'Blue Suede Jew'

A BBC 2 documentary follows an Israeli Elvis Presley impersonator on his journey from the Holy Land to Graceland, and even Uri Geller, the spoonbender, gets in on the action. It's hilarious, but touching too, to explore this obsession of Gilles (Gil) Elmalih. There's more than just the predictable karaoke warbling of 'In the Ghetto' by a chubby wanna-be with sideburns. The family acknowledges that Elvis has left the building...but now communicates with him via paper messages (scrawled in Hebrew!) which the King somehow tosses from heaven onto the sitting room carpet. Living in the West Bank, family becomes convinced that only the King can restore world peace. His divine messages convince them to shlep to Vegas and Memphis. They are chosen.

Though the 79 minute film was completed in 2006, it screened this week in Britain, and has been picked up online. Click here to watch a clip from the Morgan Matthews documentary. Critics loved it.

As the ultimate ersatz Elvis, Elmalih managed to leave his mark in Israel, too. There is a turn-off on the main Jerusalem-Tel Aviv highway signposted "Elvis", and if you pull over you're bound to get all shook up at a commemorative gas station and a 50s style roadside diner with clientele as odd as the decor. See this article about the Elvis Inn. Frequently, travellers in Israel are overwhelmed in historical reverie, but chicken-fried Americana from the 50s seems definitely anachronistic in this Biblical landscape.

Strike Stricken -- expired spies, Mizo Jews, and the Spoonbender

What a hectic Wednesday morning at Tel Aviv airport. The good news is that it was a British Airways Flight to Istanbul, not the one to Tel Aviv, which has been identified with some traces of the deadly Polonium 210 isotopes aboard. (It's the same stuff that poisoned that defiant ex-KGB bloke at a London sushi bar). Even passengers who rode that plane are not at much risk unless they sucked a sweaty arm rest or something. In my foul mood, I could be prone to such erratic behaviour any minute.

After two hours spent grilling my son about the Afghan visas in his passport from last summer, Israeli immigration officers let him loose. Sadly, this is ninety minutes after the General Strike begins. Consequently there is no hope of getting any luggage until this ruckus is settled. He has been handed a sheet with instructions to keep up with the news, and return to the airport with bag checks to claim luggage whenever the dispute is done.

Ah, industrial action. It has slowed the terminal bustle to a crawl in the dark. Overhead lights have been snapped off. I came Wednesday before dawn to meet my younger son’s flight from London, only to watch three separate planeloads of passengers file by me without any sign of him. At half past five in the morning, a scrum of photographers forms around groups of slight-figured Asians wearing kipas and chattering in Hebrew. These new arrivals must be the the Mizo Jews from India’s northeast-- one of the 217 lost tribes funded to migrate to the Holy Land. There are 65 of these passengers, all tired out from the long Bombay flight, some clutching infants, others pushing aged parents in wheelchairs. On their faces is a mixture of confusion, exhaustion and exhilaration.

I cannot read one iota of emotion on the next face: dark glasses obscure an eerily familiar features, and a slim man walks past with erect posture and bared teeth. A ripple goes through the crowd. It is Uri Geller, the spoonbending celebrity. Wanly, I try to vibe him a plea to perform some minor miracle and make my son appear. Doesn’t seem to work very well, though. Next, I learn that my husband’s BA flight has been cancelled. This long saga is trying my patience.