In memory of Sue de Nim

What’s in a name?

Well, for me ‘Paul’, the name I call myself in The Guardian, is a little
special. I remember my late and very dear brother through this name.

Elsewhere, I am Punk in The Independent, Dada in The Daily Telegraph and
Mudd in the Financial Times.

I always use a four-letter word. I guess my efforts are not always
conventional, hence Punk. The Pun k(ing) I am not though. I don’t think my
forte is the play on words, but I prefer to misdirect through using
definitions out of context.

Dada – anti-war, anti-bourgeois and anarchistic. That seems ok, and there’s
a nod to my late and great father too.

Mudd is more complex. In the FT I was once known as Bats, after an ex (on
whom I shall expand no further, save to say I was the leaver rather than the
left). On breaking up, I sought a new name. Perched upon a barstool in a pub
called, I believe, The Elephant on Finchley Road, North London, I got
chatting to a forlorn gentlemen late of marital problems. I forget his tale
of woe, but he did me a rather large chunk of favour by declaring ‘…and
now my name is mud’. I’d found it. Just to add an extra ‘D’ for the four
letters, and I was there.

My colleague Shed I’d always assumed had been banished to the garden shed by
his non-solving wife (I’d imagined). On meeting him I was to unearth the
truth.

‘It’s because I look like a shed’. He was not wrong.

Enigmatist tells me he was given that name in the school playground, though
I am somewhat in doubt.

Many years ago, the great Araucaria told me if he’d had his time again he
would have chosen another pseudonym. For some reason, I didn’t ask him what
he would have taken as his alias. Which name might this magisterial
wordsmith have adopted? I had to know. It bothered me.

It bothered me for years, but every time we met I forgot to ask.
Until finally…

‘A few years ago you said you would have taken on something other than
‘Araucaria’ as a pseudonym, given the chance.

‘Yes’, the great man replied.

‘What would it have been?’ I awaited the scoop.

‘Dunno really, just something different.’

Our heroes never fail to disappoint.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

Queer Fish

Dots of sand in a bath-tub of aquamarine, sugar-coated in submerged ink-blot
bombs and chanterelles of coral. The Maldives.

Just married. Off on honeymoon. Plenty of time together. Everything is
glorious. Not a chink of distance between us. That is, until we get too much
time to just sunbathe and natter.

T: Know any good jokes?
J: Hmmm, what’s yellow and dangerous?
T: I don’t know, what’s yellow and dangerous?
J: Shark-infested custard.
T: Pause
T: Pause
T: Pause
T: Why would sharks be found in custard?

My heart sinks. What a question to ask! Doesn’t she get it? Doesn’t she get
ME? Is this the beginning of the end?

J: They aren’t found in custard. That’s why it’s funny.
T: Pretty unlikely, though. But condensed milk might be possible?

Phew, I am relieved. We are similar after all.

I do like to pen a puzzle on the subject of visited destinations. Northern
Ireland and New York provided recent themes. So what might one write about
The Maldives? That solvers will know. After all, a friend did recently
published a ‘General Knowledge’ puzzle based on the rivers of Siberia. Git.

Fishes of The Maldives: ‘Stronger bony leg’ is an anagram of the ‘Bluntnose
Gregory’. ‘Fascism held kids’ works out as ‘Dick’s damselfish’.

I think I’ve had far too much sun. Home to (from what I’ve heard on the
news) a temporarily blighted Blighty.

Solvers generally dislike obscurities. And rightly so. Haddock and chips for
me tonight.

Best wishes,

Mr John Halpern (now married), aka Paul

Marriage bore

I need to come clean. I was a marriage bore.

Ten days to my marriage. Three days. As if you wanted to know! I was even
playing games when out and about, endeavouring to tell as many people as
possible I was getting married.

“That’ll be £1.50 please.”

‘Thank you. Your change will go some way towards our wedding plans. We’re
getting married, you know.’

‘Give me a ring later’

“I can’t, though you are a not unattractive 50-year-old plumber, I am
betrothed to another, and have but one ring for the woman I love”

“Single or return?”

‘Single now, but come the weekend things will have dramatically taken a turn
for the better!’

Yawn.

So, I’m now married, and back from honeymoon. Last mention. And on with
crosswords. Clues invited for ‘wedding tackle’ please.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

Serendipity

Often what I would consider my best crossword ideas are planned.

I have a Word document onto which I deposit any ideas and half-ideas, and at a later date grab what I can from this and weave a few of them into a puzzle.

For example, zaftig, fartlek and bumbershoot have been sitting on this document for a while, and I perhaps would be wise to leave them there.

Anyhow, after these ideas have found their way to the grid, I endeavour to fill the rest with words that might lend themselves to fun clues. The grid-filling I find immense fun. It’s me versus the grid, and I have to constantly be aware that by placing certain letters in particular areas of the grid will cut my filling options drastically. A ‘J’ at a crossing point, for instance, could quickly have me filling the remainder with obscurities.

Back in the 1990s, with Girl Power a its height, I elected to go for a Spice Girls puzzle. One solution was ‘spice’, others being the names of the manufactured fivesome, Ginger, Sporty, Baby, Posh and Scary.

And so I continued to fill the grid, and ended up with the entry, down the middle ‘The Eton Wall Game’. At the tie I thought nothing of it, and elected to clue this later.

For those like me with a comprehensive school education, The Eton Wall Game is a traditional annual event at the aforementioned Public School, the rules of which I shan’t mention. All you need to know is that it can be unpleasantly rough.

And so I’d been left to clue ‘The Eton Wall Game’. On writing a clue, one looks for word association. What can one say about this game. And so the clue became formed of cross-references. ‘It’s Posh, Sporty and a Little Bit Scary (3,4,4,4).

On another occasion, I had filled my grid, and was left with two adjacent 15-letter entries, ‘National Lottery’ and ‘Russian roulette’. It hadn’t occurred to me on filling the grid that the latter could be partially defined by the former. And so ‘Russian roulette’ came to be clued as (National Lottery) where the last thing you’ll do is lose! (7,8)’

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

Take a Letter

Some seek inspiration from the coo of their first born child, others from
the majesty of landscape, or from the whisper of their lover under the
sheets on a crisp winter’s morning.

The faded painted words ‘No Parking’ upon the car park near home in
Camberwell proved to be mine. From which words could I take a ‘P’ to produce
other words, I’d thought.

So, four hours of trawling through reference books: President becoming
resident, man-trap mantra, cup tie cutie. I can’t even remember how I went
about creating a Guardian cryptic crossword around this concept those
handful of years ago, but I do recall how important a single letter can be.

The letter ‘M’. How did it creep in to my conversation with the man in the
local hardware store? I was unable to show my face in that retail
establishment for a full five years after this incident.

I’d intended to buy a specific type of plug, or was it a light bulb? I can’t
recall but, toes curled back to my heels at the thought of it, I can still
picture the scene:

A hefty, lofty chap, expressionless, visage blanched by a career in this
windowless, soul-sapped shop. His looming hulk over me, all I wanted to ask
was ‘do you sell (this particular light bulb or some such)?’ But the rogue
‘M’ had crept in. I was unable to continue past that third, now mutant,
word. And the two of us hovered, silent. I had forgotten the specifics of my
intended purchase. At first he said nothing.

But the age-long silence had to break. He spoke: ‘No I don’t, actually’.

‘Oh’, I said. And walked out.

John (Paul)

Saying Grace

Oh, Heavenly Father – ta! We take bread and water from you ’til our tums’
luck is realised (3,4,2,3,5,2,7,3,3,4,4,2,5,8)

Well, I am more than grateful for what I am about to receive, in my marriage
- I’m ecstatic.

But, I had to be baptised a few weeks ago in order to be married in an
Armenian church. For those who know me, this was some leap of faith.
Regarding Christianity, I have no axe to grind, only teeth.

I’d thought that just because ‘Moral laws? I win!’ is an anagram of Rowan
Williams – just because those letters may be converted – it needn’t suggest
I should be.

But actually, now it’s been done, I am delighted to be married in church.
The ceremony will be gorgeous, and spiritual. Somehow deeper than a registry
office marriage. I can’t wait.

In general, religion is something to steer clear of in puzzles. And politics
too.

Missing excuse, hiding nothing, no fuss, so America to step down when
dismantled? (7,2,4,11)

Nice enough, once in a while.

But mixing ‘religion and politics’ just gives you ‘I do in pig, Sir
Lancelot’ – it really makes no sense at all.

No politics at our wedding in a handful of days, save for a liberal
sprinkling of confetti, conservative suits and the prospect of forty years
hard labour.

But actually, casting religion and politics aside – warning, here comes the
corny bit – I am the luckiest man alive, and can’t wait for our special day.

Enjoy your week.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

‘Araucaria Love’

Sitting at Brighton marina. Ten minutes to kill.

Switch on crossword brain.

Marina – Armani, anagram.

Dog walks past on a lead. Dog on a lead suggests nothing at first. Dog in lead would suggest P(ROVER)B. Ice pie a yacht (Cathy, anag). Pop icon Fatboy Slim lives nearby. Consider ‘What made Fatboy Slim (7)’  for ‘dieting’.

My good friend Araucaria is to be on Desert Island Discs in half an hour – must pop back home in time for this. He is to prove predictably humble and deliciously huggable. He is still my hero, as cuddly as a kitten, sharp as a Samurai sword. He lights up a room. May he live forever.

Araucaria – in correspondence I call him J/A (John/Araucaria) – was generous enough to take me for lunch at our first encounter, all those years ago. He later was to ask whether I would like him to recommend me to the then crossword editor, John Perkin. He might as well have asked Atlas if he would care to pop the sky down for a while and sip a sherbet lemonade.

And now I am blessed with the marina-Armani mind. The lead (leash)- lead (metal) thought stream. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

All the best,

John (Paul)

What a Racket!

Nadal.

A name useful to a crossword setter, as an N_D_L alternative entry to
‘nodal’, though only in some newspapers. The Guardian: tick; The Times:
cross.

But why? Times cryptic crossword policy dictates all entries must be dead
(except for the Queen, for some reason).

An aside: recently I was dismayed to find, half-way through penning a Times
jumbo, that my entry ‘Gore Vidal’ is very much alive and kicking. Dammit.
Two hours it took to rub him out.

So, we camped out for show court tickets during Wimbledon this year, and
were rewarded with Court 1. Nadal. The match proved a relatively
straightforward straight sets victory, but perhaps it had been worth being
there for some wag’s shriek ‘Go Nads!’

I have generally refrained from tennis references, perhaps due to once being
requested to withdraw a puzzle on the grounds that I’d defined a number of
famous tennis stars as ‘racketeers’, and that might prove libellous.  I can
neither imagine Martina Navratilova, for example, ever A/ doing The Guardian
crossword, nor B/ being upset by it.

Some years ago, a friend called to say they’d heard there was a competition
running on Radio Five, to write an apposite anagram for a tennis player. The
best anagram would win two tickets to the Men’s singles Final. Right up my
street.

Monica Seles, the grunter, comes out as ‘camel noises’. I considered this
pretty good, but the letters are helpful. So I decided instead to submit an
anagram of which I’d been proud, an anagram without an ‘E’ and with two
‘V’s’ – ‘Variant rival to a man’. The chaps at Radio 5 read it out, and
seemed to like it, but considered it might upset the sturdy Martina.

I had been destined not to win. The victorious entry? A rather apposite
‘camel noises’.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

Midnight snacks

Many years ago, pre-publication in The Guardian, I remember telling the
great Araucaria that I’d begun waking in the middle of the night with entire
clues written, blindly scrabbling for paper and pencil. Nowadays, my
subconscious is kinder to me, and allows me to do my thinking post-cock
crow.

But concentration and inspiration are elusive things.

The other night my better half was to stir with an artistic flash of
lightning. She is a painter, and a half-formed masterpiece had evidently
materialised.

Many somnambulists would have shuffled to the fridge for a chicken leg. A
footballer would perhaps have reached for chewing gum.

At this point, dear solvers, I should unburden myself of a minor confession.
I snore. Occasionally (I like to think). It has never bothered me, but
marrying at the age of 44, as I am to do in just a few weeks, perhaps it has
others.

So my wife-to-be hadn’t been hankering for a chicken leg, but perhaps it had
been the thought of gum that was the catalyst for her next move.

Sometimes the realisation of an error alights like the thud of an
walked-into unopened glass patio door. However, in those magical hours
between dusk and dawn, the enlightenment is a slow burner.

Convenient though this snack may have proved, the wax adorning one’s
earplugs is an unfamiliar and possibly, at least at first, welcome flavour.
At second, it is, I am told, most unwelcome. A considerable amount of
furrow-browed thought had evidently gone into the identification of the
offending nibbles. Perhaps she had been in the world of comparison between
these objects and a gastronomic creation from my own considerable
repertoire.

‘Giving great joy, earplugs in, for chewing (10)’ Pleasuring it may be for
some, but I’ll stick to gum or a chicken leg.

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

Shredded Tweet.

What do birds eat for breakfast?

Tweetabix? Cock pops, quite possibly? Sugar puffins? Or an owl of
corncrakes..

And for lunch or dinner?

Chicken chat served with Dijon bustard, a mynah grebe salad and a finch of
salt, all washed down with a swift bittern?

Too much to swallow, perhaps? If I could find an adept cuckoo could pull it
off, the critics would be raven about it!

(Incidentally, one of my favourite clues ever was by the late, great
Bunthorne: ‘Bird, but not a blue tit? (9)’*

But what does all the rest of this have to do with crosswords?

Well, having peeped warily past the dark curtain of the parallel universe
frequented by us despicable setters, I strongly feel it’s time for us all to
join the real world (if indeed there is one).

Tweeting has arrived. Frankly, I don’t understand it. But many lovely people
have been kind enough to follow me, and the least I can do in their honour
is to spend a little time spouting nonsense in a weekly blog.

So do please tell me what you’d like to hear about from the world of cryptic
crossword setting. Thank you!

Best wishes,

John (Paul)

*REDBREAST