From Maccabiah With Love
Day Fourteen
Sitting on a coach at Kfar Maccabiah about to set off for the closing ceremony of the Games. The big bash starts at 8.30pm in Latrun and within 12 hours most of Team GB will be in the skies flying back to Blighty. So this, my friends, is my final entry.
At the moment, we're still a little close to the tournament, not to mention far too tired, to really evaluate the past fortnight. Just last night, after covering the Football and Rugby Finals, we didn't finish on the backpage of the paper until gone 2.30am. But that was pretty much par for the course for the whole of the Games, with just three or four hours sleep every night before it was time to set off for the next match.
In short, the last fourteen days are all a bit of a blur. Suffice to say, we're all exhausted but we're sure when we get home and have had a few good nights' sleep, we'll start to look back on the Maccabiah with a great deal of fondness and possibly even think it was fun!
So, what can I tell you after clocking up well over 2,000km and having posted more than 50 photo galleries online? To be honest, I've pretty much said it all and you're probably bored of hearing from me... which is why I've decided to sign off with a few words from those I've shared the experience with.
As I type this, they're all nodding off on the backseat of the coach like naughty schoolboys, so forgive them if their reflections aren't quite up to the standards of Shakespeare and Dickens. I shall wake them one by one.
Firstly, our point man at Maccabi GB, Daniel Morris. After a night on the tiles with the rugby boys, eyes blurry and speech slurred, the past two weeks have been... "A rollercoater of emotions just proud of Team GB."
Next up Jewish News sports editor Andrew Sherwood. Up till all hours, writing stories and uploading galleries, he mumbles: "A tiring challenging but a fun two weeks."
And finally, photographer Marc Morris, forced to snap away at matches while Andrew and I sloped off in search of hotdogs. Head in hands, he looks over at me and sums it up in just one word: "Emotional."
As for me, well it's time I nodded off now, so I shall leave you with the words of Sir Bobby Charlton who I spoke to way back on the second day of the Games. For all the medals won and medals lost, for all the cheers and for all the tears, I think this pretty much sums it up...
"The sun's shining. It's a glorious day. It's not professional, the result doesn't matter. So just go out there and have fun."
Good night. See you again in 2013!
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Thirteen
Hard to believe that tomorrow the Maccabiah draws to a close. With the clock ticking, many of the athletes have kicked their final ball or swum their last length and are now, presumably, sunning themselves on the beaches of Tel Aviv or sipping iced coffee in the cafes of Herzliya.
Not so the Three News-keteers. As we speak, Marc, Andrew and I are sitting in Ramat Gan's Zisman Hall watching Team GB's 35+ Futsal Squad bravely battle for bronze against Argentina. But I fear all is lost. We're currently 4-0 down.
And this evening, we're in action again. Marc and Andrew will be at the Football Final, while I, with my renowned knowledge of rugger, will be covering the Rugby Final.
Stop scoffing. I'll have you know back in the day - well, around 30 years ago - I was quite handy in the scrum. My school, you see, didn't do football. It was rugby all the way, and I enjoyed it.
Well, some of the time. There was that occasion when the sports master, Mr Groombridge, noticed I was wearing a pair of y-fronts under my shorts - a capital offence but it was a cold, rainy day and I thought I'd get away with it. I didn't and I paid the price, forced to stand at the side of the pitch and remove my undergarments as the chilly winter weather took its toll on my chilly winter parts.
Roll on four years and, aged 13, the appeal of sticking my head between other men's legs while the hail beat down on my backside had somewhat dimmed. Indoor sports seemed so much cosier. And so it was that I put my name down for fencing.
Imagine my horror then when sports master Mr Toller told me I'd made it onto the Rugby C team. Not even the prestige of being in the A's or B's but nonetheless I'd have to get all physical and sweaty outside whatever the weather.
Desperate action was needed and so it was I concocted a story about a bad back. Clutching my lower lumbar, I threw myself on Mr Toller's mercy and, taking pity on the wounded soldier, he crossed my name off the list. I would never play rugby again.
I say 'never', but last week, as I stood on the sidelines watching Team GB take on Australia, the ball was kicked off the pitch in my direction. All eyes turned to me urging me to return it. Was the old magic still there or was I about to humiliate myself in front of not just the players but the hundreds of spectators.
I picked it up and with Mr Groombridge's voice ringing in my ears I threw it to the nearest player. I could have been in Twickenham. The ball span in the air and landed right in the player's hands. No one cheered at my perfect pass but in my head I could hear Mr Groombridge's voice: "Good pass Lawrence, good pass... oy, what's that you're wearing under your shorts? Get'em off immediately!"
Fortunately, sense prevailed. The spectators saw plenty of tackles that night, but mine wasn't one of them.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Twelve
Tuesday morning and I believe I have set a new Maccabiah record... for being stopped by the police. Twice in just half an hour. To be honest, it's not the first time I've been pulled over since arriving in Israel. Last Thursday in the Old City, I was given a dressing down by an officer for talking in my mobile while at the wheel. Needless to say, I'm aware it's an offence in the UK, but watching other drivers in Israel, I thought it was as obligatory as wearing a seatbelt.
Back to today and, truth be told, neither Marc, Andrew or myself know what crime I've committed on either occasion. We were simply trying to get from Netanya to Herzliya for the table tennis... and if that's an offence then I'm banged to rights. Lock me up and throw away the key.
The only other possibility is that the police have been tipped off that a Hezbollah agent is driving around Israel in a rented blue Hyundai Getz, wearing a Cookie Monster t-shirt and khaki M&S shorts. That being the case then the circumstantial evidence is indeed compelling. However, charges are soon dropped on both occasions when, after gabbling away at me in Hebrew, I utter the magical word 'English'. Suddenly both arresting officers shrug their shoulders and usher us on our way.
A short while later in Petach Tikva, after snapping table tennis and squash, for the first time in the past fortnight we find ourselves with an hour to spare before we have to set off for our next sport. Taking advantage of this unique opportunity, we head into a nearby shopping mall for a bite to eat.
My attention is immediately grabbed by a Pick 'n' Mix stand. Oh heaven. Those versed in my life will know only too well that Pick 'n' Mix is my Kryptonite - I'm helpless when confronted by the vast array of sweets and cannot resist reaching for the scoop. And so it is in Petach Tikva. But what's this? They're all gummies! Where are my beloved fizzy cola bottles, my white mice, my milk bottles, my bananas, my gobstoppers, my dolly mixture...
Call this Pick 'n' Mix? It's a travesty. Israel clearly has a lot to learn when it comes to quality confectionery. Perhaps this is the root of all the Middle East's problems. I have visions of Benjamin Netanyahu, Mahmoud Abbas and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad sitting around sharing some strawberry shoelaces, liquorice sticks and flying saucers... something for everyone. If that couldn't bring peace, then nothing could.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Eleven
Sitting in Kfar Maccabiah - Israel's answer to the Olympic Village - I must confess to being a little worried. This evening, I am due to set off for Jerusalem where the younger members of Team GB are set to meet Noam Shalit, father of kidnapped soldier Gilad.
So far, so good. What worries me is that I am on my own... or rather that my two travelling compadres, Andrew and Marc, are on their own. The last time I left the pair of them to their own devices over here, last Friday, they managed to get lost for an hour.
Fair enough, they don't know they're way around. But if I tell you that they had dropped me on a street corner on the Tel Aviv beachfront and all they had to do was drive around the block and return to exactly the same spot, you'll understand why after just 10 minutes of waiting for them I was more than a little concerned. An hour later, I was about to call the police.
And now I've let them loose in the car on an hour-long journey to a completely different town. Frankly, I don't fancy their chances and I wouldn't be surprised if tomorrow morning you read about two Englishmen who've launched an unauthorised invasion of Lebanon in a Hyundai Getz, armed to the hilt with photographic equipment and pretzels.
To be fair to them, the Tel Aviv beachfront does have a rather niggly one-way system. And, on top of that, our sat nav seems to base its navigational advice on maps that haven't been updated since the Crusaders conquered the country 1,000 years ago. In between the incessant 'bare lefts' and 'route reevaluations', you half expect to hear it tell you to 'turn right at Richard the Lionheart's encampment, go straight on until you see the Saracen hordes and then do a u-turn when Dan Brown pops us writing his latest novel'.
For my part, stepping into someone else's car for once, I'm entrusting my journey to Jerusalem to Maccabi GB's legendary Daniel 'No comment' Morris, a man whose commitment to the cause, composure in the face of all the madness here and permanently genial demeanour are second only to the Dalai Lama.
In short, if there was a Maccabiah medal for managing to stay smiling, Daniel would win it. Of course, whether I'll be saying that after two hours in the car with him remains to be seen. Rest assured, I will keep you posted. But don't bother asking Daniel for his version of events - no doubt, you'll get the same short shrift he gave the Jerusalem Report... no comment.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Ten
Watching GB's Open Cricket Team take on India at Kiryat HaSport in Lod, I must confess I'm a little alarmed by the squad facing our boys. The names on the backs of their shirts read like a who's who of the great and the good from the Bible. Not only do they boast a Noah, a Moses, a Daniel and a Benjamin, we also have to contend with a fictional Jewish hero in the form of a Benhur.
What chance, I wonder, do our gallant cricketers have against a team
made up entirely of Charlton Heston characters. My glorious technicolour reveries are disturbed by the sound of clapping. The first innings is over and as the two teams retire for lunch, Andrew and I set off in search of sustenance of our own.
Regular readers of this blog will recall that on our last trip to Lod, we befriended the patrons of the city's finest takeaway emporium, Pizza Pie, urging the owner to open an outlet in Golders Green. Today, however, having filled up on pretzels and chocolate chip cookies - our staple diet when we watch the Open Men's Football Team in Haifa as we did prior to the cricket (2-0 to us in case you're wondering) - pizza seemed a little excessive. All of which is to say, our dining delights this lunchtime consisted of a tuna sandwich (Marc), an energy bar (Andrew) and a watermelon ice lolly (your's truly).
You're probably realising by now our trip to Israel isn't exactly what you'd term a gastronomic experience. Ten days in and we've actually had only one thing that could pass for a meal in the flat, namely French toast whipped up by Marc for breakfast yesterday morning.
Otherwise, it's a case of whatever we can grab wherever we can grab it... in other words, burgers, biscuits and hotdogs.
Okay, okay, I'll fess up. Last night, our first night off, we ventured
into Poleg - Netanya's answer to Watford boasting its very own Harlequin Centre, the Alexander mall. And there we lived the dream, gorging ourselves on the chocotastic delights served up at Max Brenner, the global restaurant chain where cocoa is king.
Milkshake, ice creams, souffles even pizzas... you name it, if there's any opportunity to add chocolate to it, Max Brenner serves it. Right, is that enough about them to earn me a lifetime's supply of desserts?
Tastebuds tingling at the prospect, we're back on the road, heading to the Wingate Institute where several of the football, futsal and rugby matches are being played. If you ask Andrew, he'll give you details of the quarter-finals and semi-finals, we'll be covering this evening. If you ask me, I'll tell you to be sure to order your burger before half time when the queue is ridiculous. And, in case you're wondering, it's better than the one they serve at Tel Aviv's Hadar Stadium... Bon appetit.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Nine
Day nine of our Maccabiah adventure and after over a week of rushing around, literally, at 100km an hour to ensure we snap as much of the action and as many of the athletes as possible, Team ZE finally have a few hours to ourselves before it all kicks off again.
The beach, in particular, seems an enticing prospect. After all, it's just a five-minute walk away from our flat in Netanya and, believe it or not, we've yet to take a dip in the warm waters of the Med. No doubt, my great desert forebear, Zeddy Lawrence of Arabia, would be most disappointed that I've been here all this time and haven't
gazed out, as he was wont to do, at the great expanse of sand.
And so, as I tap away on the keyboard, I wait for my two compadres to prepare themselves for some seaside frolics. Sports editor Andrew Sherwood douses himself liberally with factor 57 sun bloc, while photographer Marc Morris twirls a dainty parasol that wouldn't look out of place in the hands of Helena Bonham Carter in one of those Pride and Sensibility movies... "Why Mr Lawrence, you're making me blush. Please good sir refrain from casting such unwarranted attention upon my personage, else I shall be forced to inform my governess of your most forward behaviour."
At least, that's what I hear. In fact, what my period drama queen is saying is: "Get a move on Zeddy, I wanna go for a paddle."
Andrew, in the meantime, fearing that his factor 57 might be a little weak to ward off the harsh rays of the sun is zipping himself into a second-hand radiation suit he procured from a friend at the Ministry of Defence. According to the label, it can withstand radiation from Grade A plutonium... and should be washed on a 40 degree spin cycle.
As for me, after a week in which we've clocked up almost 1,500km to cheer on our boys and girls in everything from football to fencing tennis to ten pin bowling, rugby to rowing and gymnastics to judo, not forgetting, of course, chess, I'm all set for a bit of sporting action of my own.
Word reaches me that the qualifying heats of one of the Maccabiah's newest disciplines, extreme sandcastle building, is being staged in Netanya this very morning. Truth be told, it's been a good few years since I had the bucket and spade out in Bournemouth, but you know what they say, once a shoveller, always a shoveller.
Fast forward 20 minutes and we're down on the beach. As I scour the sand, searching for the choicest shells to adorn the top of my castle - a practice we in the sand sculpting fraternity refer to as turrets syndrome - Marc wanders off to find the donkey rides, while Andrew fends off the attentions of the tanned and toned Israeli beach babes, attracted by his 'Kiss Me Quick' hat and only too willing to take him
up on the offer.
Two hours later and it's time to head back to the flat. As I wonder how it is that I can be brushing sand out of hair that I don't have, alternately bronzed and burnt, Marc and Andrew gather up our towels.
But what of the sandcastle competition, I hear you cry. Well, I must confess I'm a little miffed. Turns out Maccabiah rules are far more stringent than UK parliamentary rules and I find myself disqualified for paying for my moat on expenses. Ah well, at least I'll know better next time. Roll on the 2013 Games, that sandcastle gold is ours.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Eight
Sitting in Haifa's Ketzef Stadium while Team GB's Open Football Team piles the pressure on their Brazilian counterparts in what could be our boys' last match of the tournament, I find myself wondering if any of the Amazonian contingent will match up to the superlative standard set by some of the sensational soccer legends to emerge from the country in recent years... Rivaldo, Ronaldhino and, of course, Ronaldo McDonaldo
I know, I know... Zeddy Lawrence actually commentating on the sport. It's unheard of. But don't worry, my musings on the beautiful game don't last too long. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch sight of one of the Brazilian photographers, dare I say, a far from unattractive young lady boasting a figure that wouldn't look out of place on a float at the Rio Carnival.
And then I look over at our snapper, dear Marc Morris, dare I say, a far from unattractive young man boasting a figure that wouldn't look out of place as a float at the Rio Carnival.
I jest of course, but before I pen a grovelling apology to Mr Morris, I must inform you that Team GB have just scored. It's one-nil and our chances of winning this make or break match and surviving through to the second week of the tournament have just shot up.
Anyway, back to my grovelling apology to Marc, a gentleman I've now had the privilege of sharing my life with 24/7 for precisely a week. A top bloke, a real laugh, the sweetest guy you could ever meet and, by all accounts, quite a good amateur photographer. I've yet to seen any of his work - apparently, it'll take a few weeks for Kodak to process all the pictures he's taking on his 1982 Olympus Trip. High tech? State of the art? Trust me, the Box Brownie the photographer from another UK Jewish newspaper is using was once the star item on the Antiques Roadshow.
Again I jest. Both these gentlemen are cracking photographers... although it's quite apparent if you look at our photo galleries online and in this week's Jewish News that our fellow is David Bailey, while the other fellow is David... well, no surname required, you all know who he is.
As for the other member of our menage a trois, Dandy Andy Sherwood, I shall insult and praise him in equal measure in a future blog. It's time to avert my gaze from the laptop and return it to the match... Team GB have just scored for a second time and it's all getting rather exciting.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Seven
Great news guys! You know all those times you've popped into Pizza Pie in Lod and wished they'd open a branch in London. Well, I can exclusively reveal that the owner is considering doing just that!
Yes, this tiny restaurant with just two plastic tables could soon be the flagship outlet of a global pizza chain. This exciting news was revealed to me by the owner himself - well not the owner as such, but he was slouched on a chair in the restaurant puffing on a cigarette, while a friend, who was playing backgammon at the time, spilled the beans on his international ambitions.
Andrew and I had ventured into this illustrious venue, the size of a double garage and, to be honest, boasting all the elegance of a double garage, during the Team GB v Team Israel Junior Cricket Match lunch break. Where was Marc, you may wonder. Well somehow, and I've still to figure out how he managed it, he'd already had a pizza delivered to the pitch.
So off we trotted in search of food and found this place which literally was a pizza hut. Spotting the knotted handkerchiefs on Andrew's head and my Frankie Says Relax t-shirt, backgammon guy - the only person in the place who could speak a word of English (well, 27 words but who's counting?) - decided to engage us in conversation.
Inevitably, the first topic was the weather. England cold, Israel hot, end of. But then our chat took a dramatic twist when I asked if they delivered to Mill Hill. His eyes lit up and the plan rapidly unfolded. Quizzing us about the quality and cost of pizzas in London, he explained that his friend's pizzas weren't just kosher, they were "how you say it, kosher kosher?" The local rabbi, by all accounts a patron himself, has given the restaurant the hechsher of all hechshers, meaning Moses himself could eat there. And we all know what a fan of pizzas he was (As it says somewhere in Exodus, "If you don't get it within 40 days and 40 nights, you get a free garlic bread."
Anyway, before you could say 'thin crust', the owner's friend had spotted a gap in the market and, inspired by the Maccabiah match round the corner, he declared that by 2012 they'd be opening an outlet in London.
Backgammon guy was clearly very excited. As for the owner, he seemed completely nonplussed and simply lit another cigarette. But, for the rest of us, what great news. The Olympic Pizza is coming our way from Lod, with mushrooms, anchovies and olives... and if you're very lucky, thanks to the owner, extra ash.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Six
Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, as we speak, you find me in the front row of Herzliya's Hayovel Hall where Team GB's Junior Netball team are facing their Australian counterparts. Our glorious girls are sadly losing 29-06, but it's not yet half time, so I'm confident victory could still be ours.
Talking of victory, perhaps the biggest upset of the Games so far came in Junior Karate this morning. Sleepless nights and the strain of shlepping from one town to the next to ensure we capture all of the action is taking its toll on Team ZE. A tad tired, tempers occasionally get a little frayed. And so, when a minor disagreement broke out between Marc 'Miyagi' Morris and Andrew 'Sensei' Sherwood outside the sports hall where the tournament was taking place, I wasn't that surprised.
What I didn't know, however, was that some of the competition's judges were passing by at the time, and were so impressed with the ensuing fisticuffs, that they awarded Andrew the bronze medal.
You'll be pleased to hear that the spat was brief and, we've all made up over a falafel.
That said, Marc was still a little miffed that he lost out on winning a medal. So, to put a smile back on his face, I promised that we'd enter him in the Junior Ice Dancing contest. And it seems to have done the trick. In fact, right now, he's laying 500 strawberry mivvys on the floor to create an ice rink so he can practice his routine.
The score now... 37-07. We're just about catching up and there's still plenty of time left on the clock.... Go Girls Netball!
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Five
I know, I know. You're all waiting to read about my latest exploits, logging on to see if I've updated my blog today... but, as much as I'd like to tell you all about our adventures, I've got to dash off to watch a Lawn Bowls match now.
Before I go though, I spotted the sports editor of that other Jewish newspaper at the opening ceremony of the Games yesterday. His hand was all bandaged up - no doubt strained it trying to hold up his oversized tracksuit bottoms. (Luv ya Danny!)
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Four
"We're off to see Sir Bobby, we're off to see Sir Bobby." Andrew Sherwood is clearly excited as we head out the door.
For my part, I had no idea that Bobby Davro had been knighted or, for that matter, why he was attending the GB v Australia Juniors Football Match. But at least I'd now have the chance to ask him what his character in EastEnders ever saw in sour-faced Shirley.
Imagine my shock then when we arrived at the Neurim pitch to see not Bobby Davro but the bloke from the old Shredded Wheat adverts. I tore up my list of questions and hastily scrawled on the back of a bus ticket 'So Bobby, did you ever manage to eat three?'
Fortunately, before I managed to put that to him, Maccabi GB's Stuart Greenberg informed me that Bobby's brother Jackie was the legendary cereal muncher - this fellow had apparently been in the 1966 winning World Cup team against Germany.
My knowledge of the beautiful game clearly lacking, I left the interviewing up to Andrew and instead focussed my attention on how we'd get home - the petrol gauge in the car had been flashing en route and it was touch and go whether we'd make it to the Ten Pin Bowling or whether we'd be stranded on the side of the motorway.
You'll be pleased to hear we did manage to find a garage before we conked out. Only one problem. After filling us up, the attendant informed me he only took cash and, however much I waved my credit card in his face, he refused to change his story.
A trek to the nearest cashpoint ensued and heaving a sigh of relief, I put in the card. Like the garage attendant, however, the card was not accepted. Nor was a second card and nor was the third.
Visions of having to spend the next fortnight helping out at the garage with a squeegee cloth in my hand flashed through my mind. I trekked back to to the car and, in a bid to avert that eventuality, Marc, Andrew and I dug deep trying to muster all the shekels we could find. Eventually, after a bit of busking on the side of the road - Andrew playing the spoons and Marc doing a robotic dance routine he'd learnt at the Leytonstone School of Performing Arts - we hit our total. Paying the attendant off, I proffered the only petrol pump gag I could think of: 'Tanks a lot.'
I fear my English humour was lost on him... and, having never found out if Jackie Charlton managed three shredded wheat, it seems the day has been a washout. Still, at least I have the opening ceremony to look forward to tonight. Who knows, perhaps Bobby Davro will be on the bill doing his famed Freddie Starr impression. Now that would make it all worthwhile.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Three
And so the Games begin... Word reaches us that the sports editor of another UK Jewish newspaper has been signed to star in a remake of Wallace and Gromit: The Wrong Trousers.
Apparently his tailor has been a little generous with the girth of his tracksuit bottoms.
One-nil to us.
As for the real Games... It's only lunchtime on the first day of the competition but we've already covered five events - four football and the rowing heats.
I say 'we've covered'. I should leave myself out of that equation, as I spent most of game one (Junior Girls v Finland) trying to liberate our Hyundai from the Neurim stadium carpark after it had been boxed in by some other spectators. The carpark attendant wasn't much help, but one of his colleagues took great pleasure in telling me that the UK was chilly and that his cousin was a professor of astronomy at UCL.
I don't know if his relative helped, but I was able to thank my lucky stars as, after much panic, we did manage to escape, arriving in Haifa just in time for the kick-off of both the Masters v Brazil and Ladies v Australia.
And now, well, I'm at Kfar Maccabiah - the Maccabiah headquarters - typing away in the press centre, with Marc and Andrew on one side... and the aforementioned sports editor. Marc and Andrew are uploading photos and results. As for the other chap, he's probably firing furious emails off to Savile Row trying to sort out his wardrobe malfunction.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day Two
After narrowly avoiding an incursion into Gaza thanks to a sat-nav which speaks English as well as I speak Hebrew, the three stooges - myself, Andrew and Marc - finally found our way to our apartment in Netanya in the wee small hours.
The good news, as far as Marc and I were concerned, was that the tournament didn't kick off until Sunday, so we'd have a day to recharge our batteries and maybe even take a dip in the sea.
The bad news was that, as a sports journlaist, Andrew has an interest in, well, sport and was rather keen to see the Davis Cup tie between Israel and Russia.
The only way to determine our day's activity was through a hastily arranged arm wrestling bout. With big Marc on my side, I was confident the 'take it easy' squad would prevail. But Andrew's clearly been working on his wrist action and, before I knew it, we were en route to the Nokia 2000 stadium in Tel Aviv.
A good thing too given the historic nature of the match which saw Andy Ram and Yoni Erlich serve their way to the semi finals. I should point out though that, thanks to our navigational skills, Marc, Andrew and I almost ended up in the semis ourselves. A little unsure of how to enter the press box we flashed our press passes at a steward who happily ushered us through a door. Down some steps, up some other steps and, suddenly, we found ourselves standing right on the side of the court to the bemusement of the thousands of Israelis who were expecting to cheer on the heroic doubles pair.
Needless to say, before you could say 'love all', we were herded off by an angry official who clearly didn't love any of us.
The highlight of the match for tennis fans, of course, was the doubles pair's victory. The highlight for me was watching Jeremy Last, TJ's Israel correspondent and sports editor of the Jerusalem Post, spill iced coffee all over his groin.
Dare I say it: 'New balls please - the current ones are a little damp'... Cue laughter from Sid, Babs and the rest of the Carry On team.
For full Maccabiah coverage and photos from the Games, click here
Day One
Ever wondered why I have that huge picture of myself gawping out at you from the left-hand side of my column on page 16 of the Jewish News? You probably think it's a vanity thing - that it's not enough each week for me to inspire and enthral you with my words, I also want to excite you and, dare I say, make you swoon with my beauty.
In fact, it's not that at all (although if it does have that effect do please get in touch). No, the real reason became evident last Friday as I arrived at Luton airport with Jewish News sports editor Andrew Sherwood. Not for a romantic weekend away, I hasten to add. We were jetting off to Israel for the 18th Maccabiah, where we're covering the Games not only for the paper but also for Maccabi GB's Active magazine.
Indeed, as I type I'm sitting in our rental flat in Netanya, while Andrew and our photographer Marc Morris hold a moonwalking contest across the living room floor. I'm not paying too much attention, but from what I can gather Marc's winning three-two, but Andrew claims "the moves he's bustin' are more Timberlake than Jackson and that's wack."
Anyway, that's all by the by. Suffice to say that neither Andrew nor Marc are good enough to represent Team GB in the Maccabiah Freestyle Dance tournament which kicks off tomorrow.
So back to the picture. There I am queuing up at Luton patiently waiting for the El Al security guard to summon me for the traditional grilling before check-in. Needless to say, I've flown to Israel enough times that I'm familiar with the routine and know all the answers: 'No, I am not, nor have I been a member of the Communist party'; 'Mr Gambini runs a legitimate import-export business, is a well-respected member of the community and is a generous benefactor for a number of local charities. Neither he nor I are familiar with the terms mob, mafia, godfather, omerta or cosa nostra.'
And so my turn comes. But before we even get onto the interrogation, there's an issue when I hand over my passport. Apparently, one of the side-effects of losing a lot of weight, as I did last year, is that you look very different from before you lost weight. Who knew? Not helped, of course, by the fact that in the passport photo taken nine years ago, I had a little more hair. All of which is to say that the security guard was keen for another form of ID. I produced my driving licence. Same problem with the weight, but at least I have closely cropped hair in the picture. Closely cropped hair... and a goatee. Again, he looked at me suspiciously, eyed me up and down and demanded further photographic proof of my identity.
I was at a loss. Aside from a passport and driving license, what other pictures are there to prove you're you short of finding a computer and logging onto your Facebook page. Visions of the plane flying off without me soared through my mind. Months of Active planning were about to go down the tubes
And then it hit me.
Opening my case allowing T-shirts and boxer shorts to tumble all over the Luton floor, I grabbed one of the dozen copies of last week's Jewish News I'd brought with me. Hastily flicking through it, I heaved a sigh of relief as I proudly brandished the page with my column - and picture - for the guard to see. He looked at it, he looked at me, he looked it... and smiled.
"So, you are going to write about us?" he joked gesturing at the other guards on duty. I smiled back. "You'll be on the front page."
Well, maybe not the front page, but page 16's not too bad. It's good enough for me, after all, and it did get me on that plane!
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