last week where the shofar was blown for the 5,787th time, now we have a completely different set of circumstances. For as long as any of us can remember now Yom Kippur has become the yearly homage to starvation, abstinence, asceticism, willpower, physical restraint and sheer dogged discipline. Yes folks it's that time of the year again, when the simple pleasures of eating, drinking, carousing and cavorting in bars, clubs and restaurants have to stop for at least 25 hours. 

Yom Kippur is that deeply solemn period of our lives when the lovely Jews of the world detach ourselves away from the frothy and frivolous moments of every day living that we often take too seriously at times. There can be no consumption of food and drink, no smoking or vaping, no raving to the modern day compositions of Ed Sheeran,  garage, funk or grunge music and no indulgence in anything that may have meat, milk or fish in its dietary requirements. In fact it may be advisable to just spend all day in synagogue(shul) praying, chanting and repenting our sins. Forget about the feasts just for a while. 

While we were growing up, some of us embarked on our yearly rebellion, storming the barricades, threatening to eat every piece of bread in our bread bin before stuffing our faces ravenously with various combinations of pizzas for lunch, tea, cakes and biscuits during the afternoon and then drinking every brewery dry of its lager, cider and spirits. As a child, you simply weren't interested in fasting, questioning your mum and dad all the time. It was both baffling and incomprehensible, 25 hours of pointless misery, unnecessary deprivation, struggle and hardship. 

But, from your barmitzvah age onwards, you knew that you owed to it your family, late and lovely mum and dad and equally as adorable grandmas and grandpas to fast. Of course there was a cussed reluctance to accept the status quo, a sudden recognition of some yearly and admittedly, uncomfortable ritual that had to be endured at the time but then just took for granted every year. Yom Kippur has never been a picnic, so to speak, but you have developed a resistance to food and water and it's now really pleasurable. 

In many ways Yom Kippur and its fasting connotations has now become hard wired into your autumnal mindset. Come Yom Kippur, mum, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother and uncle would stand together in unison, kindred spirits, deep in reflection and contemplation. Grandpa would wear that grey suit and smart shirt while dad would wear his navy suit or jacket, with blue or white shirt crisply laundered and tie. Grandma was always warm, full of loving tenderness, caring, solicitous, smiling and compassionate. Grandpa would spend the whole day in what used to be the Beehive Lane synagogue(shul) while mum, dad, brother and yours truly would head for the exits at lunchtime. 

It all felt socially awkward at the time because nobody had given me an adequate explanation of what exactly you were supposed to do or say. You'd started Hebrew classes(cheder) but those siddurims were like foreign language books that were just indecipherable, Hebrew words, sentences and paragraphs that were lost in translation. You could read Hebrew but you had no real idea what exactly the words meant in English. Mother was Ima, Dad was Ubba, Ma was what, Boker Tov meant Good Morning, Unai was I but that constituted your entire Hebrew vocabulary. But the whole of Yom Kippur was shrouded in mystery, some esoteric form of grammar that belonged to Biblical times rather than 1974.

As a family we would observe the same pattern of behaviour every year. The night before Yom Kippur was Kol Nidre, an evening full of sombre significance, a couple of hours of gravity, gravitas and deep respect. Then Yom Kippur would follow the next day and you must have spent at least half an hour pouring out your grievances, moaning, groaning and complaining about the Fast getting nowhere in particular. 

Personally, adolescence had been mildly traumatic but nobody was to blame. Here you were with doting family but no friendships with the wider Jewish community of your age group. Of course it was perhaps vaguely frustrating but at the time you probably felt as if you didn't really need anybody else in your life. But every time you looked upstairs to the seating gallery all you could see was a millinery shop of gorgeous women's hats and the kind of fashions that, as a kid, you must have regarded as just over the top and outlandish. 

And then it occurred to you. There were girls up in the gallery who were the same age as yourself but may just have well been complete strangers, none you'd known from your local Jewish youth club because they were having the most enjoyable time as early teenagers.  You, however seemed to be trapped in a self absorbed world of isolation and estrangement, on your own and nobody with whom any kind of social conversation could be struck up. Somehow though this was the way it was. Maybe you were just content with your own company.  

Anyway, every lunchtime and every Yom Kippur there would be the now customary exodus out of the shul and back home again. The prayer Yiska for the dead among your beloved ones, was the cue for a frantic surge out of the building and they would head straight for Valentines Park in Ilford, East London. Here families, boyfriends, girlfriends, young children would all be seen pushchairs and prams in tow. It was rather like any religious congregation, a gathering of the great and good, the teenagers brazenly smoking and drinking cans of Coca Cola while you surveyed the scene with a certain degree of amusement. 

The afternoon itself seemed to pass by fairly quickly because you just wanted to while away the hours in the hope that the day itself would pick up a head of steam and fly past. Every so often peals of laughter and local humour could be heard quite clearly. There was a sense here that although Yom Kippur was never your favourite day, you could still smile and wander around, becoming part of the crowd.

You remember vividly now some old friends who, in one particular year, tried to lead you astray. As you left Valentines Park, there was McDonald's junk food emporium in Cranbrook Road. Up until that point in your life, you'd always fasted dutifully and quietly, never dreaming of snatching even a burger or chips for that matter. But my acquaintances decided to drift through the front door of this junk food empire and buy the most horrendously greasy burger and chips you were ever likely to see. It was all a bit underwhelming and, when all was said and done, it really did nothing to stimulate my appetite. 

And so the masses would disperse in Valentines Park and you were left with the impression that Yom Kippur was simply a case of mind over matter. My late and lovely mum always maintained that the body could quite easily go without food or water for 25 hours and that it did no harm to your digestive system.  In a sense of course she was right because you immediately called on your Jewish resilience and survival instincts and just blotted food and drink out of your mind. 

For the whole of my teenage period, my wonderful dad and I would regularly return from synagogue(shul) ravenous and famished an hour before the end of the Fast. But mum acquired this lovely habit of reminding us of the feast that would follow the fast. Bless her, she would always cook her yearly concoction of fried fish and delicious salmon cutlets preceded by the sweetest cup of milky coffee. It is a memory that can never be forgotten. 

So to all of my Jewish family and friends well over the Fast if it is medically possible to do so. Last year and for a number of years, my lovely wife Bev and I saw in the New Year and observed the Fast at the glorious Finchley Reform shul. Here Saracens rugby union ground would be the genial host for the High Holy Days. The remarkable sight of all those rugby trophies in their cabinets and those stunning paintings on the wall, may never fade away.

But this year Bev and I will be attending our new synagogue(shul) the Sinai reform shul in Moortown in Leeds. We have been overwhelmed by the warm Yorkshire hospitality and will certainly feel at home here as well. And at the back of your mind will remain one of my fondest Yom Kippur  memories. On Kol Nidre, my dad and I started walking towards Beehive Lane shul. At the bottom of the road, a gust of wind took my dad's umbrella on the kind of journey that Mary Poppins would have taken great delight in. And so to the great Jewish population fast well if you can but if not enjoy the Jewish holidays. Keep well and best wishes to you all.    

 

Ludek Miklosko-former West Ham goalkeeper dies at 64 and goalkeepers.

 Ludek Miklosko - former West Ham goalkeeper dies at 64.

It still came as a shock to hear that one of West Ham's most beloved and greatest goalkeepers died this morning at the age of 64. Ludek Miklosko was indeed that man. Goalkeepers, rather amusingly and facetiously, are often referred to as mad, crazy, eccentric. at times often idiosyncratic and, at others, simply flamboyant. But they are essentially the glue that holds together teams, the courageous heroes who put their lives on the line just to keep their team in the hunt for promotion or the man responsible for leading their teams to the Premier League title. 

Goalkeepers hold down the most unenviable of all positions on the pitch because they're the ones with the key to the lock, the safe and capable hands who catch the ball cleanly from teasing crosses from the by line or wing. But then there are the endearing characters such as former Spurs keeper Pat Jennings who had shovels for hands, a man so secure and unflappable that had nuclear war broken out, Jennings would still be there, a model of re-assurance, always reliable, never flustered and just infallible, a giant of certainty.

During the 1980s and 90s, Ludek Miklosko was one of the most respected and calming influences at the heart of West Ham's often sloppy and clumsy back line. Miklosko had it all worked out as a goalkeeper. His positional sense was, of course impeccable, the reflexes as sharp as a blade and his air of  business like authority could spread an almost quiet composure. In many ways you could both see hear and see Miklosko because he was that versatile. 

But thoughts of Miklosko and goalkeepers in general prompted memories of previous goalkeepers at West Ham United. When West Ham were promoted back to the top flight Premiership just over 30 years ago, the Czech keeper was at his most formidable and invincible, almost carrying the team at the time. But West Ham were promoted that season and have since experienced the fluctuating fortunes that have become almost customary at the club.

During the early 1970s, West Ham manager Ron Greenwood confidently predicted that Mervyn Day would become England's regular goalkeeper for the foreseeable future. What Greenwood probably failed to realise was that Day was young, immensely talented of course but human, flawed,  accident prone and to frequent errors. Day did rise to the occasion and became one of the youngest goalkeepers to appear in an FA Cup Final when West Ham beat Fulham in a London derby in 1975.

Back in the 1950s Ernie Gregory, who would later become one of the most influential figures on West Ham's coaching staff, provided wit, wisdom, humour and immense knowledge. But Gregory was an outstanding goalkeeper. Gregory was athletic, flexible, wearing the thickest gloves in civilisation, a thick top to keep him warm and was rarely caught out and beaten. He was an integral part of West Ham's promotion winning team back to the old First Division in 1958.

Then going back to the late 1960s and 70s, Scottish goalkeeper Bobby Ferguson took up frequent occupation in West Ham's goal. Ferguson was reliability itself,  fearless, cool, nerveless and imperturbable. Ferguson was, crucially, injured in the 1972 League Cup semi final against Stoke City, a match that seemed to go on for ever. In goal to replace Ferguson was the immaculate Bobby Moore but even Moore couldn't really follow that act. 

It was towards the end of the 1970s that West Ham really did push the boat out. With Mervyn Day just a distant historical footnote, Peter Grotier, an equally as able and soothing influence as a keeper, West Ham were looking for a goalkeeper who could give them a firm footing, stability and just solid protection. The man they were looking for could be found across West London at Queens Park Rangers. 

Phil Parkes was a tall, broad shouldered, moustachioed figure. Parkes had hands, rather like Pat Jennings that would hold the ball to his stomach and never let it go. Parkes made his West Ham debut at a very vocal and supportive Upton Park against Oldham in the old Second Division. But this was no ordinary debut because Parkes had just become the most expensive goalkeeper at the time. He signed for West Ham for, at the time, an astronomical £565,000 which is almost chicken feed by modern day standards. 

As Parkes emerged from the Upton Park tunnel, you could vividly spot what looked like a bathroom towel plus Parkes precious green gloves. He would jog towards the South Bank amid thunderous applause, clap the supporters before hanging the said towel over the back of the net. Football was full of oddities and quirks at the time so this wasn't entirely unexpected. Briefly, Parkes old team QPR introduced Astro Turf to English football and we know what happened next. Natural grass made a memorable comeback. 

More recently, West Ham have boasted Shaka Hislop and Rob Green, powerful looking and compact in goal but sometimes exposed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hislop was brilliantly consistent but could only gasp in amazement as Steven Gerrard sent an unstoppable rocket of a shot high into the net, equalising for Liverpool in the final seconds of the 2006 FA Cup Final. West Ham would lose this Final on penalties and once again the club were denied of silverware although the best would come to pass three years ago when West Ham held aloft the UEFA Conference Final trophy against Fiorentina.

And so we pay warm homage to goalkeepers. Former goalkeeper Peter Bonetti was affectionately referred to as 'The Cat' and that seemed highly appropriate. Bonetti's feline reflexes and reactions served England quite admirably. But he'll always be remembered for the butter fingers which allowed a shot from West Germany to squirm under his body and into the net. West Germany knocked out England in the quarter final in the 1970 World Cup. 

Back in the 1970s, the late and  much missed Ray Clemence and Peter Shilton fought out an amiable, good natured rivalry for the position of permanent England goalkeeper. As a child, Shilton would stretch his arms and legs on his parents staircases on some occasions and just swinging loosely from a great height. Shilton would play for both Stoke City, Nottingham Forest, West Ham and Leyton Orient with peerless distinction, becoming the most capped goalkeeper of his time.

Meanwhile, Ray Clemence served his apprenticeship at Scunthorpe. Clemence spent the whole of one summer before joining Liverpool as a seaside deckchair attendant. But then, with cap on his head, on late autumnal afternoons at Anfield, Clemence would fly kick his goal-kicks with some velocity and just stop everything that was thrown at him. Clemence though was exposed as a figure of ridicule when he allowed the ball to trickle under him for a Scotland goal at Hampden Park in a Home International match.

And so we return to the sad passing of Ludek Miklosko this morning. West Ham have always been a family club with strong emotional connections to the East End docklands. Miklosko became a legendary figure at Upton Park because he genuinely felt an affinity with the club's traditional values. His death this morning will be mourned respectfully because we know how the role of the goalkeeper has now become so thankless and daunting. Ludek will always be in the hearts of thousands of West Ham supporters. Of that you can be sure.     

9/11 - A day never to be forgotten.

 9/11- a day never to be forgotten.

9/11. It was simply a day that should never, ever be forgotten. Here was a day that sent the coldest of shivers down our spine. It was the most horrendous, tragic and the most brutal attack on our civil liberties. And yet it was just an ordinary autumnal day in New York. Thousands upon thousands of office workers, delivery vans, those famous and distinctive yellow cabs and pounding feet quickened their stride, anxious to get into work as soon as possible. 

An early morning in September would unfold in much the way it always had and yet we were not to know what would happen next. None could have anticipated the murderous savagery that would follow. It was a bright and crisp day in early September and the good people of Syracuse were about to have their lives completely turned upside down. By the end of that day, the whole world would bow their heads despairingly and, in a vast majority of cases, cry bitterly, weep openly, their eyes red with grief.

With more or less minutes to go before the day's opening hours, two planes, heading straight for the Twin Towers, would hurtle dramatically towards one of New York's most celebrated and iconic buildings. It was a handsome establishment, a place of high finance and business, a proud symbol of America at her finest and grandest. But that day would prove to be unlike anything we had ever witnessed. We were shocked, terrified, aghast, speechless and dumbfounded. We had lost the capacity to think and feel, react and rationalise.

Our thought processes had been paralysed, emotions thrown into utter turmoil and, at the time, our very existence threatened by an enemy that had yet to reveal itself. Those in the highest authorities privately knew exactly what had just taken place but they were yet to identify who they were. It was the day that the Twin Towers in New York was demolished, burnt to the ground, viciously attacked, killing thousands of ordinary, everyday, clean living and virtuous folk who were just getting on with the business of the day. 

But then, cruelly and grotesquely, thousands would die at the hands of despicable terrorism. It was the most appalling act of savagery, a bloodthirsty act of murderous intentions, a day of ineffable grief and pain, suffering and heartache on the most terrifying scale. Certainly none of us had never seen anything like this before and none of us could have foreseen what would happen next, the sheer magnitude of  the day's events.

Shortly before nine o'clock in the heart of New York, two planes crashed into the Twin Towers and one of America's most imposing of buildings, a stunning piece of architecture, was fire bombed and then left in charred ruins, razed to the ground. Shortly, thick black plumes of mushrooming black smoke would dramatically spread across the morning sky, vivid orange flames tearing through this most noble edifice. At first we thought it was just another plane that had lost control and that a terrible accident had claimed the lives of people who just believed that September 11th would simply be another day.

Within minutes, two planes plunged headlong into the Twin Towers. Then a haunting darkness and silence would fall grimly over this scene of  the most egregious crime. September 11th was suspended almost indefinitely, all civilisation seemingly gone because this couldn't have been what we thought it was but indeed it had been. The most evil of terrorists had launched the most disgraceful assault on humanity. They were merciless, heartless, callously indifferent to human life, man's inhumanity to man, woman and child.  

Meanwhile, back in the White House, President George W. Bush was still shaking his head in disbelief, processing the inexplicable, finding comforting words to those in heartbroken distress. And yet Bush, alongside British Prime Minister Tony Blair, came together in the most moving and sympathetic manner that they could find in their hearts. Both men were whole heartedly united  in heartfelt condemnation, obvious compassion coursing through their collective souls, fearless and determined to face those who were hell bent on causing chaos, misery, bedlam and executing the complete elimination of innocent citizens.   

It hardly seems like 25 years ago now but, with the benefit of hindsight, we can still remember where we were and what we were doing. We were catching the morning train to work, packing our academic bags for school, college and university, pursuing our dreams and ambitions. How or why were the foremost questions? What possessed the minds of seemingly rational human beings to commit the irrational, this most unforgivable violation, this suicidal attack on the most monumental scale? It seemed the most indiscriminate act of violence, barbarism at its most unimaginable. But we saw it and    winced, blinking, rubbing our eyes with stunned incredulity. 

And yet what has come to be known simply as 9/11 is now branded permanently in our memories because this was simply too outrageous for any of us to comprehend. At first we were reminded of that epic disaster film The Towering Inferno with the very distinguished David Niven where fire ripped through a hotel and left countless dead. But this, essentially, was real life not some imaginary Hollywood creation. It was September 11th 2001 and 25 years later,  America is still, quite naturally, grieving and inconsolable and still demanding answers to questions. 

The images are of course indelible; there was the sight of one person hurling themselves out of their burning office window and leaping to death, hundreds of people down on the ground scampering and scurrying away from the crumbling office blocks, hands over their mouths, coughing incessantly, desperately escaping from the massive conflagration. Still more were bent over and physically broken, frantically searching for some semblance of safety. 

The air of urgency and emergency can still be felt. People were running away, screaming and yelling helplessly, emotionally fraught, work suits and shirts caked in dust and dirt, thousands trapped in rubble and debris, fleeing for their life in case one of the collapsing Towers had yet to finally fall. As we would later discover,  Al Qaeda, a shameless band of Islamist terrorists, perpetrated this most villainous atrocity and they were the ones with blood on their hands. 

And yet 25 years later the world refuses to give into terrorism, genocide, suicide or, whether be it religiously motivated or not, we will stand tall, fearless, undaunted, ferociously opposed to these repulsive renegades, these outright purveyors of poisonous hatred. 9/11 was a stark reminder of what can happen when, just a brief moment of complacency at the very top of governments can be wickedly fatal. 

There were of course lengthy inquests, probing post mortems and innumerable court cases following 9/11. There were the extensive investigations into how Al Qaeda were simply allowed the air space and opportunity to carry out their dastardly deeds. Whole groups of men have gone on trial, extradited quite rightly from the country, held to account and severely punished by judge and jury. For years TV has given over saturation coverage and different camera angles. We have been inundated with documentary evidence of which members of families had lost their loved ones and would sadly never recover.

But today is not a day for firing off accusations at whomsoever and blaming any one individual. But we all shared an unwavering admiration for the fire services, the ambulances who came to the rescue almost immediately, the paramedics who carried out mouth to mouth resuscitation on the spot. We can still see that wonderfully heroic fire fighter, slowly descending the stairs, sweat pouring off his  forehead, face etched with panic and overwhelming anxiety. But he, quite miraculously, survived and for this, the world should doff its cap and thank him immensely. Bravery in the face of adversity. It was there for all to see. 

So this morning, by the Ground Zero Memorial built to commemorate those who had lost their lives that fateful day, millions of families will be quietly murmuring prayers and blessings. It'll be a day for sober reflection, agonised reminiscence, a day of sullen solemnity and, quite rightly, so. For we remember 9/11 and we will not allow our everyday freedoms to be stolen from us. We have the right to demand full and detailed explanations because we were the ones who could only observe from a distance. So wherever you are today and whatever you're doing, never ever forget the victims of 9/11. 

As a proud Jew we will be thinking of you today since tomorrow is our Jewish New Year and Rosh Hashanah and we are also on the side of justice and common sense. We will chant for your good health and happiness and we will tell our friends in  America that you have our unconditional love and support. We feel sure that today we will be praying for peace and reconciliation and we will not give up at all.  

Rosh Hashanah- A happy and healthy New Year to you all

Rosh Hashanah- A happy and healthy New Year to you all. 

It almost feels inappropriate, inaccurate, completely wrong, almost bizarre and incongruous.  But tomorrow it's the beginning of the New Year. Hold on, surely something has been lost in the translation. Oh yes it'll shortly be Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. We love being Jewish and so do my family and I. So we'll be welcoming in the Chag, the festival that keeps giving with love and then bearing fruit on Succot.  

This Saturday morning, or Shabbat, the proud Jews of the world will be gathering together in a show of solidarity, camaraderie, cheerful harmony, defiance, stubbornness, steadfastness, loyal and devoted to our cause. It'll be a celebration of history, tradition, years of singing from the same hymn sheet, striving towards a world where peace, reconciliation and kindred spirits were always welcome and we all prayed for a healthy, happy and peaceful New Year. 

For this Saturday morning is the first day of Rosh Hashanah, our yearly religious congregation where forgiveness and repentance are uppermost in our minds and slates are wiped clean. Somehow the persecution that a vast majority of Jews have always felt has now been starkly highlighted. But this is a part of a much wider issue, a sense of alienation and rejection that most Jews have had to deal with and confront for long periods throughout their lives. 

As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor this one carries all manner of diverse and complex problems, a sense that Jews have always been left on the outside, snubbed and rejected, mocked and humiliated, never included and always marginalised by the mainstream media and, now, the social media. Perhaps this has everything to do with who Jews are and how most of the world regards us. Of course we're upright, honourable citizens, respectability itself and we do mind our own business. But we do polarise opinion and that can't be right.  

But Rosh Hashanah is much more than a joyous celebration of the New Year. It is all about acceptance, a real sense of belonging rather than being kicked about like a political football and then being punched below the belt, ordered to move on to a place where the environment is toxic and the language is both negative and slanderous. It is a scenario where hostility and violence are somehow overwhelming and ever present. The conversations can often be heard in Far Right, virulently antisemitic corners, whispering and muttering cruelly, spitefully, maliciously, wilfully and then, quite distressingly.  

Over the weekend a small corner of East Germany elected a Far Right organisation into a position of power, a party committed to blatant antisemitism, rampant racism, hate crime, exclusion and intolerance of, quite possibly, Jews. It would perhaps be too hasty to assume that the good people of Magdeburg will be subjected to a constant bombardment of insults including destructive and pejorative language. But there is every possibility that it could lead to a complete breakdown in society. You do privately fear the worst at times but of course everything will be fine.

Now the events over the weekend aren't necessarily causes for much graver concern across most of Western Europe and Eastern Europe. But this Saturday morning my lovely family and I will be sitting down once again in our shul (synagogue) and praying for a change in direction. We will clasp our hands together, wrap our tallit( shawl) over our collective heads and read from the siddurim and chumash. We will pray deeply for an end to these explosive conflicts where centuries of horrendous war and death have left nothing but bitterness and resentment in every corner of every land, island, city, town and village. 

For well over 5,000 years the vast global Jewish population has cried and wept openly at the grievous losses of life, the destruction of hundreds of thousands of properties, the evil murder of children, the horrific demise of families, shops, offices, restaurants and government buildings. And then we have closed our own eyes because we can barely believe the evidence in front of us because that hurts, that's excruciatingly painful, too much to bear, too traumatic for words. And yet it's the harsh reality and that can never be denied. 

But Rosh Hashanah makes us stronger, fitter, harder, fit to face all drawbacks and setbacks. And then we rediscover our resilience, our unyielding fighting spirit, our backbone, our tireless determination in the face of adversity, a kind of red blooded muscularity that refuses to give in. We will once again blow the Shofar(the ram's horn) with that traditional sound of melodious resonance. Our learned rabbis and cantor will be there for us as they always have been and we will acknowledge them because we love them and that's unconditional.  

And then we will look at our family and friends and find that they too, are supportive, immensely loving and enduringly affectionate. We know they'll always be with us, following us, smiling warmly, laughing at our jokes, our light hearted witticisms, the people we've grown up with, lived our lives alongside them and continue to share with ours. Rosh Hashanah is good for the soul, uplifting, richly redemptive, morale boosting, a period for quite reflection and, with the benefit of hindsight, we knew we could come through for each other. So we open up the Torah and just read those beautiful lines, sentences and paragraphs in both Hebrew and English. 

Shortly, Saturday afternoon will give way to those late glows of autumnal splendour. The light will slowly fade and then the evening will herald the wondrous revelation of an amber coloured sunset. Rosh Hashanah is full of symbolism and imagery. We will eat our familiar apples and honey and September will be full of sweetness and goodness as has the rest of the year. Life will be symmetrically correct, full of the finest textures and flavours, in perfect alignment and ready to embrace us heartily. 

Rosh Hashanah is all about the casting away of sins and wrong doing, for rectifying any of the mistakes we may have made and then looking forward with enormous anticipation to the forthcoming year. We are humans, flawed, vulnerable and wholly susceptible to errors of judgement. But as Jews we can accentuate the positive, maintaining both our cool and composure when things get rough and we will not be bowed or beaten, defeated or downcast. 

For a while we will once again lament the death of six million Jews during the Holocaust, remain aghast at the political grenade that is the Far Right in Magdeburg and then there will be a realisation that we are still at one with each other. We dearly want to see our precious grandchildren grow up in a world where the guns, bombs and bullets of war are no more ever again. We all want to forge a path to righteousness, to a comfortable civility where arguments can be settled quite easily and nobody raises a fist in anger. 

Now this may be wishful thinking on your part given the geo politics of the world and just how difficult it may be to just reframe our thinking. Perhaps we will, one day, sooner rather than later, gaze longingly at a world of Utopia where man, woman and child can just build a future totally free from threat and aggression. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, the start of something fresh and exciting, a chapter of our lives with a clear and coherent dialogue, an inspirational message and a narrative that is deeply heart warming. L'shana Tova and Chag Semach, a happy, healthy and peaceful New Year to you all.      

Richard O'Sullivan dies at 82.

Richard O'Sullivan dies at 82.

Richard O'Sullivan, who has died at the age of 82, belongs in no one particular category of TV greatness and pre- eminence. O'Sullivan was just one small but vital component in the populist situation comedy machinery that produced so many stars and unmistakable celebrities that it may be impossible to pigeon hole him. What might have been perceived as funny by some may have been bland and forgettable to others. But we recognised and respected him for who he was and what he may have been representing to a much wider TV audience. 

And so today we remember this child prodigy who burst into our living rooms and consciousness in the hit 1970s sitcom Man About the House. Up until the start and middle of the 1970s sitcoms had been pretty conventional but always hilarious, destined to reduce us to belly laughter but then somewhat disappointing and formulaic when seen in the light of the social issues so predominant at the time. Man About the House had a simple premise; two flirtatious girls sharing a flat with a red blooded male student who always seemed so good humoured and philosophical when things went wrong. 

From a very young age, O'Sullivan had all the makings of a multi faceted, versatile and hugely talented film actor. In 1954 he appeared in a Sherlock Holmes TV series which, more or less, introduced  the slowly expanding TV audience to O'Sullivan's blossoming talents. He was in the Adventures of Robin Hood and Dangerous Exile during the 1950s then vanished from our radar completely before re-emerging in the early 1970s with Man About The House. 

As was the case with most of his contemporaries, O'Sullivan trod the acting boards as a precocious teenager. The works of Shakespeare provided him with the most stable of all platforms and springboards from which to branch out into a wider world of juicier roles on both the stage and finally Man About The House. Accompanied by the flighty Chrissy ( Paula Wilcox and the equally as vivacious Jo ( Sally Thomsett, Man About the House had a bubbly, upbeat exuberance that typified the sitcom of that age. 

And then set against a backdrop of simple domesticity and amusing banter about sex and relationships, there is a delightful grumpiness in the form of  Brian Murphy as the eternally cantankerous George Roper. Then there's the gloriously downtrodden wife Mildred played beautifully by Yootha Joyce. Man About the House essentially symbolised everything we've come to expect from the special world of British sitcom. And then there was the very comical Richard O' Sullivan, either cooking up rotten recipes in the kitchen and then adopting the persona of the confident man about town.  

The dynamic between O'Sullivan and the girls he shares with him in his flat is illustrated with perfect precision. There was an innocence and charm about Man About the House that almost felt just right. Robin Tripp, who was O'Sullivan, was also quite macho but unpretentious, mocking his own evening meals and then gossiping about the Ropers as the neighbours with whom he could never quite hit it off. And then when Man About the House came to a natural conclusion, somebody wanted to do a spin off of the series. 

Robin's Nest followed and by the end of the 1970s, O'Sullivan had become a familiar face on British TV.  The subject of This is Your Life, introduced by Eamonn Andrews, this was probably his last hurrah, bringing the curtain down on a much loved comic actor. O'Sullivan more or less disappeared into obscurity during the 1980s and by the beginning of the 1990s and the beginning of the 21st century, the work had dried up and retirement beckoned. 

Now O'Sullivan found himself in a home for the ageing showbiz celebrity. The world of stardom, celebrity and regular prominence on the theatrical stage, had now faded away and the man who had always made us laugh in a very understated way, was no longer in the limelight. It is quite a while since the TV sitcom could ever boast such a modest and yet extravagant talent. But Man About the House is still being shown well over 50 years later since its first showing on the That's It 2 retro TV channel and for this we must be so profusely grateful. 

The weather- yes, a very good friend.

 The weather- yes, a very good friend.

You're not going to believe this. To be honest nor were we. It almost felt that the great British summer had lived up to its name. We were just so thrilled that it had stayed for the duration. Of course we'd made comparisons with the last hot summer of 1976 but then we probably felt we'd never see its like again. So how pleasantly surprised and amazed we were by an almost identical rerun. Thankyou summer you've stepped up to the plate and you've smashed it out of the park. Well done. 

Yes folks it's our favourite topic of discussion, our almost obsessive preoccupation and, although we joke about the subject almost constantly, we can't get enough of it or can we? It dominates our everyday thinking because we always feel we have to chat about it, consistently analysing its contrasting moods and patterns. There is almost an obligation to talk about it, referring over and over again to the weather in our everyday conversation. We go through the same procedure at bus stops, with passing strangers in the street and then there are those railway stations, as the commuters wait patiently for the 8.00 train in the morning. 

And yes back by popular demand, it's that time in the year. The August Bank Holiday weekend is upon us and, amid much excitement, the skies above us are turning a battleship grey and darkening quite rapidly. The clouds are gathering en masse and after another astonishing summer of record breaking temperatures, one heatwave after another and sub tropical warmth, it's all coming to an end or so they tell us. It couldn't have gone any better because, around the country, we've all seen the documentary evidence. But this is wonderful because we do privately love the rain.

Day after day the news agenda has relayed the tragic repercussions of a hot summer. Now we should be full of gratitude for those warm, hot days when everything seems so perfectly enjoyable. The roses in our gardens are flourishing and have never looked prettier but those same patches of hallowed green grass have turned to dust, a concrete bowl replete with what looks like straw and whitish patches everywhere. Naturally Britain is struggling but then it always does when it doesn't quite know what to do with a phenomena it can never really make head or tail of. 

Of course we love the heat, warmth and sun because it makes us feel better, uplifted and energised, verging on excessive exhilaration, dancing on the rooftops, celebrating with the conga around Trafalgar Square, Piccadilly Circus, and all of the country's most favourite shopping centres and every market town throughout Britain. In 1976, everybody leapt up and down in the Trafalgar Square fountains, drenching ourselves in gallons of water just to keep cool. We then rolled up our 1970s flared trousers and did it again.

What we didn't know or couldn't have anticipated is that 50 years later we'd be addressing the same issue once again. In hindsight, there are parallels with the incredible heatwave of 1976 in as much that there were hosepipe bans, there was a chronic shortage of water and sprinklers were banned. By 2026, some of us had become proud grandparents to two of the most beautiful grandchildren and life had moved on in the most startling fashion. The march of progress and natural human evolution has taken us into a land of miraculous discoveries, wondrous scientific journeys and an extraordinary period of high tech achievement. 

We could never have believed that humans could ever talk and communicate to each other instantly via a computer, lap top, Smart Phone or the click of a keyboard letter. Before you could bat an eyelid, you now felt as if you were sitting right next door to your brother or sister in Thailand or Mauritius. You could see them, hear them, revel in their presence in your living room. Admittedly, you couldn't shake their hands physically but their presence and appearance on a small screen had you in raptures, doing somersaults.

But the weather has done it again. After a lengthy run in the provinces and all of those fringe theatres, the weather is back in the news. On every advertising hoarding, lamp-post, wall, newspaper vendor stall, it's top of the bill, the latest meteorological development, our familiar old friend. We've been discussing the weather in our offices with industrial fans blowing away quite happily. We may have been complaining because the air conditioning isn't working but now the rains are on their way. Are we happy? Of course we are. That goes without saying. 

So September is quietly waiting in the wings, whispering mischievously in the background, playing hide and seek with the kids about to go to back to school. September has been rehearsing its lines diligently, swotting hard for its exams, investigating the rich possibilities that autumn may have to offer. There is a nervous anticipation in the air because September may not be ready for the first big day but it will be alright without any shadow of a doubt. 

Next Monday, on the August Bank Holiday, the whole of Notting Hill in London will come alive once again as it always does. It's the Notting Hill Carnival, that yearly outpouring of music, stunning costumes, hundreds of women wearing feathers and those distinctive steel drums. There will be countless food stalls selling the very finest in jerk chicken and rice and there will be Caribbean rhythms in perfect harmony. The weather at Notting Hill Carnival doesn't seem to matter because everybody is just determined to have the best day and weekend of them all including the police.  

But folks, this is not the time to be worried or fret because it's been a stupendous summer where the weather has been exceptional and the sunshine has been our warmest companion.  Those outside al fresco gastro pubs and carveries have never been busier, our dogs and cats have never had so much exercise and everything in the world has been wonderful. So let's celebrate that golden British summer because it deserves to be recognised as such.  

Of course the forest fires and widespread damage to so much of Britain's most fertile farmlands may never be recovered. But humanity has found a way of surviving such disastrous setbacks and it's time to turn the calendar over to autumn. So it's time to pack away our cricket pads and tennis rackets, seek out as many conkers before the kids get to them and just huddle together in doors before the heater goes on. So let's welcome the gusty winds, those eddying leaves in the park, wrap a blanket over yourselves and always remember that the weather will be always be a very good friend come rain or shine. Enjoy. 

The end of the school summer holiday.

 The end of the school summer holiday.

There was something about the school summer holiday that felt too good to be true. Here you were confronted with six weeks of sheer release, liberation, the freedom to do whatever you wanted without realising that by the end of August, you'd still have to return to a world of strict discipline, spartan routine, impeccable behaviour and good manners. But then you were given a sharp jab in the ribs when everything had to be ready for the new term at school. Shortly, you would have to go back to a world of discipline, obedience, rectitude and propriety. 

During those last weeks of sheer, unadulterated pleasure and enjoyment, you almost felt that sense of dread and trepidation that none could really understand. School may have been out for summer but now autumn was creeping unobtrusively over the horizon, above your kitchen window and out into the streets and roads of your local neighbourhood. You didn't have to be reminded of the fact because you could see it again. 

There was a gathering sense of doom and gloom, impending reality kicking in with a vengeance. In 1976, we experienced the kind of summer that some of us are now being privileged to be a part of again. Exactly 50 years later the feelings are much the same: five or six consecutive heatwaves, hosepipe bans now a widespread imposition on our lives and patronising warnings about the obvious. It all seems like familiar territory only this time there is no school to go back to but, wonderfully, stunning children, wife, family and grandchildren to think about.

Isn't it amazing how our priorities change so often and perhaps predictably? 50 years ago we were still kids, children on the cusp of adolescence, rebellious teenagers, stroppy, bolshy individuals trying the patience of our wonderful mum and dad and refusing to be told what to do? Kids never listened to their parents attentively because they knew best. They thought they could get away with murder, staying out late and well past the midnight hour. And all because there was no school in the morning and life was a blissful street party. 

But as somebody who preferred his own company, whether it be consciously or deliberately, this was still the same six week school summer holiday. Pretty soon you had to accept the status quo and there was a gradual realisation that here you were on your own, in splendid isolation. Nobody had heard of painful shyness and Autism, that hollow detachment from the rest of society. There was, on your part, a stubborn insistence that you didn't really need anybody in your life apart from a loving, considerate and protective mum and dad and a much younger brother. 

In a sense you were privately having the time of your life. You were still jumping out of bed at some ridiculously late hour of the morning, wolfing down your breakfast and ready to swim in your local Lido. At roughly 10am, you would roll up with towel and trunks, throw on a T-shirt and shorts and then head for a day of vigorous swimming at Valentines Park Lido. It was a day from seventh heaven, the best years of your life that continue to the present day because your grandchildren will be engaging in similiar activities in four or five years time. 

And yet you found yourself surrounded by no real friends apart from the childhood acquaintances in your road. There were also your neighbours children who may have been going somewhere else that was far more exciting. So you set off for the pool, smile wreathing your face and deliciously contented. Mum would never mind how long you'd spent at the Lido because she knew you'd be safe, secure, comfortable and happy that you were happy. But there was something missing. You had no other friends from outside of your small network of pals who never really touched base with you as you got older.

Your connection with the bigger world was completely non existent. You thought you were enjoying yourself immensely when in fact you were hiding behind some metaphorical wall or curtain, cocooned  from the big, wide world and never really achieving any kind of teenage reference points. You simply wanted to get on with the business of school, education, a clear career path and some semblance of knowledge about people, their moods, their temperaments, their emotions. 

But that never really happened at all. There was a much older lad who used to live around the corner from my family who had this enduring passion for amateur radio and an idle curiosity about pirate radio, perhaps becoming a broadcasting giant or some hip, dynamic DJ in later years. Every morning we would meet up with each other over the garden fence, chatting animatedly and listening to music. Clearly he was consumed with transmitting over the radio illegally and that felt cool. Or so you thought at the time. 

As the months and years went by, we challenged the authorities and Home Office with our illicit music radio shows and you felt as if you were entertaining a vast audience of fans at home. But you weren't and that was the harsh truth. You were living in a delusional bubble that threw blinkers over your young life. We would set up the transmitter in a room every so often with turntable record players and tape recorders ready to blast the eardrums of all concerned. In hindsight it was all very daft and silly. Of course it was if only because teenagers think we're clever, flawless geniuses with a giant sized intellect.

Now back in your family home you were still interested in the kind of things that teenagers were also passionate about. You still bought a football magazine called Shoot every Thursday, still tuned into Radio One for the best in the latest glam rock and American easy listening pop charts. Football was very much part of my cultural agenda and at the beginning of the new football season, you would still take yourself into the world of the old First Division where Liverpool were still bossing proceedings at the top of the League and Top of the Pops was a weekly imperative. It just felt right and it was. 

Then towards the end of the 1970s, the school summer holidays would be punctuated by two blockbuster summer movies that would revolutionise the way in which we as teenagers would look at the world. The cinema had entered your consciousness. One was called Saturday Night Fever while the other was Grease. Both monopolised your attention, holding you in thrall, two delightful films that left most of my generation speechless and dumbfounded with admiration.

Saturday Night Fever had exploded onto the silver screen in 1977, the most extraordinary revelation of a film, an agit prop for every teenager across the world. It was a film about one man Tony Manero aka John Travolta who, having dressed up in the funkiest white jacket of all time, hit the nightclubs and bars with some of the most sensational dancing exhibitions that America had ever seen. Manero was king of the road, the top dog, the cool dude, the man who had to be respected for his hip shaking sensuality, that authentic aura of erotica, a body designed for the disco dance.

The film followed Manero's journey into adulthood, a coming of age man who embraced his proud masculinity and wasn't afraid to show it to swooning girls who would follow him everywhere. Saturday Night Fever had introduced us to the Bee Gees, whose career had hitherto reached a brick wall and had almost come to a full stop altogether. From the distant black and white hit of 'Words' during the 1960s, now the Bee Gees had fallen into a temporary obscurity, somehow behind the times and rooted in the past. 

But Saturday Night Fever had administered first aid to a group who were in dire need of resuscitation. Staying Alive, More Than A Woman and Night Fever had pumped up the Gibb brothers and the adrenaline was running again. And yet for some of us Saturday Night Fever had kept you in touch with the rest of my generation. And this is what it was like. It was a special and cherishable moment that just felt as if you were about to turn a corner you didn't think for a  moment you'd ever reach in the first place.

On a sultry summer's evening, a phenomenal queue had formed outside the Barkingside Odeon in East London. You can still remember standing there, waiting patiently for the queues to subside. And then we all moved forward joyously. You were still friendly with the family across the road and there was an excited murmuring as we waited for permission to file forward in an orderly fashion. You weren't alone after all because you were part of that community, that real sense of communality, the kids who could readily identify with John Travolta but, personally, not his aura of self confidence. 

This was a major stumbling block for the man you felt you could be but would never be destined to get even remotely as close as you would have liked. You'd never be able to sling a white jacket over your shoulder for fearing of dropping it to the ground and, above all, you'd never get the chance to chat up the girl of your dreams - certainly not at the age of 15. That would be wishful thinking. But later in life something indefinable must have completely changed the direction of your radar on life. And yes something did. 

By the time 1978 had arrived and another school summer holiday had started. Once again John Travolta featured prominently in our vision. Fresh from the record breaking Saturday Night Fever, Travolta had broken down barriers and frontiers. The film was called Grease and it was the kind of movie that had magnificence, completeness, finesse and outstanding production values. It was a film of par excellence, polish, patina, a richly uplifting film of bold, reckless youth meeting head on in some pulsating collision with each other. 

Danny, John Travolta was the arrogant, black leathered jacketed guy boasts grandly about his charisma, his good looks, his animal magnetism and then he fell in love with Sandy, the late and much missed Olivia Newton John. It all fell naturally into place or did it? Travolta was unashamedly narcissistic, vain, incredibly conceited and never made any secret of the fact. Grease, alongside Saturday Night Fever, had captured your imagination. 

It followed the upward trajectory of two young people who were clearly smitten with each other but had a strange way of expressing their mutual affection for each other. Travolta would, amusingly, trip over hurdles at college athletic meetings, before racing his smoking jalopy of a sports car around another track all the while showing off a teenage bravado. Then Sandy and Danny would snuggle up to each other at a movie drive in but not before Danny had groped Sandy far too intimately. The cartoon showing behind them was an apt summary of their relationship. It was simply too hilarious for words. 

But by the time the 1970s had ended, you were not even within touching distance of the messages both Saturday Night Fever and Grease had so accurately portrayed. You were still stuck in a time warp where the kids of your age had now advanced to the dating stage or the kind of puppy love that you could only imagine in your wildest dreams. Your Jewish friends were now sharing a burger or milkshake at the local Wimpy, sneaking discreetly to the back of the cinema back row for a cuddle and kiss or just abandoning yourself to the joys of just being young.

And so find yourself  at the present day just so thankful for everything that life has given you despite all of the teenage insecurities, the awkward struggles, the striving for some kind of identity and recognition above all the troubles. Admittedly, any hopes of finding constant employment probably fell by the wayside when you simply couldn't bring yourself to join a Jewish youth club. Suddenly, both your personality, introspective outlook on life and inherent terror of the big, wide world had left me with demoralised but now enormously grateful for what I do have. 

Most importantly, you had a wife, children and family who adored you, cared for you passionately, an extended family who hugged you tenderly and lovingly every time you saw them and believed in you all the time. They were the people who told you that, despite your Autism, that you were a star, somebody who could function properly and love you forever more. You, too, could laugh, smile, joke and gossip with the best of them on equal terms and a level ground.   

Next week, another generation of children will be going back to either nursery, infants, junior or primary school, that formative introduction. Your beautiful grandson will be shortly starting at his local nursery and this will be his moment to shine in the spotlight. And then the infants and junior kids will be embarking on the long, gruelling journey from childhood onwards. They'll be learning the ABC, how to add up, how to count to 10 then 100, wrestle with simple mathematics, then the multiplication table, rudimentary grammar and vocabulary, speech patterns, the grown up people in the news they may find too intimidating at first but will learn to accept for who they are. 

So it's almost the end of the school summer holiday and the arrival of autumn may herald something more than the changing of the seasons. We can now look back happily at our childhood and think it wasn't bad as we thought it might have been at first. You can still see the thick piles of coats in your infant school cloakroom, the milk bottle crates outside the front gates of your school, the plimsolls, vest and shorts you had to wear for PE as if they were compulsory. In hindsight, there is that photograph in your head, an indelible image.

Then there was the loud, piercing whistle from the teacher in the playground, the raucous screams of hundreds of kids suddenly silenced. It signified the end of playtime as the children of our age were ordered firmly to stand still. There also followed the ritualistic drinking of milk during the morning, lining up as a classroom and quietly walking towards the dinner hut. There was something very methodical and structured about life at the beginning of a new school term. After all of those luxurious, leisurely weeks it was to back to school and the serious business of learning. It all felt so natural.