Do you know what a barmitzvah is? Yeah, its a kind of ‘confirmation’, its a religious ceremony, its the passage of a ‘boy’ to a ‘man’ in the eyes of whatever God you happen to believe in. And as barmitzvah’s are fairly exclusive to Jewish people, that’s ‘our’ God which counts here. And as a ‘man’, this 13 year-old kid is given the woman of his choice from the selection offered by call-girls-unlimited.com, is presented with his first bottle of single malt whisky and is allowed to take any car on the forecourt and floor it until it crashes or he gets arrested. The universal definition of ‘manhood’ in any practical sense.

The reality of a barmitzvah though is this. As a ‘man’ what you’re actually allowed to do is read from the Torah, out loud, to the congregation. And that, for many Jews, especially the ones with the black hats and long beards, is a very big deal indeed. So this is what happens at such an event in ‘civilised society’.

The boy is presented with an Armani suit (Numbers, Ch.23, v.14-17). He wears it along with the Tag watch he received from his delighted grandparents. He goes to synagogue, along with 320 of his nearest and dearest family and friends, most of whom he’s meeting for the first time. And there he says/sings his piece of the Torah. Which he’s been learning from tapes and lessons and a man with a long beard and a big stick, for the last 12 months. Then everyone eats fish balls and drinks whisky and goes home to get ready for the ‘party’.

This takes place in a palace, a West End hotel or a disused warehouse in Wapping or Shoreditch that someone’s paid a king’s ransom to ‘decorate’ for one night. The party planners sort all that out, along with the flowers (barmitzvah boys love flowers, as you can imagine), the numerous entertainers and bands and DJs, the Kletzmer Band, the caterers and the flash visit by the full Arsenal first team. So that 460 bods kitted out in black tie and Oscar de la Renta can sit there moaning that last week’s party was bigger/better/more kosher. That the room’s too hot/too cold, that the mother looks like a dog’s dinner/a wolf in sheep’s intestines; that the father is having an affair with his personal trainer. It’s the best of fun.

Today’s barmitzvah was therefore special. Like REALLY special. Because The Canadians (as we call them) appreciate that its not about fancy shmancy and posh. It’s not about a 14 year old kid and his mates throwing around food that cost more than the shirt he’s getting filthy. It’s about the continuity of a fabulous tradition which, for many of us ‘not quite so religious’ is a defining moment in the continuation of a line which dates back to Moses. Or Abraham. Possibly to Bobby Moore, the dates get confused.

So we went to the top of a mountain in the middle of the desert next to the Dead Sea. And there did young Rhys strut his Judaic stuff. Quite brilliantly. And then we climbed down (about 40 minutes) and had lunch. Before floating on/in the Dead Sea and covering ourselves with mud, as it is written (on an Ahava bottle), that we may bless our skin and make us look much younger. And much muddier. Than we did before. The latter definitely worked, the former, hmmm…

It was simply brilliant. Fun, laughter, intimate and just enough religion to fulfil all obligations.

What a day. Thank you Canada!!!

Happy Barmitzvah Day

A xxxx