'No, Mister Trev. I should just put it down to poetry if I were you.'
Trev struggled on. He had never had much to do with poetry, except the sort that started 'There was a young lady of Quirm', but this looked like the real stuff. The page seemed to be crowded and yet full of space as well. Also, the writing was extremely curly and that was a sure sign, wasn't it? You didn't get that sort of thing from the lady of Quirm. 'This is great stuff, Mister Nutt. This is really great stuff. This is poetry, but what really is it sayin'?'
Nutt cleared his throat. 'Well, sir, the essence of poetry of this nature is to create a mood that will make the recipient, that is to say, sir, the young lady who you are going to send it to, feel very kindly disposed to the author of the poem, which would be you, sir, in this case. According to Ladyship, everything else is just showing off. I have brought you a pen and an envelope; if you would kindly sign the poem I will ensure that it gets to Miss Juliet.'
'I bet no one's ever written her a poem before,' said Trev, skating quickly over the truth that he hadn't either. 'I'd love to be there when she reads it.'
'That would not be advised,' said Nutt quickly. 'The general consensus is that the lady concerned reads it in the absence of the hopeful swain, that is you, sir, and forms a beneficent mental picture of him. Your actual presence might actually get in the way, especially since I see you haven't changed your shirt again today. Besides, I am informed that there is a possibility that all her clothes will fall off.'
Trev, who had been struggling with the concept of 'swain', fast-forwarded to this information at speed. 'Er, say that again?'
'All her clothes might fall off. I am sorry about this, but it appears to be a by-product of the whole business of poetry. But broadly speaking, sir, it carries the message you have asked for, which is to say "I think you're really fit. I really fancy you. Can we have a date? No hanky panky, I promise." However, sir, since it is a love poem, I have taken the liberty of altering it slightly to carry the suggestion that if hanky or panky should appear to be welcomed by the young lady she will not find you wanting in either department.'
Archchancellor Ridcully rubbed his hands together. 'Well, gentlemen, I hope we have all seen the papers this morning, or glanced at them at any rate?'
'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.'