Part 179: Sunday, 19th December 1965, 9.50p.m.

… perhaps my letters had some effect. [Sam & Lily] have been round together twice since my last entry, and once together to Mum’s.

So all is well, that is to say one is on one’s guard for the next blow to fall. E. has just returned from the laundrette, she finds this better than using the washing machine. It’s good in so far as had she been using the washing machine the vrombissement would have been going on in the kitchen still.

Aunt Debby [Deborah Coltonoff, my mum’s Aunt] is off-loading her Post Office Savings on to us, just over £300. Her idea is to be able to have better grounds for claiming National Assistance. I propose to pass no moral judgement. As far as I’m concerned, she’s lending me £300, which I shall repay with a fiver whenever she comes round, which is once a fortnight as a rule. And this is a lot handier than borrowing from the Bank. Strange she should have the money in Post Office Savings, which give only 2.5%. She could have put it into a Deposit Account giving 5%. I suppose she had some idea that the Income Tax people would be less likely to know…

We popped around to the Aharonis yesterday for Hadlakot Ha-Nerot [lighting of candles, Friday night, I think he meant Havdalah, post Sabbath ceremony]. There were an Israeli couple and their two toddlers there…I had taken the tape-recorder round there…only for the damned thing to conk out in the middle of recording. A pleasant kum-sitz-ish atmosphere…

Rushed back to prepare for our “evening” – Ben and Anita Bernstein and Ralph and Sylvia Kent which went off well. Went to bed 1.30 a.m. up by 9.30 am. tired, fractious, accident-prone, but major disasters avoided.

Kids full of beans, imbeshneer, but it’s a problem, one or other of us has to be with them practically all the time if the other is to get any work done. But – we are very, very lucky. Maxy is chesty, which I hope he will grow out of, but Philip will go anywhere, any number of times.

A spot of bother between E. & myself on Friday night, all is now harmony once more. May find time to record it in my next entry.

Part 170: Monday, 23rd August 1965, 10.10 p.m.

Susannah has chicken pox. No pain, temperature, but Dr Covington, who came in on Sunday, said to try to stop her picking the spots on her face, or they would leave scars. Rushed to Golders Green to get prescription, after schlepping poor Max – not so much poor Philip, he seems to be able to take it – down to Tally Ho! and back to see if any local chemists open, which they weren’t. Then rushed over to Golders Gardens for shiva, where had a long literary talk with Renee Winegarten. She came in & passed in front of me with, I think, an “Excuse me” whereupon I hailed her with a “Toutes proportions gardées” – a phrase she had used in her latest review in The Jewish Observer.

Maxie flopped out about 5 p.m. last night I gathered from Auntie Debby. All right now. Poor kids, it’s been a rotten holiday for them. A propos, I overheard them as they were falling off asleep to-night. “Maxie?” (I wish I could reproduce the intonation – it is in situations like this that the tape recorder doesn’t come off, unless one has very efficient, miniature affairs, & the kids don’t know they’re being taped – spontaneity is all) – “Yes” “Do you know where your mind is? I know where.” “Where?” “It’s here.” “Where?” “In your forehead” (pron. fore – head). When you speak it comes from our forehead to our mouth.”

My brother’s drosha (sermon) on this week’s sedra (Torah reading)

This week saw the UK’s Chief Rabbi speaking at The Abu Dhabi Forum for Peace – something very hard to imagine happening before The Abraham Accords. Appropriately, the sedra this week is VaYeira (Genesis 18:1 to 22:24) and my brother penned the following for a weekly email newsletter sent to volunteers at a local Jewish care home.

In last week’s sedra, and continuing this week, we read about arguably the most influential human being of all time: Avraham ovinu – Abraham our father.  Not only the original founding father/ancestor of the Jewish people but also initiator of the very idea of belief in G-d which has spread to the 4 corners of the earth.  

In Ethics Of The Fathers we are told that Abraham was tested with ten trials by Hashem.  Now although there is some dispute about what the 10 trials were, all commentators agree that the 10th and the most difficult trial was the startling command to sacrifice his son Isaac, as recounted at the end of this week’s sedra, VaYeira.

The Talmud says that every Jew is obligated to say, “when will my deeds reach those of my fathers Abraham Isaac and Jacob?” –  a pretty tall order one has to say!  If we think for even a few minutes about the enormity of that tenth test, is it really realistic for us to achieve such an incredible level of dedication?  I’d like to suggest a couple of explanations…

Number one: The Talmud does not say we are obligated to be as great as Abraham – rather we should aspire to such greatness – and if, understandably, we conclude that it is not in our capabilities maybe we should at least sigh about it.  In a similar vein the Chafetz Chaim zt”l said that if, after reading through his eponymous book on guarding one’s speech, a person breathes a deep sigh because of feeling unable to keep to the demanding laws therein, even so it would have been a worthwhile venture on the reader’s part.

Secondly, we all know that it worked out well in the end because Hashem retracted his command at the 11th hour – almost like a Batman and Robin episode where they somehow managed to escape at the very last moment.  But such is the nature of life – real life! The Talmud says, “one should never give up hope even if a sword is dangling over his neck”.  And we have all heard of people being saved incredibly from illness, danger, death, war etc when their fate appeared to be sealed.  Although Abraham was not hoping for a last-minute reprieve- we are told that he did Hashem’s command with love and alacrity – nonetheless we can learn from the episode that what seems final and inevitable ain’t necessarily so.

Thirdly, as a general idea we can try and “make Hashem’s will our will” which is of course a challenge to us at every twist and turn.  No one since Abraham has or will ever be commanded by G-d to kill their own child and offer it as a sacrifice.  But there are innumerable ways in which we are commanded to make ‘sacrifices’ for our Judaism, be it not eating things we would like to, not doing things we’d like to on Shabbas or Yom Tov, or on the positive side, spending time and money on mitzvos(charity, mezuzahs, tefillin, kosher food etc etc) that we might prefer to expend on our personal pleasures/expenses.

A man once complained to his Rebbe that he just doesn’t enjoy davenning and learning and finds it a great effort and burden to have to do those things. The Rebbe replied: I envy you!   I have a burning love for Hashem and all his mitzvahs and I get spiritually uplifted from doing them, so I can’t claim to be serving Hashem doing his will as much as someone like you who has to fight his desire to not do these things –  and yet you overcome that and still do Hashem’s mitzvahs!

Max Witriol

Part 163: Monday, 21st June 1965, approx. 10.55 p.m.

(clock in dining room has stopped; if I don’t wind it, no one does)

Came home from evening class to find Mrs Hardy baby-sitting – E. off to her housewives’ book evening. Just as well, I feel guilty not giving E. my company when I come home (“Ha, that’s a laugh, you just sit down and read without saying a word.” True, but – oh, I don’t know!).

E. going into dock to have her leg ulcer operated on. I’m glad she’s made up her mind to do it…

Swiss firm of photo-book publishers want to know if I can translate one of their books -“Malta“, a beautiful job, better finished, viewed purely as an artefact, than God’s Wilderness.

If we can agree on terms, may be a bit of a breakthrough, as it may lead to a permanent flow of work. But this would put paid to any attempts at original articles. I feel I must turn myself into an earning machine and do

1) My full-time teaching

2) one hundred evenings teaching a year…if I did more I think I would crack, if less, I would be idle, in the old OCTU [Officer Cadet Training Unit, my father was in one during the war] parlance.

3) Translating in holidays

4) Bookkeeping for Sam

Re 1) I now rehearse till 5.40-6.00p.m. as a chorus boy for the school’s production of “The Pirates“. Galling, one or two boys have “principal” parts, but like Pooh Bah, must carry on humiliating myself.

Philip off colour last night, but I gather from circumstantial evidence that he went to school to-day (his dinner-money envelope is empty), but Max, who was off colour this morning, didn’t go, I think. Susannah, too, has been under doctor’s orders. If I believed in petitionary prayer, in the usual meaning of that phrase, I would pray never to see a doctor until I snuff it.

Susannah a shtimme leelik, by the way, can only say No, Daddee, Mummee, me, gok (clock) ghe-ghe = greengrocer. Boobbe and Sam a bit worried. Have tried to ascertain from previous volume of this Journal when Max started talking, but have only been able to see that he was able to say Daddy, Mummy and Pippick (for Philip) before he was two – though it’s true Susannah has been saying Daddy and Mummy for some months now, too.

Part 158: Tuesday, 13th April 1965 8.40 p.m.

Have survived the Easter term. Am hoping worst is now over. Only twenty or so left in each of 4A & 4B, and although will still have to be on the ball with them all the time, things should be easier.

Worn out. Lots to do – Zangwill review to write, lesson notes to prepare, must go into question of school journey, etc.

A party of twenty-four boys, with one moniteur and their leader – M. Marceau – and his wife arrrived yesterday from Chaville. They were billeted in FBCS music room, on stretchers. Their reception seemed distinctly makeshift to me, but perhaps I’m being unjust. The boys pay nothing, so perhaps they can’t grumble….

I suggested to Hasler (the caretaker) that perhaps M. and Mme Marceau have some carpert from the staff room. I chivied Miss Reid to get them a racket each and four new tennis balls, and chivied her again to get the tennis net put up (“You may think it’s very simple, Mr Witriol” – esprit d’escalier again – I should have said “Before you made your appearance in the world, Miss Reid, I had been putting up nets, I realise that putting them up is not simple.”

Saw Exodus. This is the drama I should have been acting in.

P&M have been confined to their room (apart from forays into the kitchen) with a virus infection. They have now been cleared, but Susannah has gone down. Doctor says hse should be clear in five days – hope so, want to go round to Sam & Lily en famille on Easter Monday.

Part 146: Thursday September 3rd 1964, 1.40 p.m.

Boobbe Esther was taken to Hackney Hospital last Friday with a heart attack. Her condition is critical. She seemed very bright and cheerful last Sunday evening. One can only hope.

Edith has taken Philip and Max to the hospital, Susannah is asleep. I have been trying to think about what English I shall teach in my new school, but I suppose I shall just have to go through the text books. I should like to be able to talk to them lucidly, fluently about Shakespeare, Milton, Auden, and be able to spout effortlessly great chunks at them, but all the thousands of books, articles, all the trillions of words I have read in my life have just left a detritus in my mind, only a small portion of which would be relevant to these kids anyway.

Hugh Harris [?] sent me a book, Belmarch about the massacre at Mainz, for review. Was able to introduce Tchernichovsy‘s Baruch of Mayence and a quotation from Dr Cecil Roth’s Short History of the Jewish People. In this instance, the detritus could be made use of.

Also sent off my German Basis of Yiddish [see also Mumme Loohshen, his book on Yiddish] article to the Jewish Chronicle. Am afraid it may be over-long, though hoping they will have sense enough not to reject it on that score, but cut it. I was afraid a book The History of the Yiddish Language which was catalogued at the B.M [British Museum, i.e the British Library] would have made my article completely redundant, but apparently the book was merely commissioned (by the American Philiosophical Society, I think) but has not been published. I looked at The Field of Yiddish 1954, which contains some very scholarly, and some very esoteric, work. However, I have still read nothing, anywhere, in English, that renders my Hebrew Elements or Polish and Russian Elements or my present German Basis articles superfluous. I know of no other source to which an educated reader (non-specialist) could be referred for the information they give.

 

Part 145: Thursday August 25th 1964, 9.15 p.m.

Fuit Cliftonville. The long months of discussion finally culminated in our schlepping along to the Windsor Hall of that place. Nerve-wracking journey thither, Susannah screaming in the coach most of the time. In fact, Susannah, bless her, proved a handful all the week. Would not stay put on the beach, continually ingesting sand, would not stay put in her high chair at the meals. However, in spite of a bust-up between E. and myself, the operation proved a success.

It was a feat to have got it off the ground at all. The Windsor Hall was a bit off, the public rooms, bathrooms quite good, but chambermaid service poor. Also the treyffe [non-kosher] atmosphere in an exclusively Jewish hotel was a little depressing. We had only ourselves to blame, as the hotel proclaims itself non-orthodox.

The clientèle was mixed, with a preponderence of betting and street-trader types. I suppose we were the only family without a car.

The situation was largely retreived by our meeting up with Ralph Kent (né Kurzbart/ Kissberg) and his wife Sylvia and their four children: Mary, about 9; John, about 7; Antony 4 and Lucille 2. The latter a beautiful, intelligent doll, and good as gold, unlike another little girl we know. Ralph is a bright, aggressive, successful type, but I can’t say I take completely to him. I didn’t like the way he interrogated me: You teacher – headmaster, I suppose, head of department and his pirouetting description of his own job: I don’t teach, I couldn’t teach – lecture? Who’d listen to me, no I organise other teachers. Apparently he’s a principal (senior?) lecturer at a College of Technology and specialises in computers. However, he is undeniably intelligent, and talks well, with lots of Yiddish, though he professes to have no time for word-merchants.

 

Part 144: Thursday July 30th 1964, 9.10 p.m.

They [the Wagreich cousins] have come over, but polished the whole family off in one day, last Sunday. Sam & Lily had them round for lunch with Mum, and they came to us for tea and they acted as hosts to supper at a joint called the Beachcomber – dark, fake paraffin-burning candles on tables, the gimmick being the spécialité de maison – crustaceés. Sam told us the bill for the seven of us came to £14, and he gave £2-10-0 tip. The evening set me back £2-10-0 for the car taking Mum, E. and myself back, plus £12/6 for Mrs Hardy. Two sports shorts for each of the boys and myself (“sets” à l’Américaine), dresses for E. and Susannah…

Feeling rather cheesed. Fourth day of “holiday”. Took P. to Boobbe [grandmother in Yiddish] to-day. Boobbe said her nerves couldn’t stand P. running about as he did – “Bugger your nerves” – “I’m going home.” Journey there and back involved five buses, one train, walking to and from Tally Ho. Schlepped large case with disjecta membra of three deck-chairs. I suppose I’m not so smart, I ought to be able to bung the kids and various clobber in the car and take them places.

After prolonged intermittent labour managed to deliver my “German Basis of Yiddish” [see also Chapter IV of mumme loohshen . Whether the J.C. take it or not, ‘khonn ne alleyn tsegibben, as Boobbe Y. says, it has some meat in it. I suppose someone else has hit upon the epenthetic n in hu’nt, and the pronthetic u‘s in uheen, uher, etc., but I have hit upon them quite independently.

Susannah has just come down and is having fun with the drapes in the dining room. Ah-ah a gedille…

 

Part 143: Thursday July 2nd 1964, 9.35 p.m.

Must record that last Sunday we held a children’s party for Max’s fourth birthday. We had been in some trepidation about it for weeks beforehand, but it went off well. Weather was good, fortunately, most of the time could be spent in the garden. Improvised sports – three-legged races, egg-and-spoon (pine cones doing duty as eggs) races – games (pine cone in bucket) went down well.

Sam Wagreich and Rosalind will be over in a few weeks’ time. Reactions: bind organising, attending receptions for them, expensive too. But they will bring munificent gifts. Yes, I know, I’ve sunk pretty low, so low that I do not feel inhibited from saying I’d rather have a straight $50 note than a gimmicky wrist-watch, such as they gave me last time, which gave me contact trouble and which must have cost me about £3 in repairs and alterations.

 

Women’s Greatest Own Goal

Football Apathetic by Max Witriol

There are a number of reasons why I do not watch football any more.  Primarily, I suppose, because I’m getting on in years, and despite playing the game “after a (very obsolete) fashion” till I was 50 and watching it on tele a good few years beyond that, there comes a time in a person’s life when he feels he has to jettison the frivolities of youth, albeit very belatedly.

 Of course the pandemic did not help.  The idea of playing behind closed doors with superimposed crowd sound effects, along with the usual banal commentating, felt like a weak joke.  And the pandemic refocused priorities – people applauded frontline NHS health staff and other key workers, not the pampered, overpaid Premier League icons normally held in such high esteem. They and actors and pop stars, as well as those famous for being famous, were dethroned – a welcome byproduct of the pandemic. 

Those who turned out to clap on Thursday evenings, children who drew their thank you NHS pictures, even the mainstream media, focused their adoration on decent hard-working people for a change. Alas, it would appear that all this was just a flash in the bedpan, so to speak, as burnt-out nurses have been left to soldier on while, even as I type, the great moral compass that is the BBC is calling England players heroes for winning a match.

And we had the disgraceful and bizarre politicisation of football like never before, as football chiefs jumped on the BLM bandwagon. They still refuse to get off, despite the knowledge that they are sanctioning, nay demanding, footballers align themselves with an overtly Marxist organisation. When I first heard that footballers were ‘taking the knee’ before a match in the week of the BLM eruption, I was disgusted.  Months later, in conversation with a friend, I was incredulous to learn that this political gesture had been happening before every single game. And it has carried on ever since. 

Consider that we have only one day a year in which society in general, and football in particular, honours the memory of all those who died protecting our freedoms in World Wars l and ll.  I cannot bring myself to watch the game that I used to love when it is in thrall to a movement whose aggressive left-wing agenda is anathema to the vast majority of decent people and football fans.  But worst of all is the painfully predictable tactic of the self-righteous ‘liberals’: affording pariah status to anyone who doesn’t go along with this utter scandal. Hence those who boo the knee jerk nonsense are deemed racist. Talk about inversion of the moral order.

There is another reason why I have been turned off football and that is the equally leftist driven agenda of pushing women’s football and trying to elevate it to a status it simply cannot uphold.  And more to the point, why should it?  If you think I am being a misogynistic anti-feminist dinosaur you are only partly right.  Because here I think women have scored their greatest own goal since burning their bras – yes, as I am sure you realise by now, I am that old.

Of course, they have been massively encouraged by those who try and equate men and women in every which way – back to the BBC and the ‘liberals’ again. But here we have a case where women have ironically regressed by aping their male counterparts.

 My original point was that I had become apathetic to football by dint of being older and focusing on things in life which are more important.  All the years I was growing up as a football crazy boy/youth/grown man/middle-aged man, the women around me would consider it a nonsense and a complete waste of time – as the cliche of cliches went “it’s just 22 men kicking a piece of leather around”.   The women I knew were appalled at the obscene amounts of money these prima donnas were paid, most of whom were well-known for their infidelity to their hairdresser wives. Now I am not saying I retroactively agree with all and everything that women prioritise in life – nail polish, handbags, Phil Collins, etc – but football widows who saw their husbands spend hours away from the family and who felt entitled to more attention and help with the kids probably had a valid point – yes their views on football weren’t so ridiculous after all!    But now, in the name of “equality”, “diversity” and cultural Marxism,  they have to show that they are every bit as immature as men!

And it is not just women watching and playing football, but they are increasingly commentating on football.  And I do not mean commentating on women’s football but on men’s football!  Like there are not enough male ex-professional footballers who are far more qualified in terms of decades of top-level playing and/or managing experience to talk about the game.

And so now, after years of disappointment watching England fail miserably in tournament after tournament, when it saddened and disappointed me; now that I don’t really care I am probably gonna miss out on England finally being successful. 

But hey – I don’t care anymore.

Editor’s Note: this post was written before England’s quarter-final game…

POSTSCRIPT

Online racial abuse

All day every day, social media – Facebook, Instagram, tik-tok etc are cesspits of abuse and disgusting behaviour from hugely unintelligent elements of society.  It came as no surprise therefore that there was racial abuse directed at the three black players who failed in the Euro-20 final penalty shoot-out.   

The reaction to that reaction, however, has been over the top and completely disproportionate. As stated, abuse and hatred and vile language and death threats go on all the time. So why has the media and all the usual woke suspects blown this out of all proportion? The best way to deal with this abuse is to ignore it. But the only discussion I’ve heard since the final is not about the great performances of the players/manager etc but about a handful of morons who’ve got nothing better to do than what they normally do. 

Let’s be clear – we’re not talking about institutional racism in football or society.  Just a few nut-jobs who spend their time being gratuitously offensive. 

Sir Alex Ferguson tells about the time when he first came to Man United and was not at all successful. He was getting slated mercilessly  in the press and it was actually getting to him quite badly (who knew such a hard-nosed acerbic Scotsmen was so sensitive, eh?).  When he confided this to the late great Sir Matt Busby RIP, Sir Matt turned to him and said “there’s a simple solution Alex – just don’t read the papers”.  

Why give so much oxygen to the haters?

We can’t let these social media giants just get away with it you might say – which is absolutely true. But why the wall-to-wall outrage over this instance of trolling and nothing about the daily avalanche of hate from, e.g. Muslim extremists, terror organisations and general trolling?

You could argue that, ok at least this has brought the issue to much wider and urgent attention. But the question remains – what took the media so long, and why are they so selective with their criticism?