Andy momentarily lifted a finger to his forelock.

‘Well, sir, I was rushing forward according to the rules to tackle Mister Macarona and I had no idea at all that Jimmy the Spoon, here, had got exactly the same idea and was coming from a different direction and suddenly we were all there together going arse over tip, if you would excuse my Klatchian.’

Trev glowered.

The look on Andy’s face was transparent. He was lying. He knew he was lying. He knew everyone else knew he was lying and he didn’t care. In fact, he rather enjoyed the situation. Andy’s boots looked heavy enough to moor a boat.

‘They got ’im like the meat in a sandwich, sir,’ Trev complained to the referee.

‘Can you substantiate that, young man?’

‘Well, you can see what’s happened to the poor bugger.’

‘Yes, but do you have any evidence of collusion?’

Trev went blank and Nutt supplied in a whisper, ‘Can you prove it was a set-up?’

‘Can anyone?’ said the referee, looking around the players. No one could. Trev wondered how many might, were it not for the fact that Andy was standing there, innocent as a shark. ‘I am the referee, gentlemen, and I can only referee what I see and I saw nothing.’

‘Yes, because they made sure of that,’ said Trev. ‘Anyway, listen to the crowd. They all saw it!’

‘Look! They’ve got boots on them that could strip bark,’ Ridcully protested.

‘Yes, indeed, Mustrum, I mean, sorry, captain, but as yet there are no rules about which boots should be worn and at the very least these are the boots that have been traditionally worn for the game of foot-the-ball.’

‘But they are man traps!’

‘I can certainly see what you are getting at, but what would you like me to do?’ said Henry. ‘I have a suspicion that if I cancel this match at this point you and I would not get out of here alive, because even if we ourselves did escape the wrath of the crowd, we would by no means escape the wrath of Vetinari. The game will continue. Unseen Academicals can play a substitute and I will, let me see—’ He pulled out a notebook. ‘Ah, yes, I will award a free kick at the very point where this unfortunate incident took place. And may I add that I will look askance at any future “incidents”. Mister Hoggett, I trust that you will make this clear to your team.’

‘Blow that for a game of soldiers!’ Trev yelled. ‘They just took out our best player an’ you’re gonna let ’em walk away grinning?’

But the referee was, after all, the former Dean. A man used to head-to-head confrontations with Mustrum Ridcully. He gave Trev a chilly look and turned very deliberately to the Archchancellor and said, ‘And I trust you, too, captain, will impress upon your team that my decisions are final. There will be a five-minute interlude for you to do this and can some of you fellows take poor Professor Macarona off the field and see if you can find some quack to look at him.’

A voice behind him bellowed, ‘You have one right here, sir.’ They turned. A figure slightly larger than life, wearing a top hat and carrying a small bag, nodded at them.

‘Doctor Lawn,’ said Ridcully. ‘I wouldn’t have expected to see you here.’

‘Really?’ said the doctor. ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Now some of you men drag him over to that corner and I’ll take a look at him. I’ll send my bill to you, shall I, Mustrum?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to take him somewhere nice and quiet?’ said the referee.

‘No fear! I want to keep my eye on the play.’

‘They’re gettin’ away with it,’ said Trev, as he walked back to the line. ‘Everyone knows they’re gettin’ away with it.’

‘We still have the rest of the team, Mister Trev,’ said Nutt, lacing up his boots. He had, of course, made them himself. They looked like foot gloves. ‘And me of course, I am the first substitute. I promise that I will do my best, Mister Trev.’

Thus far, it had been a rather boring afternoon for the Librarian after his one little moment in the sun. It really was rather dull between the goal posts and he was getting hungry and so was pleasantly surprised by the appearance of a large banana in front of the goal. It was later agreed that, in a footballing context, mysteriously appearing fruit should have been greeted with a certain amount of caution. But he was hungry, it was a banana and the metaphysics were sound. He ate it.

Glenda, up in the stand, wondered if she was the only one to have seen the startlingly yellow fruit in its trajectory and then saw, looking up at her from the crowd, with a big grin on her face, Mrs Atkinson, mother of Tosher, himself something of an unguided weapon. Anyone who had ever been in the Shove knew her as a perpetrator of all kinds of inventive assaults. She had always got away with it because no one in the Shove would hit an old lady, especially one standing next to Tosher.

‘Excuse me,’ said Glenda, standing up. ‘I’ve got to get down there right now.’

‘Not a chance, love,’ said Pepe. ‘It’s shoulder-to-shoulder. A Shove and a half.’

‘Look after Juliet,’ said Glenda. She leaned forward and tapped on the shoulder of the nearest man. ‘I’ve got to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. Mind if I jump?’

He looked past her at the glittering figure of Juliet and said, ‘Not at all, if you get your girlfriend to give me a big kiss.’

‘No, but I’ll give you one.’

‘Er, don’t trouble yourself, miss, but come on then, give me your hand.’

It was a reasonably fast descent, as she was passed from hand to hand, accompanied by ribaldry, much genial horseplay and a definite feeling of satisfaction on Glenda’s part that she was wearing her biggest and most impenetrable pants[23].

Elbowing and kicking people out of the way, she reached the goal just as the banana was consumed in one gulp and stood panting helplessly in front of the Librarian. He gave her a wide smile, looked thoughtful for a moment and went over backwards.

High up in the stand, Lady Margolotta turned to Vetinari. ‘Is that part of the game?’

‘I fear not,’ he said.

Ladyship yawned. ‘Well, it relieves the boredom, at least. They’ve spent far more time arguing than playing.’

Vetinari smiled. ‘Yes, madam. It does look as if football is very much like diplomacy: short periods of fighting followed by long periods of negotiation.’

Glenda prodded the Librarian. ‘Hello? Are you all right?’ All she could hear was a gurgling. She cupped her hands, ‘Man—er, someone down, here!’

To another chorus of boos, and, because this was Ankh-Morpork, cheers, the travelling committee, which was what the game had now become, hastened over to the Unseen Academicals’ goal.

‘Someone threw a banana and I saw who did it and I think it’s poisoned,’ said Glenda, all in one breath.

‘He’s breathing very heavily,’ said Ridcully. The comment was unnecessary as the snores were making the goal rattle.

He crouched down and put his ear to the Librarian’s chest. ‘I don’t think he’s been poisoned,’ he said.

‘Why’s that, Archchancellor?’ said Ponder.

‘Because if anyone has poisoned our Librarian,’ said Ridcully, ‘then, although I am not, by nature, a vindictive man, I will see to it that this university hunts down the poisoner by every thaumic, mystic and occult means available and makes the rest of their life not only as horrible as they can imagine it, but as horrible as I can imagine it. And you can depend on it, gentlemen, that I have already started work on it.’

Ponder looked around until he saw Rincewind. ‘Professor Rincewind. You were, I mean you are, his friend, can’t you stick your fingers down his throat or something?’

‘Well, no,’ said Rincewind. ‘I am very attached to my fingers and I like to think of them as attached to me.’

The noise of the crowd was getting louder. They were here to see football, not a debate.