'I don't think the referee will allow that, sir!'
'You're not going to play, Trev?' said Glenda.
'I told you! How many times do I need to tell people? I promised my ol' mum!'
'But you are part of the team, Trev.'
'I promised my ol' mum!'
'Yes, but I am sure she'd understand.'
'That's easy for you to say. We'll never know, will we?'
'Not necessarily,' said a voice cheerfully.
'Oh, hello, Doctor Hix,' said Glenda.
'I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and if Mister Likely could tell me where his mother is buried, and the referee was to give us a little leeway in regard to time, well it could be possible that I - '
'Don't you put a shovel anywhere near my ol' mum!' Trev screamed, tears rolling down his face.
'I'm sure we all understand, Trev,' said Glenda. 'It's always difficult with old mums,' and she added, not really thinking what she was saying, 'and I think Juliet will understand.'
She took him by the hand and towed him off the pitch. Trev had been right. It was all going wrong. The buoyant certainties of the beginning of the game were fading.
'You gave away a goal, sir,' said Ponder as he and Ridcully lined up for the next encounter.
'I have great faith in Mister Nutt in goal,' said Ridcully. 'And I'll show them what happens to people who try to poison a wizard.'
The whistle blew.
'GET DOWN AND GIVE ME TWENTY! I'm sorry, gentlemen, I don't quite know why I said that... '
What happens to people who try to poison a wizard, at least in the short run, is that they have an advantage in a game of football. The absence of Professor Macarona was a deadly blow. He had been the pillar around which the university strategy had been built. Emboldened, United went for the kill.
Even so, the editor of the Times thought, as he lay down at the very edge of the pitch alongside his iconographer, the wizards were just about managing to hold their own. He scribbled as fast as he could, trying hard to ignore the gentle shower of pie wrappings, banana skins, empty greasy pea bags and the occasional beer bottle being tossed on to the pitch. And who is that with the ball now? He glanced at the little crib-sheet of numbers he had managed to jot down. Ah, right. United had broken into the UU side of the field and there was Andy Shank, an unpleasant man by all accounts and... surely that wasn't a normal footballing procedure. Other players had lined up around him. So he was running in the middle of a group of bodyguards. Even the other team members themselves did not seem to know what was going on, but Mr Shack nevertheless managed a creditable strike at the goal, which was expertly snatched out of the air by... Mister Nutt. He glanced at his crib-sheet, ah yes, the orc, and added in his notebook: 'who is clearly adept at grasping big round objects'. But then he felt ashamed and crossed it out. Despite where we are lying, he said to himself, we are not the gutter press.
The orc.
Nutt danced back and forth outside his goal, trying to find someone who looked in a position to be able to do something with a ball.
'Can't hang around all day, Orc,' said Andy, staying in front of him. 'Got to let it go soon, Orc. Not much help for you now, is there, Orc? They say you've got claws. Show us your claws, Orc. That will bust your ball.'
'I believe that you are a man with unresolved issues, sir.'
'What?'
Nutt dropkicked the ball over Andy's head and somewhere in the mob that fought for it there was a crunch, which was followed by a yell, which was followed by the whistle and the whistle was followed by the chant. It began somewhere in the region of Mrs Atkinson, but spread oh so quickly: 'Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc! Orc!'
Ridcully got to his feet, standing unsteadily. 'The buggers have got me, Henry,' he yelled, in a voice that could hardly be heard over the chant. 'Kneecap! Bloody kneecap!'
'Who did it?' the referee demanded.
'How should I know? It's a bloody mess, just like the old game! And can't you get them to stop that bloody chant? That's not the sort of thing we want to hear.'
Archchancellor Henry raised his megaphone. 'Mister Hoggett?'
The captain of United pushed his way through the rabble, looking very sheepish.