These excitable shoppers must be spr-out of their minds

IN a flash of inspiration, a good 30 years ago when my lightbulb moments still shone brightly, I wrote about a woman offering sexual services from her allotment shed.

I described the vice venue as a brothel sprout – and was castigated for it. I also wrote visitors were indulging in “rumpy pumpkin”. That, too, was censored.

It was, however, a good, if salacious, story. And given the gardener was plying her red light trade in December, I felt the sprout pun was perfect.

Admittedly, she didn’t grow sprouts, “love em or hate em” vegetables that are forever associated with Christmas.

But it was a legitimate sprout exclusive.

I am not sure the sprout story currently proving a best-seller on our website packs the same punch, although this grizzled old hack is, admittedly, woefully out-oftouch with current trends.

“Asda customers in disbelief over Christmas item they can’t comprehend,” shouts the headline.

The item they “can’t comprehend” is a cake shaped like a Brussels sprout and the story is, as I write, attracting thousands to our digital platform.

I am not sure why shoppers “can’t comprehend” the seasonal sponge. I looked at the picture before devouring the words and thought: “It’s a cake decorated as a sprout.”

In fairness, I felt it was a novel Christmas offer. Like chocolate reindeer poo. After becoming one of the thousand who read the story, I now have a minds-eye vision of Asda customers encountering the cake and reeling away in a near concussed state of confusion.

“What are you?” they demand of the product, “do you mean us harm?”, before sinking to their knees and sobbing: “My brain cannot deal with this!”

They have, according to our report, been left in a state of “utter disbelief”.

They will talk about the Brussels sprout cake for years and may mention it on their death beds.

I have genuine concerns for those left in “utter disbelief”. They may slip into a coma if encountering a baby with earrings.

“Utter disbelief” is a very big emotion. I once purchased a carrot shaped like a man’s thingy. I was surprised, mildly.

Asda has provided our reporter with a description of the cake in an attempt to end the confusion: “Chocolate sponge filled with chocolate flavour frosting, covered with green colour soft icing and finished with edible decorations.

“Finally, a Brussels sprout everyone will love!”

Thankfully, the chain’s customers have recovered sufficiently to “flock” to social medias sites.

One typed: “OMG – this is amazing.” That’s a heady tribute to chocolate sponge.

“Need this,” posted another shopper.

I shouldn’t be surpised by the sprout story success. Tis the season for a frenzy of Yuletide reports.

I’ve been there, done that, worn the jumper featuring a reindeer whose nose flashes.

I’ve written about drunken santas in apartment store grottos, violent carol singers and more Christmas Day domestics than I could shake a mistletoe sprig at.

The mining town where I served my journalistic apprenticeship held a special post Christmas magistrates’ court.

Defendants would appear, bruised, dishevelled and some still drunk. One suffered a broken nose during a violent confrontation over the Queen’s Speech.

Asked why he was so passionate about watching the annual event, he told the astonished bench: “You never know if you’re going to get lucky and spot a bit of cleavage.”

I received the hairdryer treatment from one editor for describing the star of a primary school nativity as being in a stable condition. Our own website is currently doing very well from the following: “Morrisons make important announcement over pigs in blankets”, “Supermarket opens pigs in blanket restaurant” and “£9.99 Tesco product which shoppers are desperate to buy by Christmas”.

The product is booze.

My email is crammed with tinsel bulletins from PR agencies. One is bizarrely entitled: “Think goose this Christmas.”

God knows I’ve tried, but, invariably, my mind drifts to the sprout sponge cake. The articles fuel the Yuletide shopping frenzy. It is not a time of goodwill to all men. It is an exhausting orgy of consumerism. I am, frankly, shopped out; befuddled by the constant supermarket excursion and staring too long at Asda’s sprout sponge cake.

During yet another high street marathon on Saturday, my wife snapped down her mobile: “Where the hell are you?”

“Remember last year,” I answered calmly, “when we visited that jeweller’s and you saw that gold necklace with the gem encrusted crucifix that you loved, but we simply couldn’t afford back then.”

“Yes,” she said excitedly. “Well I’m in the bookies next to it.”