‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Trev, ‘that is quite true. I would say about half of them are honest cloggers and the rest of them are bastards.’
‘Well, I’m sure we will overcome,’ said Ridcully jovially.
‘I would also like to make a few comments before we leave, sir,’ said Nutt. ‘A few words of advice, perhaps? In these few days I have taught you everything I know, even if I do not know how I know it. As you know, I am an orc and whatever else we were, we were team players. You are playing, therefore, not as individuals, but as a team. I think it was Von Haudenbrau who said—’
‘I don’t think we’ve got very much time to get through the crowds,’ said Ridcully, who had been expecting this. ‘Thank you, Mister Nutt, but I really think we ought to get going.’
Those watching from above would have seen the cramped streets of the city waver as the red caterpillar that was the Unseen Academicals made its way to the ground. There were cheers and there were boos and because this was Ankh-Morpork, usually the cheers and the booing were done alternately by everyone concerned.
By the time Lance-Constable Bluejohn of the Watch and two other trolls had forcibly prised open the gates against the pressure of bodies, the noise was just one great hammer of sound. The troll officers opened a path for them with the forethought and delicacy that has made police crowd control such a byword. It led to a fenced-off and heavily guarded area, in the centre of which was the Archchancellor formerly known as Dean, the entire team of Ankh-Morpork United and His Grace the Duke of Ankh, Commander of the City Watch, Sir Samuel Vimes, with a face like a bad lunch. ‘What the hell are you clowns proposing to do to my city?’ he demanded and looked up at Vetinari in his box in the middle of the stand. He raised his voice. ‘I’ve been grafting like mad this last month on getting the KV Accord sorted out and it turns out that just when the dwarfs and the trolls are shaking hands and being jolly good pals, you lot are starting another KV of your very own.’
‘Oh, come now, Sam,’ said Ridcully. ‘It’s only a jolly day out.’
‘People are queueing up at the gates,’ said Vimes. ‘The actual city gates. How much of this is magical?’
‘None, Sam, as far as we’re aware. There will be no magic used during the game, this has been discussed and agreed and the D—’ Ridcully swallowed hard. ‘The Archchancellor of Brazeneck University is making himself responsible for thaumic damping of the stadium.’
‘Then let me tell you this,’ said the commander. ‘None of my men will set a foot on the field of play, no matter what happens. Do I make myself clear?’
‘As crystal, Sam.’
‘Sorry, Archchancellor, for now I am Commander of the City Watch, not Sam, if it’s all the same to you,’ said Vimes. ‘The whole damn city is an accident waiting to—no, an accident that already has happened and anything that goes bad will get worse very quickly. I’m not going to have it said that the Watch were the problem. Honestly, Mustrum, I really would have expected better from you.’
‘That will be Archchancellor,’ said Ridcully coldly.
‘As far as I’m concerned,’ said Vimes, ‘this is a scuffle between rival gangs. Do you know what my job is, Archchancellor? It’s to keep the peace, and for two pins, I’d arrest the whole boiling of ya, but his lordship won’t have it.’
Ridcully coughed. ‘May I extend my congratulations, sir, on the very good work you have been doing in Koom Valley.’
‘Thank you,’ said Vimes. ‘And so I suspect you can imagine how cheerful I am to see you involved in another kind of war.’ The commander turned to Archchancellor Henry. ‘Nice to see you again, sir[20], it’s good to see that you’ve moved up in the world. I’m formally telling you that I am laying down the law, here, and as the referee, you have to pick it up. Inside these lines it’s football–step over the line and it’s me.’ He turned back to Ridcully. ‘Mind how you go, Archchancellor.’
He departed, watchmen falling into place behind him.
‘Well, now, I suspect the good commander has a lot on his mind these days,’ said Archchancellor Henry, brightly. He pulled out his watch. ‘I would like to speak to the team captains.’
‘Well, I know I’m one of them,’ said Ridcully.
A man stepped forward from the ranks of United.
‘Joseph Hoggett, of the Pork Packers, as it happens. Captain, for my sins.’
Hoggett held out his hand to Ridcully and, to his credit, hardly winced when it was taken in a firm handshake.
‘Well, gentlemen,’ said the former Dean. ‘I am sure you know the rules, we’ve been through them often enough. I want a good clean game. One long, er, peep from my whistle means that I am interrupting play for an infringement or injury or for some other reason at that point known only to myself. One even longer peep, which I suppose will be more of a parrp, will mean the end of one half and time for refreshment, after which the game will recommence. During the interval, I believe that there will be a marching display by the Ankh-Morpork accordion band, but I suppose these things are sent to try us. May I remind you gentlemen that you change ends at the half-time. Also, please impress on your team that the goal they are aiming for should not be behind them. If I see any serious infringement, that player will be removed from the pitch. A considerably longer parrp, which as far as I am concerned will continue until I am out of breath, will mark the end of the game. May I also remind you, as Commander Vimes has reminded us, that within these four, rather sticky lines of chalk, I am a wielder of power second only to the gods themselves, and then only perhaps. If at any time it becomes clear that the rules themselves are impractical, I will change them. When I blow the whistle, I shall raise my staff and unleash a spell which will prevent any further magic being used within these hallowed lines until the close of play. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Hoggett.
‘Mustrum?’ said the former Dean, in a meaningful voice.
‘Yes, yes, all right,’ grumbled Ridcully. ‘You are making the most of your little moment, aren’t you? Let’s get on with it, shall we?’
‘Gentlemen, would you please form up your teams for the singing of the National Anthem. Mister Stibbons, I believe you have found me a megaphone, thank you very much.’ He raised the horn to his lips and shouted through it, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, be upstanding for the National Anthem.’
The singing of the National Anthem was always a ragged affair, the good people of Ankh-Morpork feeling that it was unpatriotic to sing songs about how patriotic you were, taking the view that someone singing a song about how patriotic they were was either up to something or a Head of State[21].
An additional problem today lay in the acoustics of the arena, which were rather too good, coupled with the fact that the speed of sound at one end of the stadium was slightly off beat compared with the other end, a drawback exacerbated when both sides tried to recover the gap.
These acoustical anomalies did not count for much if you were standing next to Mustrum Ridcully, as the Archchancellor was one of those gentlemen who will sing it beautifully, correctly enunciated and very, very loudly.
‘“When dragons belch and hippos flee, my thoughts, Ankh-Morpork, are of thee,”’ he began.
Trev noticed, to his surprise, that Nutt was standing stiffly to attention. His own mouth operating on automatic, he looked along the massed rank of Ankh-Morpork United. About fifty-fifty, he thought. Half of them decent old cloggers and half of them Andy and his chums. His gaze lighted on Andy just as he thought that and Andy flashed him a little smile and pointed a finger briefly. But I’m not playing, Trev thought, because of my old mum. He glanced down at the palm of his hand, no star there, he was sure of that. Anyway, he thought, staring at the opponents, when it all goes bad the referee is a wizard, after all.
‘“Let others boast of martial dash, for we have boldly fought with cash,”’ roared the crowd at various pitches and speeds.
I mean, Trev thought, he wouldn’t switch off his own magic, would he?
‘“We own al
l your helmets, we own all your shoes.”’
I mean, he really wouldn’t do that, would he? The only person who could stop it if it all went wrong wouldn’t have made a mistake like that?
‘“We own all your generals–touch us and you’ll lose.”’
Yes, he has done! He has done just that!
‘“Morporkia! Morporkia! Morporkia owns the day,”’ Trev shouted to quell his own rising panic. He has done that, we all saw him! He’s kept his own staff inside the field where you can’t do magic. He looked at Andy and Andy nodded. Yes, he had worked it out as well.
‘“We can rule you wholesale. Touch us and you’ll pay.”’
It is considered in the Sto Plains that only scoundrels know the second verse of their national anthem, since anyone spending time memorizing that would be up to no good purpose. The Ankh-Morpork national anthem, therefore, had a second verse that was deliberately written as ner ner ners and the occasional coherent word desperately trying to stay afloat, on the basis that this is how it would sound in any case. Trev listened to it with even more agony than usual.
But everyone joined in cheerful unison for the last line, which everybody knew, ‘“We can rule you wholesale, credit where it’s due.”’
Glenda, one arm as far across her bosom as it would go, risked a look at what would still probably be called the Royal Box, just as Vetinari raised the gold-ish coloured urn and a cheer went up. Ankh-Morpork was not particularly keen on cheering the Patrician but it would cheer money any day of the week. Yet it seemed to Glenda that there was some strange harmonic to the cheer, coming up from under the ground itself, as if the place was one huge mouth… Then the feeling went away. And the day came back.
‘Gentlemen? Team players to their places,’ said the Archchancellor of Brazeneck, haughtily.
‘Er, can I have a word with you, sir?’ said Trev, sidling up as quickly as possible.
‘Ah, yes. Dave Likely’s boy,’ said the former Dean. ‘We are about to play football, Mister Likely, I’m sure you’ve noticed.’
‘Yes, sir, well, er, but… ’
‘Do you know of any good reason why I should hold up the game?’ the referee demanded.
Trev gave up.
Henry produced a coin from his waistcoat pocket. ‘Mustrum?’ he said.
‘Heads,’ said the Archchancellor, and he turned out to be wrong.
‘Very well, Mister Hoggett… and who has the ball?’
Gloing! Gloing!
Nutt picked the ball out of the air and handed it over. ‘Me, sir.’
‘Ah, you are the coach for the Academicals.’
‘Yes, but a player as well should it become necessary.’
‘Gentlemen, you will see that I am placing the ball in the centre of the pitch.’ It’s true that the Archchancellor formerly known as Dean did rather relish the occasion. He took a few steps back, paused for dramatic effect, produced a whistle from his pocket and flourished it. He gave a blow that only a man of that size could give; his face began to twitch and go red. He raised his megaphone to his lips and shouted, ‘ANY BOY WHO HAS NOT BROUGHT HIS KIT WILL PLAY IN HIS PANTS!’ followed by Ponder Stibbons shouting, ‘I want to know who gave that to him!’
The crowd roared and you could hear the laugh going away in the distance, rolling down the streets as every listener in the crowded city passed it on, bringing back such memories that at least two people started to forge letters from their mother.
In his goal, the Librarian swung himself to the top of his posts to get a better look. In his goal, Charlie Barton, goalkeeper for United, methodically lit his pipe. And the man with the biggest problem within the ground that day apart possibly from Trev, was the editor of the Times, Mr William de Worde, who had not trusted any underling with the reporting of this unique, most prestigious occasion, but wasn’t at all sure how it should be done.
At the whistle, he’d managed: The United chief, should I say chief? There must be a better word for him, but I can sort that out in the office, does not actually appear to know what to do next. Archchancellor Ridcully (BF, No, no, I’ll fill that in later) has kicked the ball hard towards, well, actually it has hit Jimmy Wilkins, formerly of the Miners, who seems uncertain as to what to do with it. No, no, he’s picked it up! He’s picked up the ball! The referee, who is the former Dean of Unseen University, has called him over for what I imagine is to be a refresher course in the rules of this new game of football.
A megaphone, thought de Worde, that’s what I need, an extremely big megaphone so I can tell everyone what’s going on. The ball has been handed to, let me see, number sixty-nine, oh yes, the multi-talented Professor Bengo Macarona, who according to the regulations, the new rules, is allowed what is known as a free kick from where the infringement took place and it’s, and here comes, Bengo Maca—sorry, Professor Bengo Macarona for Unseen Academicals and—oh my word! It has gone right down the pitch at shoulder height, making a noise like a partridge (check with Nature Notes correspondence on whether I have the correct simile). The ball has hit Mr Charlie ‘Big Boy’ Barton in the stomach with such force as to carry him into the back of the net! What a display! And this would appear to be a goal! At least one goal, I should think! And the crowd are on their feet, though technically most of them were there already, anyhow [he wrote conscientiously, with a journalist’s well-known desire to get things right]. And yes, they are celebrating the hero of the moment and the refrain coming from the lips of the Academicals’ supporters in their unique patois seems to be: ‘One Makaronah, there’s only one Makaronah, one Makaro-naah.’[22] No, no. Something seems to be happening; Macarona has left the pitch and is talking animatedly to the crowd. He appears to be haranguing them. Those he has been talking to look subdued.
At this point, one of the editor’s assistants hurried over with a brief digest of what had transpired on the other side of the pitch. De Worde wrote quickly, hoping that his home-made shorthand would not fail him: With that hot-blooded resolve that is so lovably typical of the native Genuan, Professor Macarona is apparently insisting that any celebratory chanting should include his full name and full list of honours and is helpfully writing them down. There also appears to be a bit of a hiatus around United’s goal as some of Charlie Barton’s team mates help him find his pipe and also, it transpires [the editor of the Times liked the word transpire], the other half of the pork pie it transpired he had been eating at the time the goal was scored. It appears that, not unlike many of us, he had underestimated the speed of the new ball. And now the ball appears to be back in the centre of the pitch where there is another argument going on.
‘But they’ve just scored a goal!’ said Mr Hoggett.
‘Yes, quite so,’ said the former Dean, wheezing gently. ‘That means that they get to kick off next.’
‘That means we don’t, but we’ve just lost a goal!’
‘Yes, but that’s what the rules say.’
‘But that’s not fair, we want a kick, they kicked it last.’
‘But it’s not about the kicks, Mister Hoggett, it’s what you do with them.’ And Archchancellor Ridcully runs towards the ball. He turns swiftly and has kicked the ball towards his own goal!
The editor wrote furiously: Almost all of United’s team are running up to take advantage of this strange faux pas, not entirely cognisant [the editor liked that word, too, it was so much better than aware] but the famous Librarian of Unseen University has just—
He stopped, blinked and grabbed one of his assistants who had turned up with a full list of Bengo Macarona’s honours and pushed him down in the chair.
‘Write down everything that I say!’ he shouted. ‘And I hope your shorthand is better than mine, and if it isn’t you’ll be sacked in the morning. This is insane!’ They did it on purpose, I’ll swear they did it on purpose. He kicked the ball directly at his own goalkeeper, knowing, I swear, that he could take advantage of the Librarian’s renowned upper body strength to throw the ball almost the entire length of the pitch. A
nd there is Bengo Macarona, more or less unnoticed by his opponents, heading towards the missile while United have streamed away from their citadel, like the ill-fated Maranids during the first Prodostian war [the editor liked to think of himself as a classicist].
‘I’ve never seen anything like it!’ he shouted at his almost deafened assistant. ‘They’ve got United all in the wrong place.’ And there goes Macarona. The ball appears to be attached to his feet. And there ahead of him appears to be the only member of the luckless United squad that knows what’s going on. Mr Charles ‘Big Boy’ Barton, who nevertheless is staggering out of the goalmouth, like the Giant Octopal, upon seeing the hordes of the Mormidons.
The editor fell silent, forgetting everything as the ground between the two men shortened by the moment. ‘Oh, no!’ he said.
There was a huge cheer from the crowd. ‘What happened?’ said the assistant, pencil poised.
‘Didn’t you see it? Didn’t you see it?’ said the editor. His hair was dishevelled and he looked like a man nearing madness. ‘Macarona ran round him! I don’t know how the ball stayed at his feet.’
‘Do you mean he dodged past him, sir?’ said the assistant.
The noise of the crowd would have been incandescent had it been visible. ‘Another goal,’ said the editor slumping. ‘Two goals in as many minutes! No, he didn’t dodge him, he ran around him! Twice! And I’ll swear, ended up going faster.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said the assistant, still writing. ‘I went to a lecture about that sort of thing, once. It was about how things don’t hit the world turtle, sir. It was like a slingshot effect, he may have picked up additional speed as he rounded the goalkeeper’s enormous girth, sir.’
‘And listen to the crowd roar!’ said the editor. ‘And write it down.’
‘Yes, sir, that would be: One Professor Macarona D. Thau (Bug), D. Maus (Chubb), Magistaludorum (QIS), Octavium (Hons), PHGK (Blit), DMSK, Mack, D. Thau (Bra), Visiting Professor in Chickens (Jahn the Conqueror University (Floor 2, Shrimp Packers Building, Genua)), Primo Octo (Deux), Visiting Professor of Blit/Slood Exchanges (Al Khali), KCbfJ, Reciprocating Professor of Blit Theory (Unki), D. Thau (Unki), Didimus Supremius (Unki), Emeritus Professor in Blit Substrate Determinations (Chubb), Chair of Blit and Music Studies (Quirm College for Young Ladies), there’s only one Professor Macarona D. Thau (Bug), D. Maus (Chubb), Magistaludorum (QIS), Octavium (Hons), PHGK (Blit), DMSK, Mack, D. Thau (Bra), Visiting Professor in Chickens (Jahn the Conqueror University (Floor 2, Shrimp Packers Building, Genua)), Primo Octo (Deux), Visiting Professor of Blit/Slood Exchanges (Al Khali), KCbfJ, Reciprocating Professor of Blit Theory (Unki), D. Thau (Unki), Didimus Supremius (Unki), Emeritus Professor in Blit Substrate Determinations (Chubb), Chair of Blit and Music Studies (Quirm College for Young Ladies), there’s only oooonnnnnnne Professor Bengo Macarooonaah D. Thau (Bug), D. Maus (Chubb), Magistaludorum (QIS), Octavium (Hons), PHGK (Blit), DMSK, Mack, D. Thau (Bra), Visiting Professor in Chickens (Jahn the Conqueror University (Floor 2, Shrimp Packers Building, Genua)), Primo Octo (Deux), Visiting Professor of Blit/Slood Exchanges (Al Khali), KCbfJ, Reciprocating Professor of Blit Theory (Unki), D. Thau (Unki), Didimus Supremius (Unki), Emeritus Professor in Blit Substrate Determinations (Chubb), Chair of Blit and Music Studies (Quirm College for Young Ladies), oooonnnnnnnly one Professor Bengo Macaroooonaaaah D. Thau (Bug), D. Maus (Chubb), Magistaludorum (QIS), Octavium (Hons), PHGK (Blit), DMSK, Mack, D. Thau (Bra), Visiting Professor in Chickens (Jahn the Conqueror University (Floor 2, Shrimp Packers Building, Genua)), Primo Octo (Deux), Visiting Professor of Blit/Slood Exchanges (Al Khali), KCbfJ, Reciprocating Professor of Blit Theory (Unki), D. Thau (Unki), Didimus Supremius (Unki), Emeritus Professor in Blit Substrate Determinations (Chubb), Chair of Blit and Music Studies (Quirm College for Young Ladies). But wouldn’t he be off-the-side, sir?’
Unseen Academicals d-37 Page 38
