Unseen Academicals

his comb that morning and was not in the mood to take this standing up.
    ‘And precisely in what books does—’ he began, but Ridcully interrupted with unusual diplomacy. Generally he liked little tiffs among the faculty.
    ‘A few more inches to prevent mobbing by the ladies should present us with no problems, surely, Mister Stibbons? Oops…’
    This last was to Glenda, who had dropped two spoons on the carpet. She gave him a cursory curtsy.
    ‘Er, yes…and we should sport the university colours,’ he went on, with a hint of nervousness. Ridcully prided himself on treating the staff well, and indeed did so whenever he remembered them, but the expression of intelligent amusement on the face of the dumpy girl had unnerved him; it was as if a chicken had winked.
    ‘Um, yes, yes indeed,’ he said. ‘The good old red jersey we used to wear in my rowing days, with the big U’s on the front, bold as brass…’
    He glanced at the maid, who was frowning. But he was Archchancellor, wasn’t he? It said so on his door, didn’t it?
    ‘That’s what we’ll do,’ he declared. ‘We’ll look into pies, although I’ve seen a few pies that don’t bear looking into, haha, and we’ll adapt the good old red sweater. What’s next, Mister Stibbons?’
    ‘With regard to the chanting, sir. I’ve asked the Master of the Music to work on some options,’ said Ponder smoothly. ‘We need to select a team as soon as possible.’
    ‘I don’t see what the rush is,’ said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, who had almost nodded off in the arms of a chocolate biscuit surfeit.
    ‘The bequest, remember?’ said the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications. ‘We—’
    ‘Pas devant la domestique!’ snapped the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
    Automatically, Ridcully turned again to look at Glenda, and got a distinct feeling that here was a woman about to learn a foreign language in a hurry. It was an odd but slightly exciting idea. Until this moment, he had never thought of the maids in the singular. They were all…servants. He was polite to them, and smiled when appropriate. He assumed they sometimes did other things than fetch and carry, and sometimes went off to get married and sometimes just…went off. Up until now, though, he’d never really thought that they might think, let alone what they thought about, and least of all what they thought about the wizards. He turned back to the table.
    ‘Who will be doing the chanting, Mister Stibbons?’
    ‘The aforesaid supporters, fans, sir. It’s short for fanatics.’
    ‘And ours will be…who?’
    ‘Well, we are the largest employer in the city, sir.’
    ‘As a matter of fact I think Vetinari is, and I wish to all hells I knew exactly who he is employing,’ said Ridcully.
    ‘I’m sure our loyal staff will support us,’ said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. He turned to Glenda, and to Ridcully’s dismay said, glutinously, ‘I’m sure you would be a fan, would you not, my child?’
    The Archchancellor sat back. He had a definite feeling that this was going to be fun. Well, she hadn’t blushed and she hadn’t yelled. In fact, she had not done anything, apart from carefully pick up the china.
    ‘I support Dolly Sisters, sir. Always have done.’
    ‘And are they any good?’
    ‘Having a poor patch at the moment, sir.’
    ‘Ah, then I expect you will want to support our team, which will be very good indeed!’
    ‘Can’t do that, sir. You’ve got to support your team, sir.’
    ‘But you just said they weren’t doing well.’
    ‘That’s when you support your team, sir. Otherwise you’re a numper.’
    ‘A numper being…?’ said Ridcully.
    ‘He’s someone who’s all cheering when things are going well, and then runs off to another team when there’s a losing streak. They always shouts the loudest.’
    ‘So you support the same team all your life?’
    ‘Well, if you move away it’s okay to change. No one will mind much unless you go to a real enemy.’ She looked at their puzzled expressions, sighed and went on: ‘Like Naphill United and the Whoppers, or Dolly Sisters and Dimwell Old Pals, or the Pigsty Hill Pork Packers and the Cockbill Boars. You know?’
    When they clearly didn’t, she continued: ‘They hate each other. Always have done, always will. They are the bad matches. The shutters go up for those. I don’t know what my neighbours would say if they saw me cheering a Dimmer.’
    ‘But that’s dreadful!’ said the Chair of