Your roving reporter was rudely awoken this morning at 11:15 am, whilst attempting to sleep off a skin-full by a phone call.
A raspy hissing voice told me that there was a story that I couldn't afford to miss out on. Intrigued, I wrote down the directions which would lead me to my contact.
We met in a dank basement, somewhere in Derby.
Wearing a straitjacket, my contact told me:
"It's about Tiger Woods's wife, Elin Nordegren, and TV gardener, talk-show host and Groundforce stalwart, Alan Titchmarsh..."
Indicating that I was interested on behalf of my seven or eight readers, I asked my contact to expand on what he'd said.
He told me:
"Everybody knows that Tiger Woods has been putting it about a bit. Well, a lot actually. But nobody has put Elin under scrutiny..."
"Elin lives in a house that has a garden. Alan Titchmarsh is a famous gardener. Do the maths. You know what I mean?"
"But millions of people have gardens," I argued, wondering where this was leading to.
"Probably true," my contact conceded. "But do you not find it intrigueing that Elin Nordegren has a garden, that she's married to Tiger Woods, and that Alan Titchmarsh is a keen gardener?"
"Not really," I told him.
"Fuck off," he said. "You're just wasting my time. One thing though, before you do fuck off..."
"Yes?" I responded.
"You don't happen to have about your person a nice bottle of Chianti Classico, some fava beans and a human kidney?"
I responded in the negative.
"Waste of time you are," my contact told me. "Sometimes I just don't know why I bother."
More as we get it.