Crossword Gods are eggsacting masters, Amen! Word!

“I’VE come to spread the word,” I say. The teenagers eye me suspiciously. “Can I have a hallelujah?” There are some muted hallelujahs.

My first sermon isn’t going well. Maybe I’m being too liberal with my hallelujahs, but aren’t hundreds of hallelujahs and multiple amens the name of the evangelical game?

I tell the teens about the day I saw the light and about my baptism. “Salvation can be yours too,” I preach. “You can be saved. I was also a nonbeliever, but then I was converted. Hallelujah!”

Someone in the back row yawns. One pupil rolls his eyes. Oy vey, I think, this is a tough crowd. My religion is turning 100 this year and although there are millions of adherents worldwide it’s the job of believers to convert the sceptics. I’ve managed to lure 30 pupils to my sermon at Westerford High School.

“I’ve come to spread the word,” I say again.

“Word,” replies a pupil, schooled in the language of street.

Ahh, I should speak their own language. “Instead of a ‘hallelujah’, give me a ‘word’,” I say. “The symbol of my faith is the cross!” “Word,” shout 30 teenagers. Me: Cross. Them: Word. Me: CROSS! Them: WORD! “Solving a clue is a spiritual experience,” I continue. I want to tell them it’s like an orgasm of the mind, but they are pupils so instead I say it’s like chocolate mousse to the power of tiramisu.

“But Crosswordism is not an easy religion. There will be dark moments when your belief is tested to the max and the crossword gods torture you with impossible clues, but if you have faith you will find salvation.”

I tell them the story of Segg (9,4) – the hellish clue that haunted me and nearly caused me to become a doubter.

Segg (9,4). I stared at it until my head hurt, my eyes watered and my nose throbbed. Segg. These four harmless letters were driving me to distraction. Segg. Segg. Segg.

I stared at it like it was one of those 3D puzzles whose blurry image suddenly comes into focus if you look at it hard enough.

I looked, but all I got was a pounding headache.

I turned to Google for help. Wikipedia told me it’s a Hungarian word (the plural is seggek) and means “arse”. “Hungarian arse”? That’s nine and four letters, but it didn’t fit the grid.

A cryptic crossword puzzle is like a boxing match. The grid is the ring; your opponent is the compiler – who can sometimes be the devil – with whom you lock mental horns. You trade blows. He leads with an anagram, follows through with a homophone and connects with a well-timed pun. Your defence is to see through his cunning guise and crack his code.

Which brings me back to Segg (9,4). I was on the ropes. I went to bed that night in a terrible mood.

Thoughts of Segg interrupted my sleep. I woke up the next morning with bloodshot eyes and a bad attitude. I stumbled into the kitchen. “Dad,” said my son. “What?” I barked. “Can you make me scrambled eggs?” Eggs? The penny dropped. “Scrambled eggs,” I yelled. “Hallelujah!” I took my boy in my arms and danced him around the room. “Dad, you really are a loser,” he said. I didn’t care. I was on a crossword high. I was a believer again. Hallelujah. I mean, Word!