We were totally crushed and crestfallen upon learning about the untimely death of the extraordinary poet and journalist Eli Mohar. In yesteryears we've been spending many a pleasant Friday afternoon munching sun flower seeds and reading avidely one or another of his most entertaining pieces in "Hair", that always made us chuckle. Whether he was musing about Hapoel Tel-Aviv og Man U, the BBC or Kol Israel, Irish ale or Scottish whisky, his native streets of Tel-Aviv or his acquired streets of London, he always retained that highly articulated, inimitably pronounced and exquisitely funny T-A city slang, that we shall miss so dearly from now on. Tel-Aviv has lost it's main man, its bard and soul, the world at large also appears much reduced and diminished, with all due respects. He was always a good lough, was Eli Mohar, the highest compliment anyone could aspire for.
The eight years that have elapsed have not eased the sorrow in the least. But we keep him in memoriam, at least. For as long as we have any.
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