Terry Pratchett - Unseen Academicals

‘And if you’re wondering where that dim little girl of yours is, she’s back there with the fat girl. Honestly, what must you think of me?’

‘Nothing, right up until you said that,’ said Trev. ‘And now I do.’

‘Give my best to the orc,’ said Andy. ‘Shame to hear he’s the last one.’

They strolled on, but Trev was quick enough to get out of the way before Mrs Atkinson sliced at his leg with her stick.

Find Juliet. Find Nutt. Find Glenda. Find help. Find a ticket to Fourecks.

Trev had never fought. Never really fought. Oh, there had been times when he was younger when he was drawn into a bit of a ruck and it was politic to be among the other kids, holding a makeshift weapon in his hands. He’d been so good at appearing to be everywhere, shouting a lot and then running into the thick of the fray, but never actually catching up with the real action. He could go to the Watch and tell them… that Andy had been threatening? Andy was always threatening. When trouble struck in the Shove as it sometimes did, when two tribes were brought into conjunction, there was always the forest of legs to dive between and once, when Trev had been really desperate, a number of shoulders to run across… What was he thinking? He wouldn’t be there. He wasn’t going to play. He’d promised his old mum. Everyone knew he’d promised his old mum. He’d like to play, but his old mum wouldn’t like it. It was as if his old mum had written him a note: Dear Andy, please do not knife Trevor today because he has promised not to play.

He blinked away the sensation that a knife was already hurtling towards him and heard the voice of Nutt saying, ‘Oh, I have heard about Bu-bubble.’ There was Glenda and Juliet and Nutt and Juliet and a slightly worried young lady with a notebook and Juliet. There was also Juliet, but it was hard to even notice her because Juliet was there.

‘She says she wants to write an article,’ said Glenda, who had clearly waylaid the journalist. ‘Her name is Miss—’

‘Roz,’ said the girl. ‘Everyone’s talking about you, Mister Nutt. Would you answer a few questions, please? We have a very now audience.’ [19] An archbishop in a house of negotiable affection might have looked a little more puzzled than Nutt right now, but the amount of said puzzlement depends on how many archbishops you know.

‘Yes?’ he ventured.

‘How does it feel to be an orc, Mister Nutt?’

‘I am not sure. How does it feel to be human?’ said Nutt.

‘Have your experiences as an orc affected the way you will play football?’

‘I will only be playing as a substitute. My role is merely that of a trainer. And, I have to say, in answer to your question, I’m not sure I have had many experiences as an orc up until now.’

‘But are you advising the players to rip opponents’ heads off?’ the girl giggled.

Glenda opened her mouth, but Nutt said solemnly, ‘No, that would be against the rules.’

‘I hear they think you’re a very good trainer. Why do you think this is?’

Despite the patent stupidity of the question, Nutt seemed to think deeply. ‘One must consider the horizons of possibility,’ he said slowly. ‘E Pluribus Unum, the many become one, but it could just as easily be said that the one becomes many, Ex uno multi, and indeed, as Von Sliss said in The Effluence of Reality, the one, when carefully considered, may in fact be a many in different clothing.’

Glenda looked at the girl’s face. Her expression hadn’t moved and neither had her pencil. Nutt smiled to himself and continued. ‘Now let us consider this in the light, as it may be, of the speeding ball. Where it has come from we believe we know, but where it will land is an ever-changing conundrum, even if only considered in four-dimensional space. And there we have the existential puzzle that confronts the striker, for he is both striker and struck. As the ball flies, all possibilities are inexorably linked, as Herr Frugal said in Das Nichts des Wissens, “Ich kann mich nicht genau erinnern, aber es war so etwas wie eine Vanillehaltige süsse Nachspeisenbeigabe,” although I believe he was on some medication at the time. Who is mover and who is moved? Given that the solution can only be arrived at through conceptual manifestation using, I believe, some perception of transfinite space, it can clearly be seen that among the possibilities is that the ball will land everywhere at the same time or turn out never to have been kicked at all. It is my job to reduce this metaphysical overhead, as it were, and to give my lads some acceptable paradigm, such as, it might be, whack it right down the middle, my son, and at least if the goalie stops it you will have given him a hot handful he won’t forget in a hurry.

‘You see, the thing about football is that it is not about football. It is a most fascinating multi-dimensional philosophy, an extrusion, as it were, of what Doctor Maspinder promulgated in Das Meer von Unvermeidlichkeit. Now, you would say to me, I am sure,’ he went on, ‘What of the 4–4–2 or even the 4–1–2–1–2, yes? And my answer to that would be, there is only the one. Traditionally we say there are eleven players in the team, but that is because of our rather feeble perceptions. In truth, there is only the one and therefore, I would say,’ he gave a little laugh, ‘daring to adapt a line from The Doors of Deception: it does not matter whether you win or lose so long as you score the most goals.’

The girl looked down at her notepad. ‘Could you give that to me a little bit more simply?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Nutt. ‘I thought I had.’

‘And I think that’s about enough,’ said Glenda, taking the girl by the arm.

‘But I haven’t asked him about his favourite spoon,’ she wailed.

Nutt cleared his throat. ‘Well, I would have appreciated some notice of that question because it is quite a large field, but I think the Great Bronze Spoon of Cladh, which weighed more than a ton, would definitely have to be a runner, though we must not forget the set of spoons, each one smaller than a grain of rice, crafted by some unknown genius for the concubines of the Emperor Whezi. But undoubtedly, from what I can gather, these were surpassed by the notorious clockwork spoon, devised by Bloody Stupid Johnson, which could apparently stir coffee so fast that the cup would actually rise up from the saucer and hit the ceiling. Oh, to be a fly on that wall, but not too close, obviously. Possibly less well known is the singing spoon of the learned sage Ly Tin Wheedle, which could entertain the dinner table by singing comic songs. Among other great spoons—’

‘That is enough,’ said Glenda, tugging the girl away for her own good.

‘He’s an orc?’ the girl said.

‘So everyone says,’ said Glenda.

‘Were they all like that? I thought it was all about twisting heads off?’

‘Well, I suspect people get bored with the same old thing.’

‘But how does he know all about spoons?’

‘Believe me, if anyone has ever written Great Spoons of the World, Mister Nutt has read it.’

Trev heard the girl’s plaintive voice as Glenda almost forcibly led her away, or at least away from Nutt. ‘I really wanted to talk to Jewels,’ Trev heard the girl say, as she walked past Juliet without a glance. ‘But she’s hiding out, everyone says.’

He hurried across and pulled the other two in a huddle towards him. ‘There’s gonna be murder tomorrow,’ he said. ‘The wizards can’t use magic and Ankh-Morpork United is gonna be made up out of the toughest, nastiest bunch of buggers that’re outside of the Tanty.’

‘We shall have to change our tactics to suit, then,’ said Nutt.

‘Are you nu—insane? I’m talkin’ about people like Andy, Nutt. An’ he might not be the worst one.’