'the outside of the club, indecently exposed by the rising sun'

(First performed 29th February 2010 at Jewish Book Week / JCC Writers’ Football Literary Event, London)

The first panel. The picture is drawn from a bird’s eye perspective, looking down upon cramped rooftops beginning to bake. Cables and wires stretch from one side of the road to another, and in the background are Bauhaus-style apartment blocks jutting with cuboids. The caption reads: ‘November 2008. Tel Aviv, 4am. The sun rises on a city still silent with sleep’.

In the next panel, the caption reads: ‘but downtown, on Carlebach Street, in a club called the Cat and Dog, the party is in full swing’. The picture depicts a scattered crowd of dancers in a darkened room, spotted with blue and pink lights.

The third panel.  The caption reads: ‘In the centre of the dancefloor can be seen members of the England writers’ football team. They are celebrating another dismal international defeat’. In the picture are caricatures of said footballers. There is Philip Oltermann dancing like C3PO powered by Vorsprung durch Technik. There is Marcus Du Sautoy with cartoon mathematician’s hair and a plastercast on his wrist. Jeremy Gavron is there, looking worried. Graham is grooving. And so on. At the bottom of the panel is another caption, almost an afterthought. It reads: ‘the defeat really was dismal’.

The fourth panel. Finally I am in it, though you probably wouldn’t recognize me as I have never been able to draw myself. I’m looking rather the worse for wear. A string of bubbles is rising from the crown of my head, which is comic-book shorthand for intoxication. I am talking to Jakob, Conrad and Graham, all of whom have rather red noses (an emblem of inebriation since Asterix). A speech-bubble is floating from my mouth. It says in wavy letters, ‘I’m heading back. I’m done in’. Graham’s expression is incredulous. His speech-bubble responds, ‘What? Not another drink?’ Jakob is saying, ‘this beer is expensive. I’ll come with you’.

The next panel portrays the outside of the club, indecently exposed by the rising sun. We are huddled around a taxi and I am haggling, in pigeon Hebrew, with the taxi driver. My speech-bubble reads, ‘the Melody Hotel. How much?’ The taxi driver’s speech-bubble responds, ‘forty shekel’. I reply, ‘thirty-five?’ The taxi driver says, ‘forty shekel’. I say, ‘ok’.

In the next panel we are piling into the back of the taxi and a woman is emerging from the club, teetering on high heels, waving to us through the glare of dawn. Graham has a speech-bubble which says, ‘isn’t that the girl from the club?’ I have a black cloud of disgruntlement hovering above my head. My speech bubble says, ‘that girl had me buying her drinks all night. She has a famous father or something’.

In the next panel the girl is in the front seat of the cab, talking to the taxi driver as we drive away. She wants to be dropped off first. In the back, I am looking flushed and irritated. My speech-bubble says, ‘actually we agreed forty shekel, straight to our hotel. Another drop-off will cost extra’. In the next panel she is turning aggressively to face me. ‘You agreed a price?’ her speech-bubble reads, ‘in Israel? You’re getting ripped off. You’re a tourist. You’ve got to use the meter. It will be far cheaper’.

In the next panel I am bright red and grinding my teeth. Clearly, I am suppressing my anger; to demonstrate the reason for this, I have a thought-bubble coming from my head, containing the Union Jack. Graham is laughing, slightly cross-eyed. His speech-bubble reads, ‘Jake, you’re such a tourist! You’re such a tourist!’ Conrad is saying, ‘ok, use the meter. Yes, use the meter’. The taxi driver is saying, ‘you want I should use the meter?’

There follows several panels depicting the taxi’s journey through the streets of Tel Aviv. Mist parts to reveal the sun; a skeletal street-cat noses through old cigarette-butts; half-torn-down posters cling to fences. Around a lamp-post is taped a piece of paper with a hand-written advert in spidery Hebrew; the bottom of the page has been cut into a fringe, and on each strand a contact number has been written for interested parties to tear off.  A tired-looking soldier waits at a bus stop.

In the next panel, the taxi has halted under an exotic-looking tree. The girl is getting out of the cab and being offered a book from someone in the back seat. ‘Nice to meet you’, her speech-bubble reads. ‘Here, have a copy of my book’, says the anonymous benefactor. ‘I’ve signed it’.

The next panel has the taxi driving away. I can be seen sulking, saying ‘humph’. The other team members are sharing a joke.

The next panel shows the taxi pulling up outside our hotel. Then there is a large panel depicting the inside of the cab, the occupants frozen in animated discussion like a cartoon version of a Renaissance painting. Speech-bubbles are everywhere. I am yelling, ‘forty-three shekels? Forty-three shekels? The bitch ripped us off! We’re paying three shekels extra!’  The taxi driver is shrugging, ‘forty-three shekels is forty-three shekels. forty-three shekels is forty-three shekels’. Graham is saying, ‘come on. Bollocks to it’. Jakob is saying, ‘yeah, forget it. Let’s go’.

In the final panel, we are walking askew into the hotel. There is an embarrassing contrast between the well-turned-out staff and our bedraggled selves. An Orthodox man is walking past in the foreground, on his way to morning prayers. The black cloud above my head is indelible. A thought-bubble is coming from my head. It says, ‘three shekels. Three shekels’. At the bottom of the panel is a concluding caption. It reads: ‘three shekels is about 50p’.