Encinitas, California, a model of co-existence and brotherhood.

You don’t gotta get me started on the righteousness of the Jewish people or their gorgeous little sovereign nation, forged in the fires of the Holocaust, endless war and the indifference and hostility of the rest of the world.

If there’s a problem, tech, health, yo, the Jews got it.

Therefore, it came as little surprise when the WSL commentator Chris Coté shared a lovely story of Jewish generosity and ingenuity that was taking place in the surf town of Encinitas, just north of San Diego.

The Leichtag Foundation has taken a novel approach to dealing with California’s catastrophic homelessness problem which is partly due to the hard right’s contempt of the weak and the hard left’s infantilisation of the same people.

What our Jewish brothers have done is open up parking lots for people sleeping in their cars to exist safely until they can get back in the game, under a roof that doesn’t have four wheels.

A simple, elegant, and cheapish solution.

Have a little taste of the story by Babs Henry of the San Diego Trib.

Read the rest here.

And, here, my last holiday to Israel, with Ozzie Wright (listen to Oz sing Jesus was the King of the Jews, here) and Otis Carey.

Check your privilege!

Here’s a little ditty that went everywhere, a woman throwing her seat back on a plane and a bespectacled man with over-tweezered eyebrows responding with an insistent drum-beat on her head rest.

The little clip got sold to an agency, hit millions of views, tens of thousands of retweets and got turned, naturally, into a men-brutalising-woman thing.

Sadly, neither party had an abundance of melanin thereby removing the important racist angle; a mistake, I think, as the reclining woman represents unthinking colonialism occupying foreign territory and the over-tweezered man the brave native with only his hands to fight such advanced and overwhelming weaponry.

The common conclusion, among reasonable citizens, I think, would be: two pests both as annoying as hearing the scurry of critter feet on the ceiling boards at night.

I’m not a recliner.

Take it back an inch, maybe, long-haul, but the good citizen wedges a pillow against the wall or on the head-rest and deals with it. A smart traveller will bang a foursome of sleepers and wake up in Denpasar, Singapore or half-way across the Pacific.

If you want to sleep, buy a biz ticket.

Once, on a fifty-minute puddle jump, a clown threw his seat into full recline with a contemptuous thunk as the plane started to climb, jamming me into my seat.

Couldn’t eat, couldn’t move.

I didn’t respond with a gentle tattoo on the head-rest.

Now, you, friends, some countrymen.

In what camp do you fall?