‘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. And 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.’