"Venetia, we came to this party to try to meet eligible Jewish men - you know that you're currently canoodling with the only Muslim here? And take off that fake moustache. It isn't funny. You look more Hitler than Dali."
Shortly afterwards I managed to fall over on the dance floor, landing in a tangled mess with said drunken Muslim, probably flashing slightly as I'd not been wearing any knickers underneath my tights (women reading will understand - tight dresses often don't allow for underwear. There is nothing worse than VPL. Other than flashing, of course).
I was at a Prohibition-themed fundraiser organised by some Jewish friends of mine a couple of weeks ago. It turns out fake moustaches are funny on men, less so on women - nobody was amused.
I suffer from a condition - I seem unable to behave appropriately at Jewish parties. The Jew in me, suppressed for many years, now runs amok whenever given the opportunity, eagerly bounding spaniel-like up to strangers, and my non-Jewish part is entirely powerless to control her - she's a bull in a bagel shop.
I became aware of my condition (some might call it a syndrome) when I suddenly found myself singing along at my best friend Rachel's father's shiva. The elderly gentleman sharing his prayer book with me was so enthused by my efforts, his finger running along every word to guide me, even turning to look at me proudly every few seconds, I simply didn't have the heart to stop. As I moaned indecipherably along (it would be unfair to call it singing) I momentarily felt as if I belonged - until I caught Rachel's eye, who knows full well that I can't read, write, speak or sing a word of Hebrew, or indeed hold a tune and who looked momentarily horrified before letting out a smirk. I stoically kept going.
At the Yom Ha’atzmaut party I was whirling mess of blonde, blue and white
This was only topped by day two of the shivah when I managed to lean against a light switch during the prayers and plunge everybody into darkness. Rachel cracked a joke - we both knew her father would have chuckled if he'd been there.
My singing debut in Hebrew was, however, recently trumped by my evening of singing and dancing in Hebrew simultaneously at the Young MDA Yom Ha'atzmaut Party. I bounced around, blowing frantically into a whistle while narrowly avoiding lynching myself with the Israeli flag I was waving (I've never previously partaken in flag-waving or whistle-blowing - the last night of the Proms is my idea of hell -and yet on this occasion I was a whirling mess of blonde, blue and white).
And then I suddenly became aware that my friends were all sat down, chatting and enjoying a civilised glass of champagne, while I'd somehow become that sweaty, embarrassing, prancing friend that everyone secretly wants to stick a tranquilliser dart in. As a friend later said to me at the bar: "Venetia, you're normally pretty cool, but as a Jew you're a total embarrassment. Please sit down before you take someone's eye out with that flag!"
So there we have it - my Jewish self is an all-singing, all-dancing, flag-waving, fake-moustache-wearing, underwear-less liability. I might have to retire from the Jewish scene before I'm banned - you really can't take me anywhere.
