Unseen Academicals

but inexplicably least successful businessman.
    ‘Don’t tell me you’ve come to sell pies?’
    ‘Nah, nah, nah,’ said Dibbler. ‘Too many amateurs here today. My pies aren’t just knocked up out of rubbish for a load of drunken old football fans.’
    ‘So your pies are for—?’ Trev left the question hanging in the air with a noose on the end of it.
    ‘Anyway, pies are so yesterday,’ said Dibbler dismissively. ‘I am on the ground floor of football memorabilityness.’
    ‘What’s that, then?’
    ‘Like genuine autographed team jerseys and that sort of thing. I mean, look here.’ Dibbler produced from the large tray around his neck a smaller version of what one of the new gloing! gloing! footballs would be if it were about a half of the size and had been badly carved out of wood. ‘See those white patches? That’s so they can be signed by the team.’
    ‘You’re goin’ to get them signed, are you?’
    ‘Well, no, I think people would like to get that done themselves. The personal touch, you know what I mean?’
    ‘So they’re actually just painted balls of wood and nothin’ else?’ said Trev.
    ‘But authentic!’ said Dibbler. ‘Just like the shirts. Want one? Five dollars to you, and that’s cutting me own throat.’ He produced a skimpy red cotton item and waved it enticingly.
    ‘What’s that?’
    ‘Your team colours, right?’
    ‘Two big yellow Us on the front?’ said Trev. ‘That’s wrong! Ours has got two little Us interlocked on the left breast like a badge. Very stylish.’
    ‘Pretty much the same,’ said Dibbler airily. ‘No one’ll notice. And I had to keep the price down for the kiddies.’
    He leaned closer. ‘Anything you can tell me about the game tomorrow, Trev? Looks like the teams are putting together a tough squad. Vetinari’s not going to get it all his own way for once?’
    ‘We’ll play a good game, you’ll see,’ said Trev.
    ‘Right! Can’t lose with a Likely playing, right?’
    ‘I just help around the place. I’m not playin’. I promised my ol’ mum after Dad died.’
    Dibbler looked around at the crowded stadium of the Hippo. He appeared to have something else on his mind other than the need for the next dollar. ‘What happens if your lot lose?’ he said.
    ‘It’s only a game,’ said Trev.
    ‘Ah, but Vetinari’s got his reputation based on it.’
    ‘It’s a game. One side wins, one side loses. Just a game.’
    ‘A lot of people aren’t thinking like that,’ said Dibbler. ‘Things always come out well for Vetinari,’ he went on, staring at the sky. ‘And that’s the magic, see? Everyone thinks he always gets it right. What do you think will happen if he gets things wrong?’
    ‘It’s just a game, Throat, only a game…Be seein’ you.’ Trev wandered onwards. People were putting up tiers of wooden stands on one side of the arena, and because this was Ankh-Morpork, when two or more people gathered together thousands turned up just to wonder why.
    And there was Mr Ponder Stibbons, sitting at a long table with some of the football captains. Oh, yes, the Rules Committee. There had been talk about that. Even with the rules written down, and half of them as old as the game itself, there were a few things that had to be made clear. He arrived in time to hear Ponder say, ‘Look, you can’t have a situation in the new game where people hang around right next to the other team’s goal.’
    ‘Worked all right before,’ said one of the captains.
    ‘Yes, but the ball flies. One really good kick would send it down half the length of the Hippo. If someone gets that right the goalkeeper wouldn’t have a chance.’
    ‘So, what you’re saying,’ said Mr Stollop, who had become a kind of spokesman for the captains, ‘is that there’s got to be two blokes from team A in front of a bloke from team B before he scores?’
    ‘Yes, that’s about right,’ said Ponder stiffly, ‘but one of them is the goalkeeper.’
    ‘So, what happens if one of them fellers nips past him downfield before he kicks the ball?’
    ‘Then he will be what is traditionally known as off his side,’ said Ponder.
    ‘Off his head, more like,’ said one of the captains. And since this had the same shape as humour, it got a laugh. ‘If that’s true, you could end up with loads of blokes rushing past one another, all trying to get the other poor buggers into an unlawful position without any of the poor devils moving, right?’
    ‘Nevertheless, we are