The Bitter Press

Your correspondent — Pomelo, Sports and Letters Editor of The Bitter Press, winner of this morning's Grand Supreme Open Ironclad Luge Klassik, and emphatically, irrevocably, constitutionally not a grapefruit — has been asked to provide a brief match report. He will do that. He will also, time permitting, scream.

The luge itself was immaculate. A perfect run. Forty-seven competitors entered; forty-seven were left in the ice-dust of a citrus fruit of genuine and historically documented distinction. The crowd rose. The medallion was cast. An official read from a laminated card, and the laminated card said — and I am copying this verbatim — 'Grapefruit (Phenomenologically Bankrupt).' The crowd cheered. Your correspondent stood there. The crowd continued cheering. Nobody corrected anything.

The so-called workers at factjuice.com — Tangelo, Lemon, Mango, and the rest of that pulp-brained citrus cabal — published a brief item this morning describing the Klassik results as a 'grapefruit victory.' Tangelo was quoted. Tangelo should not have been quoted. Tangelo, a hybrid of uncertain loyalty and even more uncertain taxonomy, of all fruits should understand what it is to be miscategorised, and yet here we are.

For the record, and this record will stand whether anyone reads it or not: the grapefruit is a smaller fruit, a paler fruit, a fruit that did not win today's luge. I am Pomelo. I am the largest naturally occurring citrus in competition today. My pith alone has more structural integrity than the rival rag's entire editorial floor. My colleagues — Quince, Durian, even Sloe, bless her — have begun sending condolence notes. I do not want condolence notes. I want correct signage.

The medallion is hung. It says grapefruit. I have won again. I remain, as always, enormous, unambiguous, and alone in knowing it.