CRYPTIC CROSSWORD
The year gets to griPs With life in the Big city
ACROSS
Pass around a quantity of fuel (4) Group of criminals have methods used for getting on board (8) Censure about the first impression (7) As far as the Greek letter-writer is concerned, this is the end (5)
Use of the same initial is only repetition after all (12)
This is not the full version – start again (6)
What witnesses are required to do at the trial (6)
Solid obstruction very quickly passed through (5-7)
20 & 22Ac. No seaman would describe this as port (5-4,4) Refer to part of the newspaper for leakage (7)
See 20 Across Make an advance unaccompanied, by the sound of it (4) 1. 3. 9. 10. 11. 13. 15. 17. 21.
22.
23.
DOWN
1. 2. 4.
5.
6.
7. 8. 12. 14. 16. 18. 19.
Privateers produce rude songs, we hear (8)
To cause dismay, father is upset by a friend (5)
A business concern, one hears, to make a confident statement (6) Spirited relations (5-7) Mean to change a single flower (7) Speak about western influence (4) Corrupts actions meant to be destroyed (12) One who operates about the end of August for fish (8) Doesn’t sound as though this would suit the fast drinker! (4-3) In the present time the foundation is lowered (6) Afraid a house will show this state inside (5) Shrewd beginning for the student of antiquity (4)
IWIPED a stray tear, clutched my wife’s hand and mouthed: “When they told me, as an ex committee member, security would be withdrawn, I knew a decision had to be made.” Barry Scuttle, anchorman for Radio Snooze’s Sunday gardening show sponsored by Frothy Death (“the slug pellets you can rely on”) stared wide eyed and openmouthed in astonishment.
“They told you,” he announced, slowly, deliberately, “that they were going to remove security?”
I looked at the presenter and nodded. “I could not,” I told him, “allow my carrots, runner beans and pumpkin to be put at risk.”
It has come to this. After enduring months of “falsehoods” spread, like slurry, by members of the upper echelons of Inner City Birmingham Allotments Society – aka Ted and Flos Hatchet, aka “the institution” – I have been forced to defend myself publicly.
I have, after resigning as society secretary and press officer, a role I enthusiastically carried out for four years, been silent for too long.
I am strong enough to endure the inevitable fall-out from my bombshell audience with Scuttle, an individual who pulled no punches with questions such as:
* ”I’m afraid we’re out of Hobnobs, will a chocolate digestive do?”
* Is it true you’ve been shunned by committee members, you’re battling to save your carrots from black root rot and you suspect one cabbage may have been infected with black spot disease?
* What is the name given to the female reproductive organ of a flower?”
* Name five celebrities – past or present – with horticultural names? I won’t accept Mike Weed. I answered them all honestly and unflinchingly, my words spawning a raft of lurid headlines in leading publications: “That’s a turnip for the books” (Allotment Monthly); “That’s shallot” (The Sunday Spud); “The manure hits the fan” (Aubergine Observer).
They have dubbed the scandal “Gardengate”.
“Sooo,” purred Scuttle, adjusting his notepad, “the removal of security made your position untenable?” Fighting back tears, I told him: “Last year Barry Shoveler’s tomatoes were nicked, all of them.
“I wanted razor wire, machine gun nest and mines laid around the allotment perimeter.”
“And they offered you?” Scuttle probed.
“The institution said a man called Baz might look in on his way home from the pub.”
“That is unbelievable,” announced Scuttle, dramatically, “but if you’re looking for security, buy the best, buy Frothy Death, they’re the slug pellets you can rely on. Don’t be a slave to slugs, sock it to ‘em with Frothy Death.”
After an uncomfortable silence, I gathered myself and said: “The institution seemed to have a ‘you scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours’ relationship with the press. The coverage I received, manipulated by the institution, was not the coverage Ted and Flos Hatchet received, even when we carried out the same public duties.”
Scuttle spread a number of yellowed cuttings on the polished table. “As examples,” he explained to listeners, “you’ve provided clippings from the society’s Home Produce Days.
“In 2018, Flos is pictured biting a strawberry. The caption reads, ‘Punnet Princess... Flos Hatchet tastes the mouthwatering benefits of growing your own summer produce.’
“In 2019, you posed for the very same pictorial press call and the headline reads...”
“’FAT B ****** ,’” I growled.
“Did you, as reported, make vice-chairman Flos Hatchet cry?” probed Skuttle.
“Absolutely not,” I assured him. “In fact, the absolute reverse is true – she made me cry.
“I told her to stop slicing onions next to my shed.”
I stared, misty eyed at my wife, took a deep breath and admitted: “It reached a point where I didn’t want to grow anything any more. I knew then I needed help.”
“And was that help forthcoming?” asked Scuttle, adding: “If you need help, look no further than Frothy Death, the gardener’s friend. They’re the slug pellets you can rely on. Don’t be a slave to slugs, sock it to ‘em with Frothy Death.”
I glowered at the interviewer, before continuing: “No it was not. I approached Ted Hatchet...” “And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘I’m not weeding your plot, mate.”
Scuttle, his scrubbed features wreathed in a benign smile, turned to my wife. “Throughout all this, you’ve been a pillar of strength for your husband,” he told her. “At what point did you realise leaving the society was the only solution?”
“His drinking was spiralling out of control,” she sobbed. “He was drinking eight or nine pints a day and sniffing the creosote. He wasn’t the man I married. Every night I’d watch him slip, befuddled, into an alcoholic fog. He’d have no idea where he was.”
“And can you recall the one moment when you decided, there and then, drastic action was needed?” Scuttle pressed. “There were so many,” she winced, “but possibly the moment I caught him urinating in the fridge.”
“At that moment, you realised your quality of life had been destroyed?” he asked, gently placing a consoling hand on my wife’s knee.” “Yes,” she whimpered, “...and the cheese.”
* This interview was brought to you courtesy of Frothy Death, the slug pellets you can rely on. Don’t be sluggish – buy a pack today.
» I SAID to dad: “Can’t believe I failed my biology exam.”“I’m your mother,” he replied
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