Terry Pratchett - Unseen Academicals

‘I’m sure we all understand, Trev,’ said Glenda. ‘It’s always difficult with old mums,’ and she added, not really thinking what she was saying, ‘and I think Juliet will understand.’

She took him by the hand and towed him off the pitch. Trev had been right. It was all going wrong. The buoyant certainties of the beginning of the game were fading.

‘You gave away a goal, sir,’ said Ponder as he and Ridcully lined up for the next encounter.

‘I have great faith in Mister Nutt in goal,’ said Ridcully. ‘And I’ll show them what happens to people who try to poison a wizard.’

The whistle blew.

‘GET DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY! I’m sorry, gentlemen, I don’t quite know why I said that… ’

What happens to people who try to poison a wizard, at least in the short run, is that they have an advantage in a game of football. The absence of Professor Macarona was a deadly blow. He had been the pillar around which the university strategy had been built. Emboldened, United went for the kill.

Even so, the editor of the Times thought, as he lay down at the very edge of the pitch alongside his iconographer, the wizards were just about managing to hold their own. He scribbled as fast as he could, trying hard to ignore the gentle shower of pie wrappings, banana skins, empty greasy pea bags and the occasional beer bottle being tossed on to the pitch. And who is that with the ball now? He glanced at the little crib-sheet of numbers he had managed to jot down. Ah, right. United had broken into the UU side of the field and there was Andy Shank, an unpleasant man by all accounts and… surely that wasn’t a normal footballing procedure. Other players had lined up around him. So he was running in the middle of a group of bodyguards. Even the other team members themselves did not seem to know what was going on, but Mr Shack nevertheless managed a creditable strike at the goal, which was expertly snatched out of the air by… Mister Nutt. He glanced at his crib-sheet, ah yes, the orc, and added in his notebook: ‘who is clearly adept at grasping big round objects’. But then he felt ashamed and crossed it out. Despite where we are lying, he said to himself, we are not the gutter press.

The orc.

Nutt danced back and forth outside his goal, trying to find someone who looked in a position to be able to do something with a ball.

‘Can’t hang around all day, Orc,’ said Andy, staying in front of him. ‘Got to let it go soon, Orc. Not much help for you now, is there, Orc? They say you’ve got claws. Show us your claws, Orc. That will bust your ball.’

‘I believe that you are a man with unresolved issues, sir.’

‘What?’

Nutt dropkicked the ball over Andy’s head and somewhere in the mob that fought for it there was a crunch, which was followed by a yell, which was followed by the whistle and the whistle was followed by the chant. It began somewhere in the region of Mrs Atkinson, but spread oh so quickly: ‘Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc!’

Ridcully got to his feet, standing unsteadily. ‘The buggers have got me, Henry,’ he yelled, in a voice that could hardly be heard over the chant. ‘Kneecap! Bloody kneecap!’

‘Who did it?’ the referee demanded.

‘How should I know? It’s a bloody mess, just like the old game! And can’t you get them to stop that bloody chant? That’s not the sort of thing we want to hear.’

Archchancellor Henry raised his megaphone. ‘Mister Hoggett?’

The captain of United pushed his way through the rabble, looking very sheepish.

‘Can’t you control your fans?’

Hoggett shrugged. ‘Sorry about that, sir, but what can you do?’

Henry looked around the Hippo. What could anyone do? It was the mob. The Shove. No one was in charge. It hadn’t an arse to kick, a wrist to be slapped or even an address. It was just there and it was shouting because everybody else was.

‘Well, then can you at least control your team?’ he said. To his surprise Mr Hoggett looked down.

‘Not entirely, sir. Sorry about that, sir, it’s how things are.’

‘One more incident of this kind and I will cancel the match. I suggest you leave the field of play, Mustrum. Who is the substitute captain?’

‘Me!’ said Ridcully, ‘but under the circumstances I appoint Mister Nobbs as my deputy.’

‘Not Nobby Nobbs?’ exclaimed the former Dean.

‘No relation,’ said Bledlow Nobbs very quickly.

‘Well, that was a good choice at least,’ said Trev, sighing. ‘Nobbsy is a clogger at heart.’

‘But it’s not supposed to be about clogging,’ said Glenda. ‘And you know what?’ she added, raising her voice against the steel roar of the crowd. ‘Whatever the old Dean thinks he can’t stop the game, now. This place would just blow up!’

‘You think so?’ said Trev.

‘Listen,’ said Glenda. ‘Yes, I think you’re right. You ought to get out of here.’

‘Me? Not a chance.’

‘But you could make yourself useful and get Juliet out. Get her as far as Vimesy and his lot. I bet they’re waiting right outside the gates. Do it right now while you can still get down the steps. Won’t get a chance once they start to play again.’

As he left, Glenda walked unheeded down the touchline, to the little area where Dr Lawn was standing guard over his patients.

‘You know that little bag you brought with you, sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘I think you’re going to need a bigger bag. How’s Professor Macarona?’

The professor was lying on his back, staring at the sky and wearing an expression of bland happiness. ‘Sorted him out easily enough,’ said the doctor. ‘He won’t be playing again any time soon. I’ve given him a little something to make him happy. Correction, I have given him a big something to make him happy.’

‘And the Librarian?’

‘Well, I got a couple of lads to help me turn him upside down and he’s been throwing up a lot. He’s still pretty groggy, but I don’t think it’s too bad. He’s as sick as a parrot.’ [24] According to Fletcher’s Avian Nausea Index, parrot sickness stands at number five in the ‘wishing yourself dead’ index. The highest level of sickness is that suffered by the great Combovered Eagle which can vomit over three countries at once.

‘This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, you know,’ said Glenda out of a feeling that she should defend the bloody mess.

‘It generally isn’t,’ said the doctor.

They turned as the noise of the nearby crowd changed. Juliet was coming down the steps glittering. The silence followed her like a lovesick dog. So did Pepe and the reassuring bulk of Madame Sharn, who might be a useful barricade in case the Hippo became a cauldron. Trev, tagging along behind them, seemed like an afterthought in comparison.

‘All right, dear, what’s this all about?’ said Pepe.

‘I ain’t going,’ said Juliet, ‘not while Trev’s in here. I ain’t leaving without Trev. Pepe says he’s going to win the match.’

‘What have you been saying?’ said Glenda.

‘He’ll win,’ said Pepe, winking. ‘He’s got a star in his hand. You want to see him do it, missy?’

‘What are you playin’ at?’ said Trev, angrily.

‘Oh, I’m a bit of a conjurer, me. Or maybe a fairy godmother.’ Pepe gestured around the arena. ‘See that lot? Their ancestors screamed to see men killing one another and beasts tearing decent folks apart. Men with spears fighting men with nets and all that kind of ugly shite.’

‘And they have cart-tail sales here every other Sunday,’ added Glenda.

‘It’s always been the same,’ said Pepe. ‘It’s one big creature. Never dies. Crying and screaming and loving and hating all down the generations and you can’t tame it and you can’t stop it. Just for you, young lady, and for the soul of Mister Trev, I’m going to throw it a bone. Won’t take a mo’.’