Three waitresses in short shorts and neon-purple tank tops emerge from the kitchen and scatter among the tables. Some more couples amble in, followed by a rowdy group of young men who look like soldiers on leave. Are you going to sit there and declare, so help you God, that I am actually in Netanya at this very minute, and I’m not even wearing a flak jacket?’ He crosses his hands over his crotch in terror. ‘Get serious now, honey, did you really say Netanya?’ His eyes widen, almost filling the lenses of his glasses: ‘Let me get this straight. The performer stands at the edge of the stage, swaying back and forth slightly. ‘Looks like my agent fucked me again.’ A few audience members call out, and he stares at them in horror: ‘Say what? Come again? You, table seven, yeah, with the new lips – they look great, by the way.’ The woman giggles and covers her mouth with one hand. He slowly straightens up and dusts his hands off. ‘Oh, wait a minute,’ he grumbles, ‘this isn’t Caesarea, is it?’ Sounds of laughter. He slowly turns to face the room and scans it with a long, unblinking look.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces a tightlipped man standing at the lighting console, ‘put your hands together for Dovaleh G!’ The man on stage still crouches like a monkey, his big glasses askew on his nose. People are still filing in to the club, chatting loudly. Scattered laughter and applause from the audience. He takes a few faltering steps, trips, brakes himself on the wooden floor with both hands, then sharply juts his rear-end straight up. A short, slight, bespectacled man lurches onto the stage from a side door as if he’d been kicked through it. The audience slowly quietens down and grins expectantly. The thundering shout echoes from the wings. Good evening! Good evening! Good evening to the majestic city of Caesariyaaaaaah!’

Horae walks into a bar joke