'I thought that the front page was not the place,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes. 'It quite put me off my breakfast. Metaphorically speaking, of course.'
'Apparently, the urn has been in the museum's cellars for at least three hundred years, but for some reason it makes its presence felt now,' said Ridcully. 'Of course, they have tons of stuff in there that's never really been looked at properly and the city was going through a prudish period then and didn't care to know about that sort of thing.'
'What, that men have tonkers?' said Dr Hix. 'That sort of news gets out sooner or later.'
He looked around at the disapproving faces and added, 'Skull ring, remember? Under college statute the head of the Department of Post-Mortem Communications is entitled, nay, required to make tasteless, divisive and moderately evil remarks. I'm sorry, but these are your rules.'
'Thank you, Doctor Hix. Your uncalled-for remarks are duly noted and appreciated.'
'You know, it seems very suspicious to me that this wretched urn has turned up at just this time,' observed the Senior Wrangler, 'and I hope I am not alone in this?'
'I know what you mean,' said Hix. 'If I didn't know that the Archchancellor had his work cut out to persuade Vetinari to let us play, I would think that this was some sort of plan.'
'Ye-ess,' said Ridcully thoughtfully.
'The old rules look a lot more interesting, sir,' said Ponder.
'Ye-ess.'
'Did you read the bit that said players were not allowed to use their hands, sir? And the high priest takes to the field of play to ensure that the rules are honoured?'
'I can't see that catching on these days,' said the Lecturer in Recent Runes.
'He's armed with a poisoned dagger, sir,' said Ponder.
'Ah? Well, that should make for a more interesting game, at least, eh, Mustrum?... Mustrum?'
'What? Oh, yes. Yes. Something to think about, indeed. Yes, indeed. One man, in charge... The onlooker who sees most of the game... the gamer, in fact... So what move have I missed?'
'Sorry, Archchancellor?'
Ridcully blinked at Ponder Stibbons. 'What? Oh, just composing my thoughts, as one does.' He sat up straight. 'In any case the rules don't concern us at this point. We have to play this game in any eventuality and so we will abide by them in the best traditions of sportsmanship until we have worked out where they may be most usefully broken to our advantage. Mister Stibbons, you are collating our studies of the game. The floor is yours.'
'Thank you, Archchancellor.' Ponder cleared his throat. 'Gentlemen, the game of football is clearly about more than the rules and the nature of the play. In any case, these are pure mechanical considerations; the chanting and, of course, the food are of more concern to us, I feel. They seem to be an integral part of the game. Regrettably, so do the supporters' clubs.'
'What is the nature of this problem?' Ridcully enquired.
'They hit one another over the head with them. It would be true to say that brawling and mindless violence, such as occurred yesterday afternoon, is one of the cornerstones of the sport.'
'A far cry from its ancient beginnings, then,' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies, shaking his head.
'Well, yes. I understand that in those days the losing team was throttled. However, I suppose this would be called mindful violence that took place with the enthusiastic consent of the entire community, or at least that part of it that was still capable of breath. Fortunately, we do not yet have supporters, so that this is not at present our problem, and I propose we go directly to the pies.'
There was a chorus of general agreement from the wizards. Food was their cup of tea, and if possible slice of cake too. Some of them were already watching the door in anticipation of the tea trolley. It seemed like an age since nine.
'Central to the game is the pie,' Ponder went on, 'which is generally of shortcrust pastry containing appropriate pie-like substances. I collected half a dozen and tested them on the usual subjects.'
'The students?' said Ridcully.
'Yes. They said they were pretty awful. Not a patch on the pies here, they said. They finished them off, however. Examination of the ingredients suggests that they consisted of gravy, fat and salt, and insofar as it was possible to tell, none of the students appears to have died... '
'So we are ahead on pies, then,' said Ridcully cheerfully.
'I suppose so, Archchancellor, although I do not believe that the pie quality plays any role - ' He stopped, because the door had swung open to allow the ingress of a reinforced, heavy-duty tea trolley. Since it was not being propelled by Her, the wizards paid no further attention and settled down to the passing of cups, the handing round of the sugar bowl, the inspection of the quality of the chocolate biscuits with a view to taking more than one's entitlement and all the other little diversions without which a committee would be a clever device for making worthwhile decisions quickly.
When the rattling had ceased, and the last biscuit had been fought for, Ridcully tinkled his teaspoon on the rim of his cup for silence, although since he was Ridcully this only added the crash of broken crockery to the hubbub. Once the girl in charge of the trolley had sponged everybody down, he continued: 'The chanting, gentlemen, appears to be another inconsequentiality at first sight, but I have reason to believe that it has a certain power, and we will ignore it at our peril. I see the museum's translators say the modern chants were originally hymns to the goddess calling on her to grant her favours to the team of choice, while naiads danced on the edges of the field of play, the better to encourage the players to greater feats of prowess.'
'Naiads?' said the Chair of Indefinite Studies. 'They're water nymphs, aren't they? Young women with very thin damp clothing? Why would anyone want them around? Besides, didn't they drown sailors by singing to them?'