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Beit Arif
Beit Arif (Hebrew: בֵּית עָרִיף, lit. House of Cloud) is a moshav in central Israel. Located near Shoham, it falls under the jurisdiction of Hevel Modi'in Regional Council. In 2014 it had a population of 1,126.
References
The moshav was founded in 1949 by immigrants from Bulgaria on the ruins of the depopulated Arab village of Dayr Tarif (the Romans referred to Dayr Tarif as Bethariph). It was originally named Ahlama (Hebrew: אחלמה) (Exodus 28:19), after one of the twelve stones in the Hoshen, the sacred breastplate worn by a Jewish high priest. Two other nearby settlements, Bareket, Shoham and Nofekh, are also named after such stones.
In the early 1950s some immigrants from Yemen arrived in the area, and built homes about half a kilometre away. After disagreements between the two groups, the original residents left and moved to Ginaton (a moshav also founded by Bulgarian immigrants) in 1953.
References
Radio Stations - Bet ‘Arif
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Podcasts:
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by Half Man Half Biscuit
Bad Review
by: Half Man Half BiscuitRe: Our gig at Deptford Abyss
Who the hell does Jeff Dreadnought think he is?
Was he even there? (I ask myself)
Does he even care? (don’t kid yourself)
Wait ’til our PR men hear of this
It’s a bad review, we got a bad review …oh Lord
It’s a bad review - wotta we gonna do? …oh Lord
I can’t walk down the street ‘cos other groups I might
meet, and they’ll smirk
Oh, it’s a rum old do, is a bad review …oh Lord
My girlfriend’s fuming
You hacks don’t know where it’s at
You can’t appreciate the master of the Strat
Not that I’m concerned (’course you’re not)
Your paper’s full of crap (’course it is)
I only read the gig guide anyway
It’s a bad review, a b-b-b-bad review …oh Lord
We got a bad review, I can’t believe its true …oh Lord
Well I know what you look like, so don’t ever come near
Stroud,
Page 32, it’s a bad review …oh Lord
My girlfriend’s fuming
OK - let’s go to chapel
Oo-oo – what’s to do? It’s a bad review
Oo-oo – what’s to do? It’s a bad review
The fearsome hollow boom of the older boys in the deep
The green shoots of recovery shrivelled up in harsh
tomorrows
Left to pick dry sticks and mumble to myself