Skip to the end (or click here) for a puzzle I’ve made you (it’s been awhile, but I’m back, baby!). My crash course on how to do cryptic puzzles begins here.
When I started writing this newsletter (more than a year ago!), I envisioned it as being primarily about cryptic crossword puzzles, with a healthy sidebar in other wordy or puzzly topics. That mandate has changed in a way that I’m pretty happy with—a mix of following my own interests and responding to feedback from readers, which is healthy and good and natural for a newsletter. But I don’t want to completely lose the cryptics-based roots of the publication, so in the interests of pulling on that thread a bit this week, I have both made you a brand new puzzle (it is themed, which will definitely help if you are familiar with the theme topic, and I would describe it as moderate in its difficulty, with a few nice and easy anagram clues to help get a foot in the door), and I’m devoting this week’s issue to the topic.
Previous issues on this topic have focused on the history of crosswords generally, explaining different clue types, and offering some gentle on-ramps for new solvers, but this week I want to talk about brilliancies. Particularly clever clues. Clues that make you go, “Whoa!” (Assuming you’re the type of person who goes, “Whoa!” Some British readers may prefer to go, “Goodness!” I won’t make any judgements either way.) Two minor caveats first:
I genuinely believe that cryptics are much easier than they seem once you get the hang of things, and a lot of what makes them daunting is just sleight of hand. It is incredibly rewarding to push past the initial illusion of difficulty.
The clues I’m about to present do not back up point number one above in the slightest, lol. Brilliant clues aren’t necessarily hard clues, but they often require an extra level of lateral thinking beyond the normal cut and thrust of a solve.
Anyway! I canvased the members of my cryptic-setters’ Facebook group (no, I wasn’t beat up in high school. Why do you ask?), and they were kind enough to share some of their favorite clues, some of which I’ve included below in addition to a few of the all time classics. Here they are!
Two plus eleven minus one, amazingly (6)
This is a clue (from the setter Crucible) that takes advantage of a fun1 fact in a very elegant way: If you remove the letters of the word ONE from the letters of the words TWO and ELEVEN, you will be left with the letters of the word TWELVE, which is the solution to this clue.
In the end, it’s a deceptively simple clue. The answer to the easy math problem is the actual answer to the puzzle, and the “amazingly” is both a literal statement of how surprising that is and an indicator to solvers that an anagram is afoot—you are being asked to remove the letters O, N, and E, out of order (“amazingly”), from TWoELeVEn.
I say nothing (3)
What I like about this classic (from the setter Enigmatist) is how few moving parts it has. The answer (EGO) becomes more obvious if you repunctuate the clue thus: “I” = “say” + “nothing.” “Ego” (which means “I”) is “say” (e.g.) + “nothing” (o). Neat!
Bust down reason? (9)
This clue (an entry by Les May in a 1975 cluing competition) is one of the most commonly cited classics (apart from “gegs? (9,4)” about which, the less said, the better), so it deserves a spot here as a venerable example of the cryptic definition (there’s no rearranging of letters involved—the clue just has two meanings with the same answer). For those unfamiliar with this old chestnut, the answer is BRAINWASH, and the aha moment comes when you realize that it can also be punctuated as BRA IN WASH. Dad jokes! But a clever one.
Saw dog wearing lead (7)
This is an absolute triumph of misdirection by the late setter Chifonie. The answer is PROVERB (another word for “saw” as in “the old saw”). The “dog” is ROVER. And (trickily) the “lead” is the element (PB), not the canine accessory. Thus P(rover)B. “Saw”: “Dog” wearing “Lead.”
Spooner’s baking disaster is warning to the complacent (4-2,4)
Spoonerisms are semi-controversial amongst cryptic solvers. Some people truly hate them because they are all groaners, by definition, and because they’re usually quite obvious as clues (the more-or-less required presence of the word “Spooner” is quite a giveaway). But when they’re good, they’re good. And this one from Arachne is both original and genuinely funny. The answer is WAKE-UP CALL (a “warning to the complacent”), or as the Reverend Spooner would say it, “Cake up wall.”
The real reason for the merger meeting of Volkswagen and Daimler? (6,6)
Another beloved classic from Engimatist that cleverly tweaks the traditional rules of a “hidden” clue. It’s surprisingly difficult to construct a clue that has a smooth surface reading that points almost effortlessly at a satisfying solution in this way. The answer in this case is HIDDEN AGENDA, which you will learn if (as instructed) you merge Volkswagen and Daimler, thus: volkswAGEN DAimler. 🤯
O hark! the herald angels sing the Boy’s descent which lifted up the world (anag), and in what circumstances (5,9,7,5,6,2,5,3,6,2,3,6)
This is a clue from the legendary Araucaria that appeared in a Christmas puzzle some decades ago. I hesitated to include it because it’s formatted differently than you’d expect nowadays (the anagram is just marked here as “anag”), but it would be a shame not to take the opportunity to marvel at one of the finest anagrams ever composed. The answer, astonishingly, is: WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT, ALL SEATED ON THE GROUND.
? (1,6,3,1,4)
Finally, a truly impressive ratio of clue-length to answer-length, also from the ever-brilliant Araucaria. The answer: I HAVEN’T GOT A CLUE.
I have made you a puzzle. The puzzle image is below if you want to print it out like our forebears used to, but you can also fill it in with a click! (The solution is explained and annotated here.)
Look, we all have different ideas about what’s fun, and I’m sticking to my guns on this.
One I remember fro the 1970s. quite risque then
Organ needed when married to hot stuff (6)
Answer MEMBER
? (1,6,3,1,4)
Finally, a truly impressive ratio of clue-length to answer-length, also from the ever-brilliant Araucaria. The answer: I HAVEN’T GOT A CLUE.
My recollection of this, and it was some time ago so I acknowledge that I may have it wrong, is that the clue wasn't a question mark but an asterisk, and that there was a correspondingly asterisked note beneath the crossword that read: 'The compiler apologises, but he just can't think of anything for 6A'.
I think I prefer it as I remember it, as it clarifies not only that the answer did not have a clue, but also that the compiler had not had a clue.