Unseen Academicals

then on the next ‘New Balls A Success’.
    To Glenda’s surprise and dismay, Juliet still had a place on the front page, with the picture of her used smaller than yesterday, under the headline ‘Mystery Lady Vanishes’, and a paragraph which simply said that no one had seen the mystery model, Jewels, since her debut (Glenda had to look this one up) two days ago. Honestly, she thought, not finding somebody is news? And she was surprised that there was room for even this, since most of the front page was dedicated to the football, but the Times liked to start several stories on the front page and then, just when they were getting interesting, whisk them off to page 35, or somewhere, to end their days behind the crossword and the permanent advert for surgical trusses.
    The leader column inside was headed ‘Score One For Vetinari’. Glenda never normally read the leader column because there was only a certain number of times she was prepared to see the word ‘however’ used in a 120-word article.
    She read the front-page story at first glumly and then with rising anger. Vetinari had done it. He had got them drunk and the fools had signed away their football for a pale variety cooked up by the palace and the university. Of course, minds are never quite that simple. She had to admit to herself that she hated the stupidity of the present game. She hated the idiot fighting and mindless shoving, but it was hers to hate. It was something that people themselves had put together and rickety and stupid though it was, it was theirs. And now the nobs were again picking up something that wasn’t theirs and saying how wonderful it was. The old football was going to be banned. That was another little razor blade in Lord Vetinari’s alcoholic candyfloss.
    She was also deeply suspicious about the urn, the picture of which, for some reason, was still on her kitchen table. Since what was claimed to be the original rules was written in an ancient language, how could anyone other than a nob know what they meant? She ran her eye down the description of the new rules. Some of the rules of old street football had survived in there like monsters from another era. She recognized one that she had always liked: the ball shall be called the ball. The ball is the ball that is played as the ball by any three consecutive players, at which point it is the ball. She’d loved it when she first read it for the sheer stupidity of its phraseology. Apparently, it had been added on a day, centuries ago, when an unfortunately severed head had rolled into play and had rather absent-mindedly replaced the ball currently in play on account of some body, formerly belonging to the head, now lying on the original ball. That kind of thing stuck in the memory, especially because after the match the owner of the head was credited with scoring the winning goal.
    That rule and a few others stood out as remnants of a vanished glory in the list of Lord Vetinari’s new regulations. A few nods at the old game had been left in as a kind of sop to public opinion. He should not be allowed to get away with it. Just because he was a tyrant and capable of having just about anybody killed on a whim, people acted as if they were scared of him. Someone ought to tell him off. The world had turned upside down several times. She hadn’t quite got her bearings, but making sure that Lord Vetinari did not get away with it was suddenly very important. It was up to the people to decide when they were being stupid and old-fashioned; it wasn’t up to nobs to tell them what to do.
    With great determination she put on her coat over her apron and, after a moment’s thought, took two freshly made Jammy Devils from her cupboard. Where a battering ram cannot work, really good shortcrust pastry can often break through.

    In the Oblong Office, the Patrician’s personal secretary looked at the stopwatch.
    ‘Fifty seconds slower than your personal best, I’m afraid, my lord.’
    ‘Proof indeed that strong drink is a mocker, Drumknott,’ said Vetinari severely.
    ‘I suspect that no further proof is needed,’ said Drumknott, with his little secretarial smile.
    ‘Although I would, in fairness, point out that Charlotte of the Times is emerging as the most fearsome crossword compiler of all time, and they are a pretty fearsome lot. But her? Initialisms, odds and evens, hidden words, container reverses, and now diagonals! How does she do it?’
    ‘Well, you did it, sir.’
    ‘I undid