Fish penis, Double Ds and C-words in X-words that make U ask Y

Fish penis. I’m at a braai when Leif, a friend, whispers the words “fish penis” in my ear. I look at him. “Ha!” he says, folding his arms. “Er, pardon?” I blink.
I’ve been insulted many times, but no one has ever called me a fish penis. What’s the right response to “fish penis”?
“It’s a crossword clue,” Leif says. “I just made it up. Solve it, Mr Crossword Guy.”
Fish penis. There are many ways to solve cryptic clues. You look for indicators that tell you the answer is an anagram that needs unscrambling or a charade that needs building or a homophone that needs hearing.
When there are just two words it’s usually a “double definition” clue. Double Ds are the building blocks of cryptic clues. The clue consists of two parts and the solution is a synonym of each. For example, the answer to Zero affection! (4) is LOVE. Love is both zero (think 40-love in tennis) and affection.
Potty train (4), compiled by cruciverbalist Paul (@crypticpaul), is one of the all-time greatest double definition clues. The clue makes you think of toddlers learning to use the toilet, but the answer is actually LOCO – a synonym for potty (as in crazy) and train (as in locomotive).
But back to Leif’s fish penis. I need to find a word that means both “fish” and “penis”.
I go through my fish synonyms: sole, pike, eel, carp, cod, salmon, trout, herring, tuna, clownfish, grunter, John Dory, ling, hake, piranha and tiger shovelnose catfish.
Nothing shouts “penis” at me. I try my penis thesaurus: willy, ding-a-ling, wiener, John Thomas, pecker and schlong.
Nothing shouts “fish” at me.
Leif goes to fetch firewood and I call Joni The Jam, my crossword chum, to see if she has any ideas. She notices that “John” is common in John Dory and John Thomas and sees a “ling” in ding-a-ling. 
When Leif comes back I suggest John and ling. He shakes his head. “Gotcha,” he gloats. “The answer is a phrase that means utter contempt,” he says and hurries off to fetch fish to braai.
I call The Jam again. “It’s not a double definition clue,” I tell her. “This is what happens when non-setters compile clues. It’s like someone who has seen a few episodes of ER doing surgery. He’s treating me with contempt.”
Leif returns with the fish and plops it on the braai.
“What kind of fish is it?” I ask, trying to distract him from the fact that his clue has stumped me.
“It’s a snoek,” he grins. “Snoek, snoek, snoek,” he sings, putting his hand on his nose and waggling his spread out fingers at me.
Is he even allowed to cock a snook at me like that, I wonder. And that’s when the penny drops. If the clue were a patient needing surgery and if Leif were the surgeon, the clue would have died on the slab.
Although I’m a very amateur setter I try to resuscitate it: It sounds like a fish with a penis shows utter contempt (4, 1, 5).* 
The clue wouldn’t make it into an actual crossword – not only because it’s clumsy, but because there’s an unwritten agreement among setters to avoid penises and F-words. Apparently rude words for body parts in the crossword world get up solvers’ noses. Just ask compiler Philistine, who produced this gem in last week’s Guardian puzzle: C-word upset many people (5).**

* COCK A SNOOK: a slang word for “penis” + A SNOOK, a homophone (“sounds like” is the indicator) of snoek (a type of fish).
** CROWD: an anagram of “c-word” (“upset” is the anagram indicator) gives a synonym for “many people”.

ExZillerating chat with ex-burgermeister

I’m minding my own business, chewing on a crossword clue: Comments about spicy beef burger made without Blacks, Browns or Reds, initially, lands Premier in hot water (7)*.
Where do I start? I remember sage advice from Joni The Jam – my crossword mistress. Always tackle a clue head-on, she suggests. I examine the clue and decide that it means I should start with a burger. And extra onion rings. Hold the bun.
One burger later and I’m none the wiser. I look at the clue again and order another burger (with more onion rings). The more fat you eat, the thinner you get – just ask Professor Tim Carb-Free Noakes. I’m two burgers down, but I’m still clueless.
I phone The Jam.
“I’ve tackled the clue head-on and not only do I still not know where to start, I’ve now got indigestion,” I grumble.
“Hmmm,” hmmms The Jam.
I need to speak to someone who knows everything. And then I have a brainwave. HZ. Helen Zille is like a human Google because she knows everything and, if you don’t believe me, just ask her – after all, she knows everything.
I dial the Premier’s number. 
“Office of The Premier,” says the person who answers.
“I’d like to speak to The Premier,” I say.
“This is The Premier speaking,” says the voice.
“I know some accuse you of micro-managing, but surely you don’t answer the phones too?”
“Of course I do. I do everything. Besides, they’ve confiscated my BlackBerry. The bloody, um, agents have hidden it. They say I’m out of control. I’m not addicted. I can stop Twitter any time I want. Hey, can you do me a favour and send a Tweet to my tweeps? I’ll dictate… Hang on, I’ve got a better idea, drop by the legislature and smuggle a BlackBerry to me.”
The telephone line crackles.
“Helen,” a booming voice interrupts us. “I’m. Listening. To. Every. Word.”
“You can’t do that,” HZ responds sharply. “It’s unlawful, not to mention illegal, criminal, unauthorised, improper and prohibited. I’ll take you to the Constitutional Court.”
“Helen, this is your husband and I did it for your own good.”
“Now I’m the hell in,” she harrumphs. 
I laugh, Hell-in Zille.
“OMG,” she scolds, “this is no time for lolz.”
The Twitter intervention must have taken place because HZ has been getting her Twitter freak on. That’s in-between cycling 110km, running a political party, having spats with musicians, dodging Chappies protesters and teaching people to speak Xhosa. Oh, and managing a province. Oh, and indulging in Helenisms, which are utterances that get stuck in people’s throats. Let’s face it, her professional blacks and refugee comments didn’t leave people exZillerated.
HZ also added “crossword compiler” to her list of accomplishments this week. An opposition member was criticising her refugee comments and HZ heckled him. “uThetha ububhanxa,” she said.
She was accused of being rude and responded (on Twitter, naturally) by saying: “It means u are talking rubbish. Which was VERY polite under the circumstances. Wanted to say it in Afrikaans. 3 letters.”
“Listen,” says HZ, “what do you want? I still have to teach Kasparov some chess moves.”
“Premier, I need help with this clue: Comments about spicy beef burger made without Blacks, Browns or Reds, initially, lands Premier in hot water (7).”
There’s a deep pause.
“Refugee,” says HZ at last.
I know she knows everything, but how the hell does the ex-burgermeister know I left Grahamstown and sought refuge in Cape Town in 2008?

*REFUGEE: An anagram of “beef burger” (“spicy” is the anagram indicator) minus (“without”) B, B and R (initials of Black, Browns and Reds – “initially”).

Hashtagisms are tweetporn for @wordnerds

Song causing dry eyes at being played? (9)*. “A challenge for you,” said The Shrink, my crossword companion. “You must solve this clue today – if you don’t, you have to listen to Justin Bieber,” she said.
She was way too pleased with herself.
It was Twitter’s birthday on Wednesday, and with about 290 million tweets being exchanged each day, someone in the Twittersphere must know something about a song that causes dry eyes, I thought.
I logged on. I was assaulted by the fact that “#BeliebersAreUnstoppable” was trending. Beliebers are people who follow pop teen heartthrob Justin Bieber. There are 18 million “Beliebers” out there.
With trending topics, retweets, lolz and followfridays, Twitter has become the world’s most effective news-distributing, trivia-swopping, gossip-spreading, and I-had-a-boiled-egg-for-breakfast-sharing service.
Because of its 140-character limit, tweeters replace letters with numbers – I waz 42n8 2 c 22 on 2sday; a 1derful m8 – which can be disconcerting for those of us who aren’t fluent in Sudokuese. 
Imagine how some events would have been live tweeted on Twitter, such as creation.
@GOD: “OMS. #thatisall.”  (FYI, OMS stands for Oh MySelf.)
@Noah: “Dam, I just stepped on Derrick the Dodo. #mybad.”
Back in the days when the world wasn’t so Bieber be4k, @AlbertEinsten would have had the most followers. The world would have waited anxiously for his tweets, and they wouldn’t have been disappointed. “I’m going to name my son Frank. #FrankEinstein. #LOLZ!!!!”
However, @ADonald’s live pitch tweet from that 1999 Cricket World Cup semi-final wouldn’t have received too many South African lolz: “Hmmm, I hear we’re eating chicken 4 supper 2night? Yum, chicken has a lot of bones I just hope I don’t choke. #holycrap. #oops. #Ichoked.”
@Malema might tweet his political career: “I’ll kill 4 Zuma. I’ll kill Zuma. Damn, Zuma killed me.”
Besides letting people know what everyone is having for breakfast, Twitter has given the world hashtags. At first, hashtags were just a way to tag topics and make tweets searchable.
Then they became an ironic twist; a meta commentary that turns a simple tweet into a profound statement – or so the tweeters think (#justsaying #lolz).
However, the real value of hashtagism, for word nerds at any rate, is when they explode into hashpunning and become a phenomenon. 
This is like Viagra for punsters. For example, #collapsiblecelebs gives the world Deck Chairney and Marquee Mark. Who could forget the #bollocksfilms hashpunning with gems like ET: The Extra Teretesticle; The Glands That Time Forgot and The Man With The Golden Plums? And then there was #MiddleEasternPop, which saw classic tweets like While My Qatar Gently Weeps and When Amman Loves a Woman.
I looked up and The Shrink was still in full smirk. The only person more smug than someone who has cracked a tough crossword clue is someone who is trending on Twitter.
I went back to Twitter to crack the clue. The next trending topic was “RIPPaulMcCartney”. Poor Paul.
I fall on the John side of the Lennon vs McCartney debate, but with Paul gone the Beatles are just a Ringo Starr away from extinction – and a world without the Beatles would be very sad.
Fortunately, Paul’s death was just another Twitter rumour. Twitter kills so many people, and it really shouldn’t – unless it’s Bieber.
“Have you solved the ‘dry eyes’ clue?” asked The Shrink. “If you don’t hurry up, today will be yesterday.”

*YESTERDAY: This McCartney song is an anagram (“being played” is the anagram indicator) of dry eyes at.

Reports of my Argus sub-3 have been greatly exaggerated

Doing an “Argus sub-3” is the holy grail of cycling – it’s like a hole-in-one in golf.
For writers, it’s the equivalent of a glowing review in The New York Times and for crossword solvers, it’s cracking one of Araucaria’s gruesomely gruesome puzzles in just one sitting. For people who seek their pleasures swinging from chandeliers, it’s Sting-like tantric sex.
In other words, it’s nigh impossible.
After finishing the Cycle Tour on Sunday, I climbed out of my Spandex, fired up my cellphone and tweeted: “I did my first sub-3 Argus today…” but before you jump to the same conclusions that some citizens of the Twitterverse did, that wasn’t the end of the Tweet. “I know someone who finished it in under an hour,” I continued, “but he’s a speed reader.”
@Adele_Kruger was first with a “Congrats – that’s awesome”. The sub-3 Argus Tweet was retweeted. There were a few more “awesomes”, a couple of “congratulations”, a sprinkling of “incredibles”, a brace of “well dones” and even a “mazel tov”.
Reports of my sub-3 have been greatly exaggerated, I thought.
But the more I pointed out my lame joke, the more the myth grew. The next day at work John bowed. “Wow! Wow! Wow!” he gushed.
I felt like a fraud.
I imagined I felt the same way my three-year-old daughter Rachel must have felt when she was presented with a medal for completing the 1.5km Trike Tour on Saturday.
We were in the starting pen with the other toddlers and their parents. Rachel got off her bike just before the ride started. “Uppie,” she said. I shook my head. “Uppie,” she insisted. She looked at me with big eyes. “Uppie, Daddy,” she said softly. “Please?”
I carried Rachel, her bike, her helmet, her juice bottle and her bag the entire route. 
My sub-3 “well-done” Tweets continued throughout the week.
“Well done on your blistering time,” said Gareth. “Well done, indeed,” wrote Mail & Guardian editor Nic Dawes. I told Nic I would follow up my sub-3 Argus with a sub-4 M&G on Friday.
It’s all Twitter’s fault with its viral ability to spread misinformation. Twitter has killed Nelson Mandela, Mr Bean and Eddie Murphy. If the 140-character social media platform had been around in 1815, this is how the Battle of Waterloo would have been tweeted: “IMHO, Wellington is giving Napoleon a PK. Lolz!!!”
After the rout, @NapoleonB would have tweeted: “I said in a Tweet to my soldiers that we were going in for the kill and I asked them to retweet. #DamnAutocorrect!”
His final Tweet would have been  “Merde!” which would have prompted a crossword setter to compile this clue the following day: Quiet fellow in military race apologises for swearing (6, 2, 6).*
My sub-3 boast is what master media manipulator Chris Vick would call “spinning”. It’s sugar-coating the facts. The spinner doesn’t lie; he just uses sleight-of-word trickery to make you think something that isn’t quite true. 
Cryptic crossword compilers are the ultimate spin doctors. Their job is to mislead solvers.
Flower, for example.
You see the word “flower” in a clue and you think proteas and dandelions, but you should be thinking Breede and Vaal. In crosswordese a flower isn’t always a flower – in fact, it’s usually a river, something that flows. 
In years to come, when I’m doing the great crossword puzzle in the sky, a cyberchaeologist (that’s a cyber-archaeologist) researching the celebrated cyclists of 2012 will find a dusty Tweet with my name on it.
I will be lauded as a sub-3 Argus cyclist because I tweeted that I once read the Argus in under three hours. This, of course, is a great feat in itself, but in the interest of full disclosure: I didn’t read the property section.

* PARDON MY FRENCH:  P (in music notation quiet is “p”) + DON (a “fellow”) in ARMY (“military”) + FRENCH (race) gives a phrase which is an apology for swearing.

Birthday boy bedlam

Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood

Boisterous boys whizz about, revved up on the thrill of being boys. They jump, skip, shriek, dance and whoop. I look at them and want to collapse on the floor. Be strong, I tell myself. It’s my son’s Khwezi’s eighth birthday and he’s having an action cricket party, but no one pays any attention to the cricket action – especially not the boys. Three wrestle at mid-on, one boy gives a friend a piggyback at deep cover, another hops on one foot at backward square leg, one climbs the net and two have found a hole at the back and are crawling to freedom. It’s boy bedlam, I tell you.
I watch from the sidelines, trying to crack this Daily Telegraph crossword clue: One has unusual feel for this old book (4, 2, 3, 5)*.
The party is 10 minutes old and the umpire is having a tough time. She blows her whistle, but the boys ignore her. I feel for her. Last year I was on party duty. I still wake up in a cold sweat at 3am.
We had invited 40 boys to Khwezi’s seventh birthday party. Two party entertainers had planned a treasure hunt. Not long after the party started, one of the entertainers came to me. “We, um, need to go,” she said. She was struggling to breathe.
The boys had found the treasure before the hunt began. The entertainers had tried to rehide it but the boys overpowered them and went on the rampage. After the entertainers left I took over party duties. I tried to contain the boys, but they guzzled balloons and popped sweets, swung from spoons and chased each other with curtains. A few climbed on to the roof and engaged in epic battles. The soundtrack to the anarchy was the chant: Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood.
The boys smiled sweetly when they left. When the last mom took her son – the house resembling Tahrir Square after the uprising – I crawled into a foetal position and sobbed.
After a year of intense therapy I’ve finally come to terms with my Post Party-From-Hell Stress Disorder. I think I can manage another party – with some conditions: 20 boys not 40, two hours not three, and discipline outsourced to a woman with a whistle. A pro.
All I have to do is eat cake, crack crossword clues and enjoy the show.
But the woman with the whistle is struggling. The boys are about to overrun her. Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood. I shake as my mind flashes back to last year’s bash. But the umpire blows her whistle and takes charge. “No! More! Cricket!” she barks. “Soccer.”
She’s a genius. The boys don’t have the concentration for cricket because it only involves a batsman and a bowler. But they can all play soccer. For the rest of the party 20 boys chase a ball. The umpire has channelled the boys’ energy in the right direction.
Channelling the boys’ energy? If we can find a way to put every
8-year-old lads’ “boy energy” in a bottle there will be enough power to fire up power plants forever. This alternative energy source means no more wars over oil. I wonder if I will be the first person to win Nobel prizes for science and peace. The umpire blows the final whistle.
I look up. A thronging sea of 8-year-old boys lurch towards me. The umpire has vanished. It’s just me. Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood. The world spins. Kill the pig, cut her throat, spill her blood. I’m back at ground zero. There’s only one thing to do: I drop to the floor, go into a foetal position and sob.

* Lord of the Flies: an anagram of FEEL FOR THIS OLD (“unusual” is the anagram indicator) produces the title of William Golding’s novel.

The Malema hearing: How I came to be Juju’s attorney

I’m just a boy, standing in front of a doctor, asking him to make it go away. Oh, and I’m in my underpants.
“What’s the matter,” the doctor asks. Where do I start? With my broken hand? Or my non-broken hand that got burnt trying to get supper out of the oven with one hand? Or my exploded ear? Or with flea bites in places I thought even fleas wouldn’t dare go. Or my torn knee? Or my blistery ringworm splodges?
Instead, I say: “I’m falling apart, doc!” My health woes started two weeks earlier with an ear infection. The pressure built and after a fizz, crackle and hiss a detonation went off inside my head. My eardrum had burst.
A few hours later I blow my nose and my ear whistles. “That’s gross,” says The Shrink, my crossword companion.
But it has cool party trick potential and I try to see if I can whistle the “Shoot the Boer” tune out of my ear. “Careful,” warns The Shrink, “you’ll land up in the Equality Court.”
“Don’t you mean the Ear-quality Court?” She groans. “Can you get me a cappuccino, please!”
“We’re fresh out of tuna. But can I interest you in a cup of pilchards instead of a cup of tuna?”
“You really are quite deaf!” she says.
“Deft? Why thank you,” I grin.
Since the eardrum bang it’s like I have bubble wrap inside my head. The world is muffled. I say “I beg your pardon” about 60 times a day. I can’t handle this Earmageddon anymore, which is why I found myself in my underpants in front of the doctor.
“My body has gone to war with itself,” I tell him. “It’s enough with this quiet diplomacy, doc. I need serious firepower. Make like Iran and send in the nukes.”
The doctor shakes his head. “Let me check your urine first,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Go to the loo to wee,” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Go. To. The. Loo. To. Wee.”
“Louis Toweel? Is he one of the brothers who didn’t go into boxing?”
He points to the door. “LOO! TO! WEE!”
I leave. When I get home I pack my bag. “Where are you going?” The Shrink asks. “To the airport. The doctor wants me to see a specialist at Luthuli House,” I explain.
She gives me a crossword clue to keep me company: Drugged-up leaders of escapade are fined without hearing (5-4)*.
That evening I arrive at Luthuli House. A guard blocks the entrance. “What do you want?” he barks.
“I’ve come to see the specialist,” I tell him. The bodyguard looks confused.
“For my hearing,” I explain.
“Oh, the Malema hearing?”
“Yes, yes, for my lame hearing!”
“Are you his attorney?” he asks.
I nod, wondering how the hell he knows I also have a torn knee. He ushers me into a room. My eyes adjust to the light. There’s a panel of ANC heavyweights.
“Who are you?” says Derek Hanekom.
“He’s Malema’s attorney,” the guard says.
“You speak for Juju… well, what does he say?” asks Hanekom.
“I beg your pardon.”
“It’s much too late for pardons,” says Hanekom. “Anything else?”
All eyes are on me. What the hell, I think. I pinch my nose and belt out “Shoot the Boer” from my ear.

* STONE DEAF: This Daily Telegraph clue is made up of STONED (what happens when you’re “drugged up”) + EAF (the first letters, “leaders”, of Escapade, Are and Fined).

Mixing drinks with the prez

The invitation plopped into my inbox. The pleasure of my company was being requested at “The Presidential Cocktail”. After Jacob Zuma’s reply to responses to his State of the Nation address, he was going to hobnob with diplomats, dignitaries, bigwigs, VIPs, whips and a crossword junkie.
This is my chance for a one-on-one with JZ, I thought, as I made my way to Parliament. This is an opportunity to register my disapproval of the government’s attempt to muzzle the press. Maybe with a few carefully chosen words I can convince Zuma to refuse to sign the anti-democratic bill.
Zuma walks in. He flashes his dazzling smile and chortles. I find a spot near a bowl of cashew nuts and wait for my 15 seconds of president time. What will I say?
“Please, Mr President, don’t silence the people” is all I come up with. If I want to save SA’s democracy I’ll have to think of something more profound than that.
Zuma greets his guests. He’s all handshakes, back-slaps and winning grins. What will I say? Maybe a cocktail will help, I think, after all this is The Presidential Cocktail. Maybe I could order an Msholozi Martini – Shaiken, not stirred, and so strong it will take your speech away.
I spy the indomitable Trevor Manuel and Maria Ramos. What cocktails would be appropriate for this power couple? A Manuel Mojito – lime juice, sugar cane, mint and enough Cuban rum to make your hair fall out. What would feature in a Maria-garita, I wonder. ABSAlut vodka and peri-peri sauce.
Zuma greets Mac Maharaj. Only one cocktail is appropriate for the spokesman – a Molotov Mac; it’s the bomb. Lindiwe Sisulu comes into focus. The ingredients in a Lindiwe Colida are classified. She won’t reveal her sources and leaks will be plugged.
What about cocktails for other political heavyweights, like the human settlements minister? Sexwale on the Beach? A Creamy Lamborghini is more likely. This buttery liqueur cocktail is made with Cape Velvet, Amarula, Irish whiskey and Kahlúa – probably a bit rich for most of us. Especially after Pravin Gordhan has his way with our cash. Gordhan’s Trillion Tipple is only half full and is served, like Greece’s economy, on the rocks.   
And then there’s Pieter Mulder’s Denialist Daiquiri, also known as a Fiery Volkstaat, which is so overwhelming you will want more and more, including huge tracks of South Africa.
As for our erstwhile national police commissioners – there’s the Selebi “Finished and Klaar” Slammer, available at (but not behind) bars and the Bheki Shooter-To-Kill Cele.
This clue sums up a brew named for Helen Zille: Daily whet? It’s a cocktail (5, 4).*
And then, of course, there’s The Juju. Tequila used to be The Juju’s main ingredient – that was when he vowed that he would tequila for Zuma – but the tequila has been replaced with absinthe. Malema will now be absinthe from ANC politics – thanks to Cyril Rum-aphosa.  
I emerge from my cocktail journey and look up. Zuma is heading towards me. He is in front of me. What will I say? I take a deep breath. He flashes his golden smile. Say something profound! Say something profound!
“How are you?” I say. Zuma chuckles.
“Fine, thanks,” he says. “And you?”
I’m trapped in his dazzle. Say something profound! Say something profound!
“Fine, thanks,” I say.
The president and his smile move on. I add another cocktail to the list: An AncerLacksa Punch – makes you fluff your lines and should be taken with a pinch of salt.

* WHITE LADY: An all-in-one clue from the Daily Telegraph where an anagram (“cocktail” is the anagram indicator) of DAILY WHET is described by the whole clue. A White Lady is a gin-based cocktail.