Angry Exchanges Can Be Puzzling [10]
9 September 2002
Ah, the delight of a back page unspoiled. The virginal white side by side with the angry black blocks, unyielding in their refusal to allow passage and bringing optimistic random insertions to a premature halt. The lines of text: unfathomable to the uninitiated; enthralling to the converted. And the tiny empty box by the side, with just about room for one anagram (if you've got small handwriting) inamongst the adverts. Yes, I am a cryptic crossword freak. Some people say it's elitist; some say it's childish to be playing word games at my age. I tell them to sit a child in front of the Times One and see how the little bastard gets on. That usually shuts the fuckers up. But what's the attraction of these things? Why does someone feel the need to spend their breakfast, their journey to work, their lunch break scribbling with a furrowed brow (or more usefully, a pen) on a scrap of mucky broadsheet? I can't speak for everyone. But I'll tell you about me. My aunt always used to do the Telegraph crossword, every day. As a bright and inquisitive youngster, I was allowed to help. (The fact that it was the Telegraph was a fucking good thing, as the chances of me ever persisting with the Times at that age would have been negligible. The Telegraph is mainly anagrams, which any monkey with a set of Scrabble letters can solve these. Hence our discovery when drunk that Henry Bokenham is an anagram of 'Ah, broken hymen'.) Soon, I started to go it alone, culminating in the time when I beat her to the doormat before breakfast and polished off all but three of the clues myself. She wasn't best pleased, and I realised I could play second fiddle no more. Soon, what started off as an occasional habit during my aunt's visits was a ritual, an addiction. Half an hour at breakfast tackling the anagrams with my fishfingers; another twenty minutes during my free period in the morning, just before my mid-am wank; writing down any clues that were puzzling me (or taking the whole damn thing, if particularly tricky) and getting through them in double German. Then making sure there was a fresh copy of the paper in the common room, before sitting down and apparently polishing off the whole thing in around twenty minutes. You see, that's part of the reason. Self-aggrandisement: it's just not enough to know you can do it, it's so much better if lots of other people know as well. Just like reading Ulysses on the tube, or buying Le Figaro instead of an English paper, doing the crossword gives you an aura that lesser mortals can only admire (or mock, but that's their loss). Think of it as the equivalent of wearing a low-cut top and a Wonderbra, only for ugly clever people. Not sure if it gets you laid, but hey. An example. A teacher at my school was renowned for his crosswording ability. It's said that he used to time when his egg was done in the morning by sitting down to do the Times crossword after putting it in the water: the time it took him to finish would invariably leave him with a firm albumen and a still-runny yolk. No one had any particular reason for believing this, and the source of the story was never identified; but, along with numerous other urban myths about his skills, it was never challenged. And while admire is too strong a word (let's face it, the guy was a fucking freak), there was a certain amount of acknowledgement of his talents. So, regardless of the occasional scorn of others, I will keep poring over ridiculously convoluted clues while getting grubby fingers and funny looks on the train. Because I know, in my heart of hearts, that there are a lot of people who envy my ability, my patience, my vocabulary. And what they don't know is that I'm doing yesterday's puzzle and have already looked up the answers. Ignorant fools.
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