#SoldOut Raising Funds and Awareness

I recall many years ago standing on the terraces at Hampden Park, Glasgow with 145,000 other rabid fans, waiting for the teams to come out of the tunnel to begin the annual Scotland v England ‘Home International’ football,(soccer), game. There would always be 140,000 Scots and about 5,000 English fans in attendance. As a Scot, born and bred, I was brought up, just like the majority of others who were standing around me, to ‘hate’ the English with a vengeance. It was just part of our parochial culture at that time, and probably still is today, although I have not lived in Scotland for 40 years and with the demise of Scottish football and an awareness that political correctness is now the order of the day, perhaps the ferocity of that hatred has mellowed. The two teams, now standing in the center of the field, would face the main stand, where all the dignitaries were seated, and the British national anthem would begin, God Save the Queen. This was before the Scots were allowed to sing their own anthem, a change in protocol that occurred some years later. The band, yes, a real brass or bagpipe band, would strike up the first chord and immediately there would be a wall of noise emanating from the Scottish support just booing as loud as possible at the UK anthem. It completely drowned out the band and any semblance they had in mind of being heard as a unit. We hated that anthem, supposedly, and we all gave it little or indeed no respect. Within seconds, our vocal distaste of everything that the British Monarchy stood for was demonstrated by this blasphemous howling and booing which seemed to last an eternity, but which in fact lasted only about 120 seconds, the length of the British national anthem being quite short. Once over, the game began and the fact that 140,000 Scottish football fanatics had remonstrated vocally against our forced inclusion under the monarchy we all loved, or at least some of us loved, was soon forgotten as the football took over and blood and guts was then spilled on the field of play rather than on the streets of Glasgow. It should also be noted that while the anthem was sung by the players on the field from the England team, all the Scottish team just stood in silence, some smiling, some not, but to a tee, not one of the Scottish team would sing along. It was an unwritten rule, followed religiously. Silent protests against supposed oppression, acceptable and respected throughout the world. No harm done, no one to cry foul. Until now!

When Colin Kaepernick knelt down for the Star Spangled Banner whilst playing for the San Francisco 49rs some two years ago, the whole world, at least the world that surrounded American Football and Donald Trump, went berserk, and for what reason? Well as far as I can tell, the National Anthem was never played at any sporting event before the end of the second world war. And even after that, there were sports events in the USA where the anthem remained just a figment of everyone’s imagination, laying silent as battle commenced on the field of play. So why, all of a sudden, after Kaepernick and some of his fellow Pro’s decided to protest, quite justifiably in silence to make what has turned out to be a very relevant point on an issue that has haunted this country for generations, has the President of the United States and the owners of some of the football teams where protests have been continual and well publicized, lost the plot by telling players they will be fired if they continue to ‘abuse their privilege’? There is not one reason on earth why anyone should be forced to alter their beliefs, especially those who feel threatened or abused and more especially inside a country that not only preaches pure democracy and a right to free speech to the whole planet, but a country that encourages its populous to be vocal in the form of protest when under threat of unjustifiable racism. Racism is rife in America. You can smell it in the streets, it’s a pollution that has become silent in its poisoning of its population. Racism cannot be tolerated, hatred of anyone, any race, any creed and any color has to be kicked out, but, unfortunately, and in the opinion of this author, it’s just being swept under an already filthy carpet, where, when the dust is uncovered, it becomes a mountain of trash that is becoming ever worse and unstoppable, fueled by a President and government that just turns a blind eye and looks the other way whilst telling us all, quite disingenuously that there is absolutely nothing wrong! Well, not much!

My guitar teacher Tony, remember him from the first article I wrote last week, inspired me to make the lapel pins you see in the image above. The players protesting and following in the footsteps of Kaepernick, have a right to do so. It’s not disrespectful, it’s poignant, it’s their human right, it’s peaceful and most importantly, it’s something they believe in. However, it seems if these protests carry on players will be fired or, and I say this with the utmost respect, the President will have to intervene personally, something not one of us would like to see happen.

With all of this in mind, I have this idea, not only to raise the awareness to a very great cause, but to raise money for charities associated with racism and the profound effect that racism still holds on our society. The #SOLDOUT will soon display the pins pictured above for sale, to make people aware that there is genuine suffering out there, whether it be in the murdering of Jews in Pittsburgh, or the simplicity of daily senseless traffic stops on innocent African Americans, it matters not. We have a right to protest, so by wearing this pin, our protests shall be seen, and by the money we raise, out protests shall be heard.

Keep reading this blog for more updates and check out our Instagram #soldout to get your pin.

If there are any athletes, well known or otherwise and or charities, who would like to be considered as spokes people for this idea, please get in touch. Colin Kaepernick, if you read this please know that I have tried in many different ways to contact you because I believe you should lead this movement, but to date, no response.

Thank you everyone.

Strange People I Meet.

William is Asian, Hong Kong being his place of birth, although upon the completion of our first piece of conversation, it seems he’s a bit of a Heinz 57. Born in China, moved to South America then to Europe then to Hong Kong and eventually ending up in Washington State, here in the good old US of A. William is by trade a geologist, someone who knows the lay of the land, how it’s constructed, how it was formed and really in all honesty he should know how to navigate this land he so loves. Well, he does know his stuff. After conversing for some 30 mins, even though he was over an hour late for our meeting, he proved conclusively to me that the glaciers came and created the North West of the United States, 15,000 years ago, then melted, even though they were over 3000 feet thick at that time, taking 2000 years to dissipate and retreat to the Arctic, where they now lie in wait for the guaranteed melt that is coming. He also insisted that once all our ice pack melts, our oceans will rise 267 feet, killing or making homeless, 2 to 3 billion humans. As I sat listening to this gibberish, all that concerned me was the manner in which he took his glasses off, then without notice brought all his documentation within 2 inches of his eyes and began to read silently as if praying. He was then suddenly awoken from this study only to begin spouting more useless statistics about our planet.

The reason William had shown up in the first place was to inspect a piece of land that a friend of mine was having issues with. It had willingly subsided 4 feet in the past three weeks, and William had been summoned to make sure that this unwanted hole was nothing more than an eyesore and not something that warranted more concern than a few buckets of sand, some top soil and seed to make it all better. However, the realtor who’d ordered William to appear, became concerned just about an hour earlier when William had called to say he was stuck in a field. “Stuck in a field?” she’s shouted as she’d released her grip on a cell phone that I believed was about to be thrown across my friends lawn, while rolling her eyes as if to say, “what an idiot!” Yes, he’d confirmed that he’d taken the wrong road and was now firmly entrenched in a field, some 5 miles from the correct address, unable to move his car, getting wetter and wetter by the minute in the pouring rain and pleading, yes pleading for someone to come and get him. Lisa obliged, traipsing over hills and dales to collect William and bring him to the meeting. After an hour with us, William, now suitably refreshed, decided to start calling local towing companies to see if anyone on this Island, yes Island (I forgot to mention I was on a remote Island) would come and assist. 20 calls later, without losing his sense of humor, at last, someone kindly obliged. I asked him as he was leaving, “William, you’re a geologist, how can a geologist not know that you can get stuck in mud when it’s pouring rain and there’s no gravel or road surface for the car tires to grip?” He took his glasses off slowly and looked at me. He said, with a grand smile cut across his aging features, “Alan, you should never let a geologist drive your car” “Why’s that?” I asked, “because they always get hammered and stoned!”

Lisa drove him back and three hours later he got out the field and made it back to town. William was knowledgable, though very strange. Lisa was pissed, she’d lost a whole day, and my buddy, the guy with the land subsidence issue? Well, he’s still got his hole in the garden but he now knows that glaciers were there 15,000 years ago, that the ice wall was 3000ft thick and that eventually his place on this island will be 40 feet underwater, though he’ll be long gone by then as will William!

Screen Goddess – A Short Sex Story

Screen Goddess

“Hi how are you?” said Adam, as he watched her body move slowly back into his world yet again.

“Has life been treating you well?”

She was his and his alone. Her name was Emma, she was tall, sleek and ever so pretty. A true goddess. She had been in his life for over 6 months and he was besotted. Her vital statistics were 36C-24-35. Her modeling career was in full swing, and had been for the past three years of her short life. World famous, well, perhaps famous in the USA and not so famous in other countries, Emma paraded her body in front of millions daily. From lingerie to swimwear and full nudity, she had the looks that most women would die for. Her fan base was extraordinary, but for Adam, he felt blessed that she had eyes only for him and no one else.

“Come here darling” he motioned, “its time to meet daddy again”

He’d been winding himself up all day. 9 long hours in the office and then a business dinner that had lasted far too long. He needed her and he knew that she would be waiting for him the moment he returned to his humble abode. What Emma didn’t know however, was that Adam was seeing other women. She had no idea that this was happening, and Adam had no intention of telling her.

‘Hey I am only 30 years old, I can do what I please,’ he’d reminded himself on many occasions. ‘I have no commitment to Emma other than sexual, I mean we’re not engaged or married, so why not?’

Adam had a list of women with whom he was intimately involved. They ranged from brunette to blonde and even a few redheads. They numbered at least 20, they were all models, each and every one of them. Gorgeous, slim and committed only to Adam. It was amazing to think that he had them at his beck and call and even more amazing that they flocked to see him whenever he was in town. Adam thought regularly, ‘boy I am a lucky man’ and marveled continuously at each and every one of his harem.

“Tonight it’s just you and I Emma” he blurted out as he walked though the door to his apartment.

He was prepared for a long and sexually demanding evening. His dates were all demanding. They were famous models after all, and he wanted each evening to be as sexually fulfilling for her as it was for him. He’d planned his movements all day and now it was time to put into practice the performance he’d craved. Emma was really up for it, he could tell. She had on this new designer dress, one that he’d never seen before. It was perfect for the occasion and she looked as stunning as always. He loved this lady. Emma was definitely his favorite, and he promised himself that one day he would make an honest woman out of her. But in the meantime he had fun to have with her and all the others and Emma would have to take a favored back seat until his mind told him he was ready to be monogamous and settle down.

He didn’t waste too much time. “Emma, it’s been a long hard day at work baby, and it’s time to relax and help your favorite man wind down from all the aggravation he’s been getting at the office”

Emma made no comment, she just started to undress. She never spoke when he was in this kind of mood; she just continued to do the things that she knew he wished for and without questioning his real intentions, performed for him at his every command.

Adam had seen her naked body hundreds of times in the past, and had always marveled at her beauty. She was perfect. Her breasts were round and natural, her pert nipples such a turn on and her shaved snatch, just beautiful, so tight and so pink, and he enjoyed nothing more than to watch her place two fingers inside her glory hole and arouse those juices that made this act so perfect. Emma stood out from the crowd. Adam would tell her, “you know, Roxy and Zoe are the only others that come close to you darling. They have the bodies, but they don’t have your class. You just reek sex, and I am proud, yes, really proud that we can have such a close relationship, especially with all those other guys out there who desire you so badly.’

Emma continued to undress. There were some nights when this process took longer than others. It all depended on the outfit and the physical connection. Adam was so patient but there were times where he just couldn’t wait, and that was when his problems at work took command of his persona. Tonight however he had the patience and he sat at ease in his recliner just staring as Emma revealed one little piece of flesh after another. It would soon be time.

‘I have a question” he stated with some authority, “how do we keep managing to have such great sex and such a great relationship without your husband knowing?”

She continued to strip and he continued to ogle.

Emma had been married to for two years. Adam knew her husband but he’d never met him. He knew everything about Emma, but the fact that she was married rankled him. There was nothing he could do about it. She was committed on paper to this man, but he knew her real love lay in his bedroom. She had told him so, many times in the past. Expressing nothing but joy towards a relationship she craved yet one that she could never commit to, at least not so far. Her husband was rich and famous yet Adam knew Emma hated the notoriety that this brought into her world. She craved peace and quiet that Adam offered. A small home in an insignificant suburb of a quiet little town with no press or TV crews continuously hounding her. Adam knew for sure that Emma had wished for this since she was a child. He was damned if he would let her spend the rest of her life with that rich moron in LA. To date though, he’d never managed to persuade her to change her plans and so here they were, ready and willing to perform together one more time.

Emma was now fully naked. She was sitting with her legs wide open on a chair. Her long curly hair pushed back behind her ears and her mouth wide open, inviting Adam to place his cock in between her teeth. Adam was raring to go. He began to take off his clothes, one piece at a time. He was very deliberate in the way he undressed. He knew what she liked and he was damn sure he was going to give it to her. She sat and waited, never taking her eyes off him, watching closely as his penis went from zero to 7 inches in 2.4 seconds. That cute smile, which had become her trademark in the modeling world, was begging for penetration. She craved this time with Adam, and he with her. Adam realized long ago that from all of the women he’d fucked, Emma was the one with which his orgasm felt strongest. It must be the tightness that he felt when inside her, or perhaps just the feelings he had for her that enhanced his performance. Whatever it was, she definitely eclipsed the other women in his life by a sexual mile.

“OK this is it. Let’s fuck Emma. Come here darling and let the fun begin”

Adam pulled himself closer to her and as he did so his excitement became overwhelming.

“Oh Shit. Oh Fuck, holly shit. I can’t fucking believe that!!!” he shouted. He was livid!

“NO NOT THERE!” he screamed. He was out of control and unable to stop what had now become a massive premature ejaculation, right across his laptop computer screen!  Emma just sat there with that wonderful smile, awaiting his arrival, an arrival that had happened all too soon!

Unable to console himself and desperate to clean up his mess before his computer malfunctioned, Adam ran into his bathroom for toilette roll hoping to mop up his excretion before his key board went into full uninterrupted seizure. He had failed with Emma, he had failed miserably, but he knew that given a 10 minute respite and a fresh internet connection that Holly was waiting on some other dark porn site, and she was the next target for his evening at home, alone with nothing but his beer and his five reliable fingers.

How Would You Choose To Trim Your Pussy???

IMG_0191The door opened and I walked in, my eyes immediately fixed on this poor wee pussy cat. Looking once, then twice, and then once again at an aberration, which was facing me dead on in this strangers hallway. I’d never been in this home before, nor would I ever be coming back, but within moments I was captivated, shocked and desperate to take pictures of. what seemed to be, one of God’s little mistakes. How wrong was I?

Missy, we were now on first name terms, is a Persian cat with an incredible story to tell and one that was worth writing about. She’d just been shaved, as you can tell from the pictures. Why? Well her fur had become so long and matted that her shape was beyond recognition, and so, after a quick trip to the groomers’ store, this was how she ended up! Fluffy at the head, fluffy at the tail and well…….. well the rest you can see.

Her mother, a grayish white version of the same breed, patrolled the hallway just in front of Missy, the only daughter she had left from the litter she bore less than 5 months ago. Alert, snuggly and very curious, she seemed to roll her eyes in disgust as yet another visitor gave preferential treatment and attention to her daughter. She’d seemingly seen it all before, this little bald cat, the center of everyone’s affection. And I was just like the rest of those who had entered before me, iPhone at the ready, snapping what would be the first of many pictures, just to be certain this moment could be shared and remembered for all eternity.

I asked her owner why so short? The response? Well it came in spurts, but the long and the very short is, Missy either got shaved or she would have died on the fur balls she was chewing every day. Her own fur! So now, with mother in close proximity, her flesh exposed from the loss of hair and her sights set on an extended stay in Los Gatos, Missy is alive and well and enjoying her new-found bald spots, all of which have saved her life, for the time being.

Not a sight for sore eyes, but a sight that made happy eyes very sore from all laughing I did just imagining what a trend setter this cat could end up being. She could start a band called Shaved Pussy. She could join the BRAVO TV show, Shahs of Sunset, as the most intelligent Persian poosie on the cast. She could be the first cat to be invited to try Bosley hair replacement, and finally, she could have been the first cat ever to swallow a whole ball of wool and give birth to mittens!



Large Lady – A Short Sex Story

“I’m fat. OK so what? I am still sexy and desirable. I hope that my overly weighted body is not really the turn off that men sometimes say it is. I love to eat and in this day and age there’s nothing wrong with that as long as you admit to the fact that you like food. The thing that I love most is ice cream and I could easily eat a pint and a half of chocolate chip anything after being fucked hard by a real man. Now, there is an idea!! I should be eating it while he’s fucking me. Pure ecstasy!

I have lived in this town since I was a youngster. There has been no escaping its hold on either myself, or my family before me. After school finished I decided that sex was the only way to make a living here, so, with that in mind, I began to market my body. It all began in the early 1990’s when I was barely 18 years old. At first it was easy, there seemed to be a huge demand for my services, but, as time wore on and my youthful looks began to disintegrate through drug abuse and too much ‘good’ living, demand slowed to a crawl I decided things had to change rapidly or I figured the rest of my life would be spent working night shift at the local McDonald’s.

In the early days, my pimp used to call me at least twice a night, and it didn’t matter what time it was, he just called. He’d ask me, no, tell me to ‘perform’ for all his high roller clients who wished to be endlessly entertained after counting their winnings or bemoaning their losses at the local club. More often than not it seemed they had loses, large amounts of cash disappearing into ‘not so friendly’ bars and casinos that now covered every square inch of this city. They threw parties, which I attended, that went for hours, the money was great and even though my Pimp took plenty, I’d soon built up a small fortune in savings for my planned retirement. I’d always seen this profession as short-term and was quite surprised that I”d lasted as long as I had, due mainly to Albert my pimp’s, insistence that if I quit he would shoot me through the temple with the ’45 that he had holstered between his very broad white shoulders. Albert scared the shit out of me. I was half his size and to be honest he’d been really kind when I needed someone to get me started in this ‘business.’ I have no regrets, even though he’d so often scared me to death with his empty but realistic threats. He became my watchdog, my eyes and my protector. One time in the Mirage, I was being fucked at all angles by 3 of the largest black men you’ve ever seen. I was screaming for help while they had their way with me. Luckily Albert had waited outside the hotel room and when he heard my cries for help he’d burst in and broken up that orgy of fear by pointing his sawn off shotgun very deliberately at each of their enormous black dicks.

It was after that experience that I begged him for a change. I didn’t want a change in career, I just wanted a sex change. I needed to become the woman I had always yearned to be. As a young boy I knew I was different. My urge to dress up in ladies clothing and put on make-up each day, kind of made me think twice about my forced gender. I had feelings of femininity from the age of nine and they only grew stronger as I moved into my teenage years. At school my friends were all female and the boys used to kick the crap out of me each week, calling me a fag or other strange names. I had no idea what that meant, as I was younger than most of those who partook in such activities, but in later life it became apparent that they were right and I was definitely a closet female. This made me smile as I now knew where my destiny lay.”

“Male prostitution was not something I’d planned on doing as a full-time job, but it seemed like easy money. At school, when I was 15, I used to suck boys off behind the dinner hall for 3 bucks a pop. They loved it and frankly so did I. These were the boys, or perhaps I should say losers, who couldn’t get a real woman to fuck them, but were able to simulate the experience through my mouth. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds, they always paid, and I always performed. They had to keep quiet about me and I about them. By the time I was 18 and ready to leave, I had several thousand dollars in the bank, and then I met Albert, so life seemed set. I started working with some urgency on ‘the strip’ making thousands each night. Albert took most of the cash that I received and banked it for me. He was aware that I’d wanted to have the ‘Op’ and so at his suggestion; he became my manager and banker all in one. This arrangement was great, until that night with the 3 guys in the Mirage. It was time to switch sexes, and Albert held the key to my dreams, all seventy-two thousand. We consulted the best man in town, Dr Ray, and he agreed to convert me to femininity. I would even receive change from my savings! What a plan!. Albert recommended that once my surgery was complete, I become a female prostitute, otherwise known as a ‘hoe’, and remain with him until I retired. I presumed that his intentions were honorable, and therefore I’d agreed. It took 1 year from the first operation to the last, but unfortunately I still had my dick. It was too much money and too complicated a process to remove it. I was so pleased with the rest of the job the surgeon had performed, that I spent hours admiring myself in front of every mirror I could find. Albert nicknamed me ‘Freak’, which upset me a little, but I knew he meant no harm. He used to shout at me across the room, ‘Freak how we gonna make money when you still got a dick?”

He was sometimes hilarious when making fun of my surgeries, calling me the ‘bitch of the west with the hairiest chest’ We laughed often about the reaction his clients would have when I uncovered my member just after they’d fondled my fake breasts! Albert insisted that they’d find it funny and that I shouldn’t concern myself with such trivia. “This is tinsel town baby, what you do stays here. It never goes home.” My complete trust lay in his hands and we opened for business again, late 1999.”

“Albert was right. It seemed to work. Men and women alike came from all over the planet just to ‘use’ me. They all had their fetishes and to be honest they were all more freakish than I. One night Albert set me up with this ‘dude’ from Texas who wanted a shemale as a kind of circus addition to the already expensive and lavish party he was throwing for his best friend Kirk. We agreed an astronomical fee and everyone was happy. The party itself was superb. I was fortunate to arrive after it had started, but long before it went into full swing. The food and drink were flowing like there was no tomorrow and Kirk was introduced to me not knowing that I was destined to be his final surprise of the evening. When we set eyes on each other, there was something about him that stopped me dead in my tracks. He was too beautiful to be a man and I truly believed that he could also have a change sex and become a woman. His perfect skin and soft features led me to think that he could also be a model. We spoke for a few minutes and it was during this conversation that I discovered his real passion, ice cream. He ran a company that was the largest manufacturer of ice cream in Texas. He disappeared after a while and the party continued. I was ushered into a huge bedroom with the biggest bed I’d ever seen. The ‘dude’ came in demanding to see me naked. He was paying so I didn’t see too much of a problem with this request. Albert however demanded payment. Six G’s was the agreed amount and he paid in luscious new one hundred-dollar bills. Five of the six were mine to keep. This was easy money once again. I stripped and he laughed. The prick had no manners. “Blow me” he demanded, “and swallow the lot!”. I told him that would cost him an extra three thousand and without hesitation he paid. I sucked him hard and he loved it. Albert loved it too. The ‘dude’ came buckets all over the chair he was sitting on. Fucking pervert!

20 minutes later Kirk entered the room,  and my instructions were to be naked under the sheets but that under no circumstance was I to remove my panties. I was promised that Kirk was going to fuck me and that his friends were all going to stay in the room and take pictures. This was bizarre. Why would he want pictures fucking a transvestite? Unless he didn’t know of course?? I was never one to argue or question, and after all they had paid in full, it was their choice. I had the money, they gave the orders.

In came Kirk, the victim, shouting, staggering and partying and from the look underneath his pants, already very hard indeed. He was so drunk! This wasn’t going to be too much fun. I hated to fuck drunk men. They always seemed to be in bed for the wrong reasons. He was celebrating his 40th birthday and had balloons and ribbons tied to his neck and arms. The ‘dude’ was standing with his video camera and another guy from the party with his Nikon. Kirk was rolling on the bed trying to disrobe, so I decided to make life easy for him and assisted in this process. He was now fully naked, other than his underwear. He crawled over beside me and we started to fondle one another. He commented on my wonderful hard breasts and without further ado I suggested we just fuck and get it over and done with. The ‘dude’ had the camera rolling and moved in for close-ups. I went to remove Kirk’s underwear and was shocked and stunned when I discovered he had no dick. He was a woman! A fucking woman who was now a man! The laughter must have started after his friends saw the stunned look on my face and then on Kirk’s too. He now knew I was formally a man as his hands were resting on my balls, looking aimlessly for a vagina. We were a perfect match!”

“That night changed my life. Kirk and I fell madly in love with one another and within 3 months he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I moved to Texas and started to eat ice cream for kicks. We were married soon after and now we live happily in our huge home in the suburbs of Dallas. There is no substitute for great sex, and he fits perfectly around the penis that I’d saved from a certain death. His obsession to become a man in all departments, ended after we met, and now we have an onsite nightly freak show with our cartons of ice cream and out determination to be a married couple. Who says fairy tales don’t happen in real life! They did for me. A marriage made not in heaven but in the doctor’s surgery.”

Club Med For Jews – Part 2

The state of Israel was formed in May of 1948. It had become a dream for all Jews in the diaspora to visit the “promised land” at least once in their lifetimes. As a result, the feeling of personal accomplishment—of celebration—when the wheels of our 747 hit the ground was extraordinary. Everyone on the plane began clapping and singing. All around were smiles, tears, prayers and gratitude. Strangers were shaking each other’s hands and hugging. From our seats at the back of the plane, Ruth and I were in fine position to witness the aisles come alive with happiness. It was clear that everyone felt they had “come home.”

The doors opened and warm, humid air spread through the cabin like a fever on the march. In those days there were no gates attached to the terminal, and because Lod Airport was still under construction, we were sitting in a remote part of an inactive taxiway. There was a stampede to get off the plane, and many of those who did then got on their knees and spent five minutes kissing the runway and looking towards the heavens, as if impersonating a pontiff arriving in a foreign land. It was nearly midnight, but the sultry air was exceptionally strange to someone arriving from a Scottish climate.

After progressing through immigration and baggage claim we all met outside, bags in hand, our excitement peaked and our thirst for adventure at the ready. Ruth met our uncle Jack, who whisked her away as soon as she claimed her luggage. I wouldn’t see her again for six weeks. My group, on the other hand, was ushered onto another bus and taken into Tel Aviv, where we would spend one night in a hotel. The bus journey took half an hour, but from the looks and moves that some of the boys were making towards the ladies I could already see the “casual” relationships in the making. It wouldn’t be long before the sexual exploits of these impromptu couples became talking points of every waking minute during the days to come.

At the hotel we roomed with members of the same sex who were going to the same kibbutzim (plural for kibbutz). Andrew and I ended up sharing a room, and other than the fact that he couldn’t go ten minutes without a “fag,” our night was quiet and filled with anticipation for the next day’s arrival at Kibbutz Hazorea.

Meanwhile, my platform shoes were (as I feared) being openly ridiculed by all and sundry. I was beginning to wish I’d never brought the damn things. The beach was only two minutes from our hotel and I’d seriously considered walking to the Mediterranean Sea and throwing them in. But it never happened. Instead, they would be my companions through hell and high water until I landed back in Scotland. This was Israel, land of Moses, Abraham, and Jesus, and no platform shoes were required. Some in our group wore sandals, while others “went native” and walked barefoot. I was reminded that the Israelis were hard people who had endured compulsory military service, wars, and much more. They were also people who didn’t give a shit about 70s fashion.

With roll call at 6:00 a.m., I felt fortunate to have gotten four hours of sleep. At breakfast, I amused myself by trying to figure out who had been fucking whom. The dead giveaway was the tears of separation that appeared in the eyes of couples headed for different kibbutzim (to be honest, usually from the women). The usual verbal drama—“You just fucked me because you could!” and “You don’t love me then?”—poured itself out on top of our fresh vegetables, hummus and breakfast conversation. One girl got so upset at the way she thought she’d been treated that the tour operators threatened to send her back to the UK.

Andrew and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, rolled our eyes and focused on eating as much as we could before the bus came to carry us off to the Galilee. We’d heard that life on a kibbutz meant hard work and we wanted to be well-fed while we could be.

By 9:00 we were on the road. By 9:15, we were both asleep in our seats as our bus meandered along Israel’s substandard road system. A jolt shook me from my slumber and as I opened my eyes I could see Hazorea spreading out before me. My new temporary life was about to begin, and it would begin with a bang

In the 1970s, the average population of any kibbutz was approximately 400 residents. Most were immigrants, most of whom had opted for a communal life on a farm rather than joining the rat race in one of Israel’s three largest cities. Kibbutzim were run by committees made up of some of the elders and sometimes an occasional entrepreneur. When the kibbutzim were formed in the early 1900s, their purpose was to farm the land, feed themselves and perhaps some of the local towns, and be self-sufficient without becoming isolated. It was said that those who decided to live on a kibbutz were the ones who couldn’t make it in the “real” world.

But in reality, they were often people who’d arrived from countries where life had been terribly hard and they just wanted to live without having to worry each day about their survival. They felt secure in the knowledge that the community would take care of them no matter what. On a kibbutz, everyone farms together, eats together and learns together. All costs, from electricity and water to food and medical care, are taken care of by the community. Everyone is equal. It’s communism without the dictator or bread lines.

Andrew and I, along with two other girls, stepped off the bus and into this world. We were escorted into what seemed to be a huge communal dining area that could probably seat up to 500 people for a meal. We were offered seats, cold drinks and food while our team leader finished his paperwork. Eventually, every I was dotted and T crossed and our leader vanished. I felt a quick chill at the thought, “Oh shit, we’re on our own,” and then we met the adults and kids who would become our adoptive families for the next couple of months. Along with them, there was another gentleman who was a perfect advertisement for an aging cowboy: about 65 years old, small, chubby, with a gun holstered, Wild West style, on his belt. He and I would become quite friendly, but that wouldn’t happen for about a week.

An older woman walked up and shook my hand. “I am Hava (pronounced Chava),” she said, “and I will be your kibbutz mother.” Her husband, whose name is lost to my memory, and then two of her children, one of whom was the same age as me, followed suit. A similar scene was playing out all around me with all the people who had joined me on Hazorea. Ever so gently, we were being coaxed into our new lives.

Hazorea was large in comparison to the other kibbutzim we’d seen that day. It had about 800 inhabitants at that time; you can see what it looked like back then here:

http://www.hazorea.org.il/ViewArticle.aspx?articleID=113. The whole property totaled about 300 acres, with chicken coops and fishponds to the west of the residential areas and a polyethylene bag factory to the south. It had dwellings of two or three different styles, a theatre, swimming pool (really a pond, but more about this later), dining hall, and offices. The funniest thing to me was the plastic bag factory. After working my tender young arse off for two years selling plastic bags, I found myself in the middle of nowhere with yet more plastic bags! However, at that time the bag factory was fairly new. The bread and butter of this kibbutz were the chickens.

German Jews had populated Hazorea, and so it was no surprise to find that Hava and the rest of her family originated in that country, as did most of the other permanent residents. German Jews were renowned for being yeke like, which basically means “precise and regimented.” In the few minutes I’d had to look around, I could see from the layout that this place embodied those qualities. It was clean, neat, and orderly.

On any kibbutz, volunteers come from all over the world to work, to learn Hebrew in an intensive school called an ulpan, and sometimes just to get away from something that they just don’t want to be part of any more. On Hazorea we had men and women, boys and girls, ages 16 to 35, from South Africa, the U.S., Australia, Europe and many more countries. Some were Jewish, some not, but all with one goal: to be part of this new country, this wilderness that had turned fertile, and this potentially life-changing experience.

Avi, Hava’s son, escorted me to my sleeping quarters with Andrew following along accompanied by his newfound family friend. We were quite surprised to learn that we would be sharing rooms with an Israeli and not with one another. The kids “dorms” were actually huts, where all the children from age four upwards slept. That was customary on a kibbutz at that time: all the kids were separated from their parents and schooled, fed and housed in a different part of the complex. On Friday nights, instead of eating alone, all the families got together for a reunion of sorts. It was quite strange to witness at first, but we soon became accustomed to their ways, and most of them turned out to make good sense.

My room was sparse, with one cupboard, a fan and two beds, both single but quite comfortable. Avi would be my roommate, and he immediately won my enmity by offering my platform shoes pride of place at the end of his bed (while he and two of his buddies shared a barely-concealed a laugh in their native tongue at my expense). Damn these shoes I thought as I pushed them under the bed. If all went well, I wouldn’t see them again until I got off the plane in Glasgow come September.

After settling in and trying to communicate in awkward Hebrew/English (Hebrish?) phrases with some of the other kids, we newcomers were whisked off to the dining hall for dinner and then to the work station to find out what we would be doing for the next few weeks in the way of hard labor. We were there as volunteers, as were all of our group and all of the other groups bringing kids to the Holy Land. It didn’t matter if you were Jewish, Christian or any other faith (and there ware many other faiths) we were all there for the same reasons: to help, learn and—hopefully—have sex with people we would never see again.

As I walked into the hall, a vision of female loveliness approached me. She turned out to be Sally, an American from Maryland. She was slightly older than I, slim and short, with the bubbliest personality of anyone I’d ever met. She would become my friend in more ways than one, but more of that as we move along. This night was “Get to know you” night, and Sally started the ball rolling with an unsolicited “Get to know you” peck on the cheek, followed by an invitation to her place later that evening. I went in eager anticipation, but her place turned out to be like mine: filled with people and with no privacy.

As the day ended, Hava summoned me to her home. She let me know that in two days I would begin my working experience with the chickens. This was great, because it gave me 48 hours to settle in. She also announced that I would no longer be called Alan, and that everyone would address me by my Hebrew name, Eli (pronounced Ellie). “Chickens?” I thought, “Sounds easy enough.” Boy, was I going to be proved wrong. Naively, I told Hava and her husband that chickens would not be a problem, and then it was back to Sally’s dorm, just in case—unlike the chickens—she had more to offer than a wee peck.


Club Med For Jews- A Short Story. Part 1

The summer of 1975 in Glasgow, Scotland, was only consistent in its inconsistency. One day the sun was there, the next, gone. There seemed to be no end in sight to my work or the rain. My feet ached from pounding the pavement—marching from one town to another, trying to sell anything I could, and running three to six miles every night to keep fit. I was sixteen years old, ambitious and bored.

However, things were looking up. Earlier in the year my parents had contacted a London organization called Kibbutz Representatives, and after the completion of much paperwork and the exchange of substantial funds, my sister, Ruth, and I were about to be packed off for an eight-week stay on a kibbutz in the Holy Land. From the day they told us they’d arranged this trip I was unsure what to expect, but as the time to pack my bags grew closer, I was really quite excited. I was certain it was going to be a fun, eventful trip, and I thought the experience would shape how I would live the rest of my life. I was right on both counts.

In 1975 Glasgow Airport was small compared to other airports around Britain. You could arrive 30 minutes before your flight and still be early. We would fly to London, where we would meet the rest of the group from the UK and Ireland, and then on to Tel Aviv. We spent a bumpy hour on a British Airways Trident aircraft—it was only the third or fourth time I had flown and I disliked the experience intensely—and before long were on the ground at Heathrow, where we would transfer to El Al for the five-hour flight to Tel Aviv.

I stood at the El Al counter with my platform shoes tied round my neck for safety. There was no way I was losing them; it was the 1970s and I was sure that every Israeli would want to see my impersonation of Gary Glitter. After Ruth and I checked in, we met some of the people who would join us on the way to Israel. Ruth was going to stay with one of my uncles who had lived on a kibbutz for many years, so she wasn’t on the same program as I was. My program dictated that I spend six weeks on a kibbutz and then two weeks touring with the group. According to the tour leader from Kibbutz Representatives, the group would split into ten groups of three to four once we landed; each of these smaller groups would then go to its own kibbutz. After six weeks on the farm (which is basically what a kibbutz is), we would be reunited for the tour.

I looked around and saw a young guy wandering back and forth between the check-in counter and the tour leader. He looked as lost as Ruth and I felt. Not being the shy sort (sales cures you of that rather quickly) I took my boarding card, walked up and introduced myself.

“Alan Zoltie,” I said, offering my hand.

“Andrew Henry,” he said, taking it.

“You excited?” I asked.

“Maybe,” he replied, taking a drag from a freshly lit cigarette.

“What Kibbutz are you on?”

“Hazorea. You?”

“Dunno, I need to find out.” I went off, with Ruth in tow, to find our leader. Then I noticed the looks on everyone’s face. I had become—or rather, my feet had become—the center of unwanted attention. My platform shoes were making quite a splash, and not for the right reasons. This was obviously going to be a shorts, T-shirt and sandals situation, and it was clear that my shoes were turning into this expedition’s first running joke. But I couldn’t dump them or give them to someone to take home, so I was stuck with them.

I saw our fearless tour leader heading for the exit. “Yo! Jimmy!”

He turned.

“Alan Zoltie. What Kibbutz am I on?”

He looked down a long list. “Hazorea.”

So Andrew, my first contact, and his tobacco habit, would be my best mate. Suddenly, Jimmy informed us that boarding and security checks would take an hour, and we departed for passport control, then security, then security again, and then, at last, the plane. It was a huge 747. I’d read about them and seen them on TV, but this was my first time on board such a monster aircraft. It looked big enough to house a disco and a bowling alley.

Ruth and I ended up in the very last row on the right side of the plane. I had a pamphlet explaining all the details of this marvelous aircraft in my hand—and was right in the middle of reading that a jumbo jet could fly above all known weather patterns, which was a comfort—when without warning we were hurtling down the runway at 250 kilometers per hour on our way to Israel. On our way to a new and different life, if only for eight weeks. This was the trip that would turn the boy I still was into a man. It was the beginning of my beginning. I was certain that it would be an emotional roller coaster, but while taking off from Heathrow I had no idea how fast that roller coaster was or how high (and low) it would go. When I returned, I would be fully aware how hard this planet was to live on, and how different the rest of the world was from Glasgow.