In 50 years time, I’m sure people will look back on the not-so- roaring 2020s and find them quaintly hilarious.
They’ll be wrong, of course, because we are definitely cool now and always will be cool, but looking back 50 years from today, to the 1970s, well, things weren’t just quaintly hilarious then, they were outlandishly, insanely hilarious.
And perhaps the nexus, (if I can use such a word, which I just have) of the hilarity was the barmitzvah, and to a lesser extent — such were the times — the batmitzvah.
Now, before I launch into this in more detail, I could simply show you exhibit A and say, case closed, but I’ve agreed to 1,500 words, so sadly, I can’t. Take a look at this picture.
It’s not just the pastel-pink walls with the unnecessary bits of gold on them or the fabulously 1970s microphone in the background that a toastmaster will have very unsilently yelled “Pray silence!” into. No, it’s the dear lady smack bang in the foreground. I mean, the hair, the glasses, the cheekbones, the top… it’s an ensemble that is terrifying and endearing and, let’s be honest, funny.
There’s also, of course, the naffness of the photo itself and the fact that, apart from a couple of attempted grimaces, no one is smiling. A good time was had by …almost none of them.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
The Seventies was a time of disco, glam rock, punk, bell bottoms, platform shoes, big collars, wavy hair, sideburns, mullets and lava lamps. In short, it was loud, it was garish and in our eyes, the very height of sophistication. And that more than toppled over into our ceremonies of induction into adulthood… apart maybe from mine.
In its own way, my barmitzvah was equally hilarious and Seventies, but, I stress again, in its own way, the Baddiel way shall we say.
It was at New London Synagogue with the late, great Rabbi Louis Jacobs at the helm. I remember being nervous, but just about getting through it (I didn’t do maftir or haftorah).
The main thing I remember though was sitting in the front row with my family and all of us keeping a keen eye on my grandfather. As the only one who went to shul regularly, we were relying on him to let us know when to stand up.
As soon as he did, we did. Which was fine…until he got it wrong and the whole front row, and only the whole front row, stood up.
The party was in the evening and the swankiest place my parents could find to have it was…our house. Sixty of their friends crammed in for a do that was catered, though I can’t remember what we ate.
Ivor’s big day: (l to r) his father's mother, his brother Dan, his mother's mother, Ivor at the head of the table, his brother David leaning forwards, his father's father and his father Colin standing up at the back, and his mother's father, leaning back.
I don’t recall there being any speeches, however I can remember the punch my father made because, being a scientist, he made it with 100 per cent pure alcohol that he’d “borrowed” from work. His reasoning was that it didn’t give you a hangover. He was wrong. Very wrong.
The following day there was another party at our house for my friends. The highlight was a cake that my mother had made with a figure of a footballer on it enclosed within green Subbuteo fences.
She brought it in and went back to get a knife, only to discover on her return that my friends had, hilariously, taken the green fences and plunged them vertically into the cake. She wasn’t happy. We then all convened in the front room to watch a cine film recording of the 1966 World Cup Final.
So that’s what I thought barmitzvah parties were like, which might explain my sense of disbelief when I was invited to a friend’s barmitzvah some time later, at the swankiest place in town, Quaglino’s. To this day I can still remember how blown away I was walking in there. There was a table plan, noch! And tables! Loads of people dressed up to the nines, some even to the tens!
There was a band! And, before things got under way, a toastmaster (there was a toastmaster!) welcomed the barmitzvah boy’s sister!
And in she walked with a spotlight on her. Then he welcomed the barmitzvah boy’s parents, and in they walked, also with a spotlight on them. And finally he announced the barmitzvah boy himself and in he walked, spotlit and resplendent, to roars of appreciation from the gathered throng.
Current Spurs chairman, Daniel Levy (second from right in the white suit). Third from the left is Andrew Deaner, who would grow up to help save Bolton player Fabrice Muamba’s life when he suffered a cardiac arrest in a match against Spurs in March 2012
I also remember one other thing: on every table there were pound notes. Not real ones, they were copies that had been specially made, only in these ones they’d replaced the Queen’s head with the barmitzvah boy’s smiling face. It made me feel slightly nauseous then, and still does today.
It was my awakening to another world, a world of tradition mixed with keeping up with the Jonesteins mixed with all the wonders of the Seventies.
It’s a world my partners in crime (all will become clear), Howard Robinson and Eddie Gershon, knew all too well.
They hail from north-east London, which had the largest Jewish community in Europe. Beehive Lane was the main shul, where it wasn’t unusual for there to be two barmitzvahs on the same Shabbat. In fact, on Eddie’s big day, there were three.
Getting dressed for the reception, either up west or at the Chingford Assembly Rooms, was a megillah and a half with much time being spent ensuring the barmitzvah boy’s shirt was suitably ruffled and his bow tie appropriately oversized. (Brian Dash was the tailor to go to apparently, though for shul it was Basil Saunders.) In Howard’s case (that’s him with his mum in the circle picture above) I think it was time well spent.
Howard - with natty suit and bow tie - and his mum
The seating plan was the cause of much consternation due to the inevitable broigeses that are rife in any extended Jewish family. But after a visit to the code-crackers at Bletchley Park, a plan will have been finalised that ensured the longest distance between people who are not speaking to one another.
The big entrance that I witnessed in Quaglino’s was a common occurrence, with the band, who had been chosen after a tortuous audition process reminiscent of The X Factor, providing the musical excitement.
Then there was the food. Ah, the food. The menu was a thing to behold. Howard’s was an umpteen- course wonder with highlights including the Caribbean Cocktail — which I’m reliably informed was just pineapple, Hors d’Oeuvres Variés — smoked salmon and egg mayo apparently, Stuffed Neck (one can only hope it wasn’t a giraffe’s), Cucumbers and Olives, a whole course in itself. Then Wonder Ice Gateaux, which really makes me wonder, and Minerals, probably freshly mined potassium.
It was a gigantic fress of 12 courses, but the good news was, “For your greater enjoyment, all gratuities have been attended to.” Phew, now all the guests had to worry about was heartburn, wind and …no, that was it.
The novelty swimming pool cake
But the eating still wasn’t finished —there was cake! More often than not, a novelty cake fashioned into some relevant or entirely irrelevant object. Like Mark’s record cake, Andrew’s swimming pool or — the best one —Eddie’s Torah scrolls. I’m told Leviticus was especially moist.
Mark gets ready to cut his cake
There were a couple of rites of passage that had to be undergone at the barmitzvah party. A stiff whisky and/or a puff of a cigar or cigarette would certainly put the seal on your new grown up-ness. Now usually both would be done away from prying eyes…though not always. Take a look at the official “first smoke” picture below.
A young lad has his first smoke...a touching moment captured by the official photographer
What heimishe times we had back in the Seventies — if only there was some sort of lasting memorial to them, maybe in book form. Well, funny you should say that because some moons ago, Eddie (yes, it was his idea originally) suggested the very same to Howard and me, and now it’s actually happening.
Girls fight with wallpapaer
Some time in the future (I can’t be more specific, sorry) we will be releasing a book called Simchahs of the Seventies. (Originally it was Barmitzvahs of the Seventies, but we’ve extended the brief.) It’s all to raise money for Chai Cancer Care and we want you…yes you…to be in it.
We’d love you to mail us the funniest, loudest, most ludicrous, most Seventies-ish pictures from your barmitzvah, batmitzvah, wedding or party (or your parents’ pictures if you’re too young to have been around in the Seventies).
We’ll have a shufti through them all and, with your permission, include our faves in the book. All you have to do is go to greenbeanbooks.com/barmitzvah/
and upload your photos — what could be easier?
Thank you in advance (though we will also thank you again when we get your photos). To get you in the mood, feast your eyes on the crackers we’ve collected so far
Was the boy's face printed on the glass? Or is this some sort of 70s photographic trickery?
