‘Really?’ said Lord Vetinari. ‘And what is your name?’

‘Swithin, shir,’ said the man.

‘Any other name, by any chance?’ said Vetinari.

‘Dustworthy,’ he said. He raised a finger in a kind of salute. ‘Captain, theCockbill Boars.’

‘Ah, you aren’t having a good season,’ said Vetinari. ‘You need fresh blood inthe squad, especially since Jimmy Wilkins got put into the Tanty after eatingsomeone’s nose. Naphill walked all over you because you lost your backbone whenboth of the Pinchpenny brothers were taken to the Lady Sybil, and you’ve beenstuck down in the mud for three seasons. Okay, everyone says that HarryCapstick is making a very good showing since you bought him from Treacle MineTuesday for two crates of Winkle’s Old Peculiar and a sack of pork scratchings,which is not bad for a man with a wooden leg, but there’s never anyone insupport.’

A circle of silence spread outwards from Vetinari and the swaying Swithin.Ridcully’s mouth had dropped open and Henry’s brandy glass remained half empty,an unusual occurrence for a glass that’s been in the hands of a wizard for morethan fifteen seconds.

‘Also, I’m hearing that your pies are leaving a lot to be desired, such asdead, cooked, organic content,’ continued Vetinari. ‘Can’t get the Shove behindyou when the pies are seen to walk about.’

‘My ladsh,’ said Swithin, ‘are the besht there ish. It’sh not their faultthey’re up againsht better people. They never getsh a chance to play shomeonethey can beat. They alwaysh gives it one hundred and twenty pershent and youcan’t give more than that. Anyhow, how come you know all this shtuff? It’s notlike we’re big in the league.’

‘Oh, I take an interest,’ said Vetinari. ‘I believe that football is a lot likelife.’

‘There ish that, shir, there ish that. You does your besht and then shomeonekicksh you inna fork.’

‘Then I strongly advise you to take an interest in our new football,’ saidVetinari, ‘which will be about speed, skill and thinking.’

‘Oh, yeah, right, I can do all them,’ said Swithin, at which point he fell offhis chair.

‘Does this poor man have any friends here?’ said Vetinari, turning to thecrowd.

There was some diffidence among them concerning whether or not it was a goodidea to be friends with Swithin at this point.

Vetinari raised his voice: ‘I would just like a couple of people to take himback to his home. I would like them to put him to bed and see that no troublecomes to him. Perhaps they ought to stay with him until morning too, because hejust might try to commit suicide when he wakes up.’

‘New Dawn For Football’ said the Times when Glenda picked it up the nextmorning. As was its wont when it was reporting something it thought wasparticularly important, the paper’s headline was followed by two others indescending sizes of font: ‘Footballers Sign Up For The New Game’ was on thenext line down and 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 seenthe mystery model, Jewels, since her debut (Glenda had to look this one up) twodays ago. Honestly, she thought, not finding somebody is news? And she wassurprised that there was room for even this, since most of the front page wasdedicated to the football, but the Times liked to start several stories on thefront page and then, just when they were getting interesting, whisk them off topage 35, or somewhere, to end their days behind the crossword and the permanentadvert for surgical trusses.

The leader column inside was headed ‘Score One For Vetinari’. Glenda nevernormally read the leader column because there was only a certain number oftimes 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 theirfootball for a pale variety cooked up by the palace and the university. Ofcourse, minds are never quite that simple. She had to admit to herself that shehated the stupidity of the present game. She hated the idiot fighting andmindless shoving, but it was hers to hate. It was something that peoplethemselves had put together and rickety and stupid though it was, it wastheirs. And now the nobs were again picking up something that wasn’t theirs andsaying how wonderful it was. The old football was going to be banned. That wasanother little razor blade in Lord Vetinari’s alcoholic candyfloss.

She was also deeply suspicious about the urn, the picture of which, for somereason, was still on her kitchen table. Since what was claimed to be theoriginal rules was written in an ancient language, how could anyone other thana nob know what they meant? She ran her eye down the description of the newrules. Some of the rules of old street football had survived in there likemonsters from another era. She recognized one that she had always liked: theball shall be called the ball. The ball is the ball that is played as the ballby any three consecutive players, at which point it is the ball. She’d loved itwhen 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 headhad rolled into play and had rather absent-mindedly replaced the ball currentlyin play on account of some body, formerly belonging to the head, now lying onthe original ball. That kind of thing stuck in the memory, especially becauseafter the match the owner of the head was credited with scoring the winninggoal.

That rule and a few others stood out as remnants of a vanished glory in thelist of Lord Vetinari’s new regulations. A few nods at the old game had beenleft in as a kind of sop to public opinion. He should not be allowed to getaway with it. Just because he was a tyrant and capable of having just aboutanybody killed on a whim, people acted as if they were scared of him. Someoneought to tell him off. The world had turned upside down several times. Shehadn’t quite got her bearings, but making sure that Lord Vetinari did not getaway with it was suddenly very important. It was up to the people to decidewhen they were being stupid and old-fashioned; it wasn’t up to nobs to tellthem what to do.

With great determination she put on her coat over her apron and, after amoment’s thought, took two freshly made Jammy Devils from her cupboard. Where abattering ram cannot work, really good shortcrust pastry can often breakthrough.

In the Oblong Office, the Patrician’s personal secretary looked at thestopwatch.

‘Fifty seconds slower than your personal best, I’m afraid, my lord.’

‘Proof indeed that strong drink is a mocker, Drumknott,’ said Vetinariseverely.

‘I suspect that no further proof is needed,’ said Drumknott, with his littlesecretarial smile.

‘Although I would, in fairness, point out that Charlotte of the Times isemerging as the most fearsome crossword compiler of all time, and they are apretty 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 it. That is much easier.’ Vetinari raised a finger. ‘It is that womanwho runs the pet shop in Pellicool Steps, depend upon it. She hasn’t beenmentioned as a winner recently. She must be compiling the things.’

‘The female mind is certainly a devious one, my lord.’

Vetinari looked at his secretary in surprise. ‘Well, of course it is. It has todeal with the male one. I think—’

There was a gentle tap at one of the doors. The Patrician turned back to theTimes while Drumknott slipped out of the room. After some whispered exchanges,the secretary returned.