Ok, you can go on a pilgrimage to Mecca, but they call that ‘the Haj’, or you can do one to Rome, and if you’re a Roman Catholic priest you can even do a pilgrimage to Chang Mai (cryptic and cruel in just one little suggestion). Druids have pilgrimages to Stonehenge. Rockers go to Graceland, gamblers make theirs to Vegas, Spurs fans to Glen Hoddle’s house. But really, if you want a proper ‘pilgrimage’, a proper religious journey as part of spiritual enlightenment, Israel’s the place. Jerusalem is so packed full of spirituality that you can sometimes see all the Gods actually arguing above its hills. Bethlehem is, for some reason, a bit of a place to be seen, as is Lake Tiberius. Caesaria. Mount Carmel. If bushes burned there, seas parted there, tablets were brought down there, martyrs martyred there, then it probably happened in Israel. If not you get a full refund. In the next life.

I don’t come for any of that. I make my annual pilgrimage to the shwarma bar in Hertzliya. To the iced coffee machine at Aroma, the amazing restaurants of Tel Aviv and the ice cream shops everywhere. Mine’s a pilgrimage for food. Yeah, praying’s all well and good but basically, for a man of my culture, sophistication and level of enlightenment, if ya can’t shove it in yer face, I ain’t gonna be there.

That’s not to say I’m totally oblivious to the amazingly vast and colourful truly multi-cultural history and symbolic importance of the Holy Land, its just that if I’m honest, the chilli sauce you get there is probably of greater significance in my life. At the moment.

So at the airport on the way home was (I’m guessing) a group of pilgrims from Italy, led by their Main Monk, the Head Hoody, the Boss Bishop, whatever. They all stopped to say a prayer over some beans. I really didn’t get that. And if I wasn’t so Omni-tolerant to all mankind, however fucking misguided they may be, I’d have possibly pointed out that ‘its all a load of bollocks’, but chose not to. Mainly because the Italians seemed such a nice bunch of misguideds.

Then I decided that the Father was on his phone because there’s a new ‘confession app’, available from www.vatican.com/dog_collar/dog’s_bollocks. It’s brilliant. You just click on the sin icon (remember that in this context, ‘icon’ means ‘little symbol on your keyboard’, not ‘THE FINGERNAIL OF CHRIST!!’) and that might be having lewd thoughts about the choir, stealing from the collection plate, hot-wiring the pope-mobile at night, and the app works out what you need to do to stay on that heavenly course. Say a few Hail Marys, whatever, and bing-bong, yer back on track.

Also at the airport yesterday, pretty much a first for me at Tel Aviv, were groups of men in kilts and Scotland shirts. Ahh, I said to one in the security queue, you must be football fans then. To which he replied, ‘I was til Thursday’.

Happy Tuesday

A xxxx

Now I’m home. And its cold and grey and dark.