Phil and the Sword of Power: Marshal College, #2

By Dominic Green

It's still 1986, big hair is in, flares are out, and the very existence of the world as we know it is in jeopardy. Again.

New Order are still going strong, but the Novus Ordo have suffered a setback. No longer can they stretch their insidious tentacles into Kingshampton University. But in the world outside, they still continue to plot, and watch, and wait - and now they may have their hands on an Ultimate Weapon. What does this mean? It means Phil Wolseley-Jones, First Year Parapsych, is going to have to get his hands on an Even More Ultimate one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dominic Green
• Release date: Apr 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224954063

Dominic Green

DOMINIC GREEN was born some time ago.  He is so old that he remembers when telephones were attached to the wall with cables.  In 2006, he was nominated for a Hugo award for his story, The Clockwork Atom Bomb.  He has a tetrapod body plan, breathes oxygen, and has a Newfoundland dog who is the world's first life form to consist entirely of drool.

Book preview

What reviewers have said about the Ant and Cleo series:

...absolutely a hoot and the concept really allows for imaginations to run riot.

All in all a very entertaining story, well written and edited.  I would look for more from this author.

I thoroughly enjoyed episodes 1 to 5 and can't wait for the sixth.

...a great story and is told well..good dialogue and characters and a story that has plot, surprises and pace.

...a ripping yarn...I look forward to downloading more in the series.

The author has a dry sense of humour which often had me chuckling out loud.

I highly recommend these books to those who don't take themselves too seriously and like works of imagination.

Praise for Dominic Green’s Smallworld:

...a showcase for Green’s bone-dry satire and deadpan humour...Green’s agile imagination constantly wrong-foots the reader. A delight.

Peter Ingham, The Telegraph

Phil and the Sword of Power

published by

Dominic Green

Copyright 2020 Dominic Green

Table of Contents

1. All The Violence Stays On The Pitch

2.  The History of Azania

3.  Wilting Like Fairy Convulvulus

4.  David Bowie Is Human

5.  Punching Through Bears

6.  The Road To Fair Elfland

7.  Talking To Our Own Shit

8. Hitting Girls

9.  The Very Brief Aftermath of Victory

10.  An Animal As Big As A Tube Train

11.  Where Has The Dagon

12.  Fondling the Underwear of the Enemy

13.  You're Not Gay If You're The Giver

14.  God Save The Queen - She Ain't No Human Being

15.  Level Five Biosafety

16.  There'll Be A Welcome In The Hillside

17.  The Battle of Jimmy's End

18.  We Are All Going To Die

19.  The Vril Isn't Coming Out Of My Boomstick

20.  Reconnaissance In Force

21.  Forward To Glorious Death

22.  Elf and Safety

23.  Load Up For Elephant

1. All The Violence Stays On The Pitch

COME ON NUMBER FOUR!  INTERCEPT!

"TACKLE!  TACKLE!  TACKLE!"

MULLER HIM, PHIL!

The other team's Inside Centre was fast, and big with it, but Phil was bigger.  As he broke from the pack with the ball, Phil hurled himself at the other guy's legs, and both of them hit the ground with a lung-evacuating impact.  Phil breathed out as he hit the ground to avoid being winded.  One of the Centre's legs came free and stamped a faceful of cleats into Phil's left cheek.  This was not strictly in the spirit of the rules, so Phil reached up the inside of the guy's shorts, located two other things not strictly in the spirit of the rules, took them in a vice-like grip and twisted.  The guy shrieked like a little girl, and something dark and demonic in the heart of Phil was glad.  Looking into the crowd, he saw Mohinderpratap Chhugani, Year 1 Maths and Applied Parapsych, Marshal (who actually did have something dark, demonic and entirely non-metaphorical in the heart of him) watching him, open-mouthed.  Next to Mo stood Theodora Spink, Year 1 History and Applied Parapsych, Marshal, yelling "THAT'S THE FUCKING SPIRIT!  RIP OFF HIS BOLLOCKS!"  Next to her stood Justinian Blunt, Year 1 Maths and Applied Parapsych, Marshal, grinning and applauding politely.

His face dripping blood, Phil stood up as the opposite team's captain rushed up to do the obligatory dance of the pushes and the shoves and the and Look what he dids with Phil, Phil's captain, and the referee.

And I suppose this guy got all this blood on his face from a grass burn, said the ref, a bullnecked Philosophy professor from Kateryn Hall.  Serves the little bastard right.  Play on.

It's not the same!

"An interesting ethical point - the relative worths of teeth and bollocks.  Judaeo-Christian legalism would demand the forfeit of one tooth and one bollock from both opposing players.  Mohandas K. Gandhi, meanwhile, opines that a tooth for a tooth and a bollock for a bollock only ends up leaving the whole world able to sing castrato yet unable to chew its dinner.  So, swings and roundabouts.  In conclusion, if he finds himself unable to sire children he may sue me.  Until then it is the same and we play on.  The ref checked his watch.  For precisely one - two - three -   He blew the whistle.  Half time.  Give you a few minutes to get some ice on your man's ballsack."

The pitch cleared in opposite directions.  A couple of team members on both sides were still worked up about the whole ball-grabbing face-stomping thing, and were facing off and yelling at each other.  Phil grabbed the two on his team and yanked them gently backwards with the time-honoured mantra of Leave It, Pete, It Ain't Worth It.

Well done, Philip, said Justin.  I would say I never thought you had the heart of an angry Neanderthal, but we both know that isn't true.  Though I have to say, I am surprised at Theodora here.

Theo blushed, turning her acne-ravaged face temporarily one uninterrupted shade of pink.  I get carried away.

Who is it they're playing again? said Mo.

Some Townie team from a company out on the Aerospace Park, said Theo.  Octomech or something.  They're a big IT startup, apparently.  I hear they've got a koi carp pool and a fountain in their atrium.  So not a varsity league fixture, just a friendly.

Oh, said Mo.  Erm...

An atrium was originally an open hallway in a Roman villa, said Theo.  The definition has recently been expanded to include large airy entrance halls in business headquarters.

Thanks, said Mo.

INTERESTING NON-CONVENTIONAL TACKLING TECHNIQUE THERE, , bellowed a voice from behind Phil.  Andy Length, wearing the number two shirt, stood behind him, covered from head to foot in mud and grass.  COULD YOU TEACH IT TO ME WITHOUT ACTUALLY DEMONSTRATING IT IN ANY WAY?

It's in the wrist action, explained Phil.  You just kind of grab, twist and pull.  Many people make the mistake of just grabbing blindly, but you've got to feel around for, you know, the testicular ballsack, before going in for the twist-and-pull.

SOUNDS A BIT GAY TO ME, shouted Length.  IF YOU'LL ALL EXCUSE ME, I'M ABOUT TO GO RELAX IN A ROOM WITH FOURTEEN SWEATY MUSCULAR MEN.

Amazing camouflage, said Blunt, following Length with his eyes.  I never even knew he was behind us.  Is he entirely heterosexual?

You know what, I have no idea? said Phil.  Though I would say it's probably best to leave that a question unanswered by modern science.  He noticed Mo's turban.  Mr. Chhugani, I put it to you that your turban is in College colours.

I goddit made specially, said Mo proudly.  My uncle owns a Sikh haberdasher's.  He's proud he's got a nephew at Kingshampton.

And your mum and dad? said Theo.

Them still not so much, admitted Mo.  There are signs, though, that they might have switched their attention to Indy - he's my baby brother.  They've started teaching him double entry bookkeeping.  He thought he was gonna get to be a dentist.

An archaeologist, surely, said Justin.

Always reaches back through the slowly closing stone temple door to get his turban, said Theo.

I'm sorry, said Mo, blinking in confusion, I don't think I get the reference.  Oh - hello, Doctor Pringle.

Well done, Philip, said Pete Pringle, an owl-faced man wearing a College-colours bobble hat, scarf and fingerless gloves.  That was a splendid challenge there.

Phil coloured in embarrassment.  "Uh - you didn't see what followed the splendid challenge?"

Peter sees crowds of people as a kind of moving pink blur, explained the woman in the polka-dotted anorak standing beside Pringle.  He likes watching sports matches because both sides are obliging enough to put on different coloured jerseys.

"My eyesight isn't quite that bad, said Pringle.  Though I do have to sit in the front row at the cinema.  In any case, I'm afraid we can't stop for the second half.  Theodora tells me it's going to rain."

Oh, did you hear the weather forecast? said the woman in the polka-dot.

No, Dr. Coffey, said Theo.

Theodora doesn't need weather forecasts, said Pringle.  And to think she told us she didn't think she had any useful skills in her interview.

Theo blushed again.

Phil was aghast.  "What, you guys aren't hanging around for the second half just because you think it's going to rain?"

"I know it's going to rain, Philip, said Theo.  And oh boy is it going to rain.  And my loyalty to my friends and college only extends as far as the point where the water starts soaking through my raincoat."

And Eliza and I have a prior engagement at Pizza Yurt, Kingshampton's newest Italo-Mongolian teppanyaki restaurant, said Pringle.  You bring the ingredients for your pizza to the restaurant and hand-grill them in an authentic Italo-Mongolian teppanyaki fashion while the chef watches and nods occasionally in approval.

Theo thought about this.

Why don't you just make the pizza yourself at ho- she began, until interrupted by Phil digging her suddenly in the ribs.  Pringle and Coffey left arm in arm, waving happily.

"They have got to be Doing It", said Phil.

They're both married, said Theo, nursing her bruised rib.  And not to each other.  I think they just enjoy each other's intellectual company.

Talking of intellectual company, said Mo, I think I see that bird you tricked into lively philosophical debate back in October.  She's hanging around the back of the crowd.

"I didn't trick her into anything, said Phil.  She knew what I was repeatedly thrusting into her.  I made her know it."

Well, I think she might be nursing a grudge and possibly also a cricket bat.  You might wanna leave by the back entrance.  Just a thought, like.

So you guys are just going to abandon me to the elements? said Phil.

Just two elements, said Theo, looking up at the angry sky.  Hydrogen and oxygen joined in molecular form.  Fuckloads of it.

I godda keep me College-colours turban out the rain, bro, said Mo apologetically.  Me uncle says the colours'll run.  Besides, I godda kinda medical appointment.

I'd love to stay, but if I get wet, small evil versions of me pop out and take over the town, explained Justin.

Well, thank you for your support, you rotters, said Phil, just as thunder rolled and every exposed surface started to hiss with the kiss of rainfall.  I'll be there for just the first half of every single one of your amateur dramatic presentations, graduation ceremonies and trials for murder.

As the whistle blew again and Phil moved back towards the pitch, a hand grabbed a fistful of his jersey.

"Aw, ref, said Phil.  I'm still good to play."

"Don't 'aw ref' me.  You've just taken a kick to the head and you're still pissing more blood than King Kong's girlfriend in Rag Week.  Besides, their guy doesn't look like he's coming back out of doors any time soon.  When and if he comes back out, you get back on the pitch.  That way I'm being fair to both parties.  Until then, you're substituted.  And get yourself to Kingshampton General as soon as I blow the final whistle to get checked out for concussion.  Deal?"

I'll call you if we need you in Round Two, W-J, said Doc Bewley, Chaplain of Marshal College and coach of Marshal College RUFC, patting him on the back in a comradely fashion that hurt considerably.  Bewley was wearing a dog collar on top of his rugby shirt, along with alarming shorts that made it graphically clear that he had knees.  Phil was mentally unprepared for the concept of vicars who had knees, and could not stop himself from looking at them.

DEAL? repeated the referee.

Sullenly, Phil and the Marshal captain nodded.  Disconsolately, Phil wandered off towards the pavilion.

***

Inside, the pavilion smelled the way pavilions always did during times of heavy rainfall - of unwashed male crotches thrust up aggressively against the nostrils of the smeller.  Clothes and gym bags were hung up on pegs, shoes stashed away in cages.  Phil's own bag was heavier than the others, and distinctly more so on one side than the other.  As the rain drummed on the wire-reinforced, frosted glass of the very high windows, Phil located his own kit and lay down at full stretch on the benches.  Somewhere in the far side of the building, in the dressing room devoted to the opposing team, he could hear voices.  One of the voices was saying "And how about with the cold wet towel?  Does it feel any better now?"

Phil grinned, rubbed his face with his hands, felt pain, took his hands away and was surprised at the amount of blood on the palms.

So, here we are, said a female voice suddenly, and Phil jumped upright in fright.

Oh, he said, only slightly less terrified than he had been a moment earlier.  It's you.

She was standing six feet from him, dressed in only a cardigan, jeans and T shirt, and apparently no underwear.

I figured this was probably the only way to get to talk to you, she said, "Spaceman Spliff.  If that is your real name."

He groaned inwardly.  How on Earth did you get to to these hallowed halls of learning if you ever believed there was any possibility that could have been anyone's real name?  Are you even human?

The possibility occurred to him all of a sudden that the answer to that question could genuinely be Actually, Now You Come To Mention It, No.  He took a step back and hunted around the pegs for weaponry.

No, no, NOT THE DEEP HEAT, came a plaintive voice from the other changing room.

I suppose you think I'm really, really stupid, she said.  I hope you realize that what you did to me could be categorized as rape.

No it bloody couldn't.  You did scream like a banshee throughout, but the word No was conspicuous by its absence and the only defensive wounds were fingernail injuries sustained by Yours Truly.  Unless...

He took another step back.

All right, she said, holding up her hands.  Maybe not rape.  She snickered unexpectedly.  Look at you, you've got to weigh eighteen stone of mostly muscle and you're behaving like a startled faun.

...unless you're talking about a completely different time, when I socked a little old cleaning lady round the head so hard with a cricket bat that it left an imprint in the willow.  And then she set her jaw back in place and glared at me as if I'd shat my bed and left it for her to clean up.

I was lucky to get out of that one alive.

I did for her with my faithful chainsaw, but there are still two of her sisters out there...

Prove to me, he demanded, that you're really human.

This fazed her, but only temporarily.

What, you want me to take my clothes off and show you the whole package? she crooned.  After all, we're all alone in here, and I really should.  I'm all wet, after all.

WOLSELEY-JONES! yelled a distant voice from somewhere outside the pavilion.  WHERE'S WOLSELEY-JONES?

I knew it, he stammered.  "I knew you'd be back for me.  You just can't leave me alone after I killed the last one of you.  I sawed her into tiny little bits and despite my apparent current total lack of armament, I'll do the same to you.  You can't fool me with your soaking wet mountainous cleavage.  I know you look like that girl, but that's because you ate her and took her face.  I know if I stab you hard enough you'll just bubble away to nothing."

This did faze her, and she stepped back just far enough for him to dart out of the changing room door back into the driving deluge.  As he jogged toward the pitch at a run and saw her emerge from the building in deep confusion, entering the consoling arms of a coven of Doc-Marten-clad, left-wing girlfriends, the thought occurred to him that she might have been human after all. 

Better safe, though, he assured himself, than sorry.

GET A MOVE ON, W-J, yelled Doc Bewley over the gale.  ARE YOU ON THIS TEAM OR NOT?

***

Oh yes, said the young, smooth-skinned Asian man who had laid his hands upon Mo, "it's definitely a big one."

I thought it was big, said Mo, but you know, you never get to see anyone else's to compare.

I'm not sure I can handle one this large, said the youth, who looked scarcely older than Mo.  I might need assistance.

Mo gritted his teeth as he lay back on the couch and stared at the Japanese woodblock print on the ceiling.  I just want it off.  Without, you know.  Death or serious injury.

I guess it's true what they say about your people, said the young man, moving his hand up Mo's abdomen.  Yours are just bigger than everyone else's.  I hope you realize it's grown into your circulatory system.

"M-my blood?" stuttered Mo.

"No, your vril.  Qi.  Prana.  Your n-dimensional energy flow.  It circulates once round your body in every twenty-four-hour period.  Your unwanted visitor is feeding off your vril circulation, and you off its.  I could cut you loose from it using a ghost blade or a vril field projected from my fingertips.  But that would probably kill you as surely as separating two Siamese twins with one slice of a machete, and I'd be left with a really, really pissed-off demon to deal with."

So it wouldn't kill the, uh...parasite? said Mo.

Think of it more as a symbiote.  It protects you from harm.  After all, said the Filipino, grinning, no-one's going to dare kill you if killing you is going to release a thing that can bite through walls.

"B-bite through walls?"

Oh, for sure.  Most documented cases of Romanodemonopathy involve Power-level demons at the very least.

"Romanodemonopathy?  I got a condition with a name?"

The young man nodded.  "It was in the very first edition of Agpaoa's Principles of Psychic Colorectal Finger Surgery."

Mo gaped in horror.  "It's attached to me bum?"

"N-dimensional tendrils of it permeate your entire three-dimensional form, but mainly your bum, yes.  It feeds on what you feed on, like a sort of psychic tapeworm.  Do you eat a lot of lamb or veal?"

He was ashamed to have to make the admission.  Outside the Gurdwara, sure.

I thought so.  Your demonic dark half craves lamb and veal.  It grows strong on the blood of innocents.

So, Mo said, dejected, you can't cut it outa me, then.

"Oh, I can", said the Filipino, still exploring Mo's chest with his hands.  But it'd be a fiddly operation, we're talking several hours, I'd have to pay the acupuncturist and have a faith healer on standby, and I'll be frank with you, normal medical insurers don't tend to pay up for cases of demonic symbiosis.  But after a few months of healing, you could live a more or less normal life with a stoma or two, conceal the bags under your clothing -

Mo's eyes flickered in alarm.  Bags?

Colostomy bags.  It might be necessary to sew up your bum and tear you a new arsehole, so to speak.

Mo reached down and grabbed his non-stoma bags from under the couch.  Right, that does it.  No bags.  No bags for me.  How much do I owe you?

The Filipino stood back from the couch.  Let's see...that was an initial manual examination...let's say five hundred pounds plus VAT.

Mo pulled a fiver out of his wallet and waved it in the Filipino's face.  Let's say a fiver.

This is not a Moroccan carpet bazaar.  Are you aware that, as a psychic surgeon, I can place my hand inside your ribcage and stop your heart from beating?

I'm aware, because you just told me, that if you do that, a fucking great demon is gonna crawl out me arse and tear you more arseholes than are contained in the entire Manila College of fucking Filipino Psychic Surgeons.  How's that for an answer?  The price just went down to four pounds ninety five.  He held out the fiver.  Reluctantly, the Filipino took it.

Now give me me five pee change, said Mo.  Or as a member of a fucking Martial Race, I swear on the holy Guru Granth Sahib that I will fuck you up.  He tapped his bicep.  I've been workin' out, I have.  That's muscle, that is.

His lips thin as daggers, the Filipino handed Mo his fivepenny piece.

***

Ah, Wolseley-Jones.  Refreshed and ready for the second half, I see.  Doc Bewley's combover was plastered flat to his scalp by ice cold torrential rainfall.  A conspiratorial and very wet arm clapped around Phil's shoulder, and lips whispered in his ear:

They're bringing on a couple of substitutes, and there's nothing wrong with the men being taken off as far as I can see.  My only conclusion is that they've identified our star player and they're bringing on their assassins.  Particularly after that spat with their Inside Centre in the first half, this could get a bit rum.  Do you feel up to it?

Phil sized up the two men lumbering onto the other side of the field.  He was used to surveying the majority of the human race from a great height, but these two looked as if there might be snow on their peaks.  I'll give it a go.

"That's the spirit!  Knew I could count on you."  Bewley released Phil and nodded to the referee.  Ave, morituri te salutant.

Phil had been boning up on Latin in the last month, and the fact that he could now translate the phrase didn't fill him with enthusiasm.  He took up his position on the field and waited for the ball.  Disconcertingly, the two acromegaly sufferers staring back at him from the other side of the pitch seemed totally uninterested in the ball.  They were staring straight at Phil.  The name of their team sponsor was picked out in bold on the front of their relatively mud-free shirts:  HEXTECH.

With a dull THUNK, the ball soared skywards, and predictably, the two freaks of nature who had been staring Phil down ignored it.  Instead, they charged directly towards him, lowering their heads like bulls.  Phil sidestepped with an agility born of sheer terror, and pelted up the pitch towards the ball.  This had the advantage of taking him out of the referee's blind spot, so any first degree murder perpetrated on his person would result in a free kick to Marshal at the very least.

The other team's left wing was a guy who was the exact right shape to be a prop, and who had been put in the exact wrong place on the field in Phil's opinion.  He had collected the ball and was now presenting a childishly easy target.  Phil had already closed to arm's length and committed himself to a tackle when he caught sight of the crafty wink the guy was making at someone coming up behind Phil.

On account of that, Phil made the tackle hurt.  He actually heard the breath whoosh out of the guy's lungs, and the wing went down so devastatingly hard that he dropped the ball, which fell end-on and bounced away in a random direction.

Then something happened to Phil that he likened afterwards to being a sheet of metal under a die stamper.  Something incredibly powerful smashed him into the dirt, coating half of him in freezing cold liquid mud and leaving not a breath of air in his body.  And then the same thing happened again.  His ribs were locked in place.  He couldn't breathe in, and he was certain he was going to die.

Just as on all the previous occasions on which he'd been certain he was going to die, he didn't.  Instead, the weight eventually lifted, and he was hoisted aloft by two sets of arms with Marshal college shirtsleeves, still unable to breathe, while the referee yelled up at the pair of grinning giants, theorizing that they'd been in the Spectacular Cocksucking Ability queue when God had been handing out brains.

Good god, W-J, you're purple, said Doc Bewley.

Gee, I'm sorry, said Left Hand Giant insincerely.  Phil decided to call him Gog, and the other Magog.  We're used to rough stuff on the football field back home.  This is a little bit more croquet-and-cucumber-sandwiches, huh, Pete?

Magog's only reply was a snigger.

Yep, you gotta pad up to play back home.  Maybe you're right and we should dial it back a little.

"You'd better dial it back a lot, or both of you are going to be sitting out the rest of the game watching your team play Marshal with thirteen men.  The referee put a hand on Phil's shoulder.  Can you carry on?"

Phil forced himself to exhale enough to say a word, using the last pocket of air in his ribcage.  Sure.  Miraculously, the act of exhaling further unlocked his intercostal muscles, allowing his lungs to expand.  He tried a few more inbreaths before attempting to form complete phrases.  "What happens on the pitch - w h e e z e -  stays on the pitch, Doc."

Ah, he's colouring up nicely now, said Doc Bewley.  He patted Phil on the other shoulder.  Good man.  Up guards and at 'em.

The referee awarded a free kick; Phil took up position as before.  As before, he found himself being marked by the two gigantic forwards.

Okay, so they're Americans.  That explains the charging forwards and nutting your opposite number.  This information has to be useful somehow.  Maybe nutting me without enormous Joan Collins power shoulders and a crash helmet'll be more of a shock than they're ready for?

One look at the massive triangular necks of the two morlocks facing him, however, immediately convinced him of the contrary.

He was only a few yards from Gog, the larger of the two.

What is it you actually do for your company? he said, making polite conversation.

The other man smiled, showing every millimetre of his gumshield.  He had the sort of teeth forced by American orthodontists to grow in rigid straight lines.  Premolar free will wasn't tolerated in transatlantic dentistry.  I'm in Public Relations.

I can see a stranger is a friend you haven't met yet, wheezed Phil.

Okay.  Okay.  They're used to charging into each other like bull elephant seals wearing heavy armour.  There has to be some way that can be a weakness...

Oh. 

Oh yeah.

It's so obvious when you think about it.

As the two sides surged forwards, Phil moved to dodge again, then switched back onto a collision course with Gog and drove the full force of his elbow into his opposite number's skull.

***

"What in the name of fucking Jesus were you thinking, number four?"

Phil shrugged.  What happens on the pitch stays on the pitch, ref.

"In this case because he wasn't capable of getting off the pitch.  I'll be surprised if his skull isn't fractured."

Maybe he should have padded up, suggested Phil, spitting into the dirt.  Worn a fucking helmet, maybe.

Fuck off my pitch.  And when you've fucked off my pitch, fuck off from there till you get to the furthest point a human being can fuck off to.  And then fuck off from there.

Phil nodded.  Ref.

"I say, that seems a trifle harsh, I mean, the boy was provoked -"

Fuck off, Doc Bewley.  The referee threw up his hands.  "Fuck off all of you.  No-one talks to the fucking referee for the rest of the fucking match except to say 'Yes ref, that was a very incautious tackle, I will don my kid gloves for the next one'.  Now, if any of us still have any interest in the pointy ball, it would be just super if one of us could attempt to transport it down the fucking field and attempt to score a try."

As the ambulancemen carried an unconscious bleeding Gog off the pitch, Bewley turned to Phil and said:

Bad form, W-J.

- and then returned to yelling at the rest of the team.

Magog was still giving Phil both blue barrels of the Evil Eye.

From the start of the game, said Phil to Magog, "you guys were out to get me.  This hasn't just been about nobbling the other team's star player.  I'm not a star player.  I'm just like you, only smaller.  I'm here to deal with the other team's star players.  I'm Bewley's assassin."

You are nothing like me, said Magog contemptuously, grinding his fists shut with an audible CRUNCH of knuckles.  One of the fists had the very faintest of discolorations around the right hand ring finger.

Nothing like you, repeated Phil.  "As if we're two different species.  And a scar where an eye-and-triangle ring should be.  You're fucking Weishaupt.  You're not supposed to be anywhere near this fucking university any longer."

Of course, I have absolutely no idea what you mean by Weishaupt, said Magog.  And of course, I'm not from the university.  I'm merely from a commercial concern that happens to be a big, big donor to the university.  So big that we're being allowed to play in the Varsity League this year.  We'll be seeing you again.  Count on it.

OFF the FUCKING PITCH, number four, shrieked the referee.

All right, all RIGHT, I'm GOING.  Phil felt the layer of rain on his skin deliver a fresh new jolt of cold to his system as the wind changed direction, and turned his back on it to trudge back to the pavilion under the judging glares of the few remaining spectators.  Did you see what he did to that poor enormous young man.  An obvious psychopath.  Hardest of all were the stares from the large-breasted girl and her Doc-Marten'd friends.  Yeah, and he's violent against women too.

It would just about put a perfect end to the day if there really was a ghoul waiting for me in the showers.

There was no ghoul waiting for him in the showers.  The week was looking up.

2. The History of Azania

The door to the TV room opened.  A frantic voice that sounded as if it was on serious amphetamines was yelling dementedly that It Was Black Jumbo On The Far Side Coming Up On Institutionalized Racism In The Fourth Furlong With Kiddie Fiddler In The Lead. 

For god's sake, W-J, shut the bloody door, will you, you're creating a door silhouette on the screen, I've got ten guineas on this one.

Phil shut the door and slid into one of the threadbare old armchairs in the TV room.  The television was one of Marshal College's few concessions to the fact that the Twentieth Century existed beyond its walls.  It was a colour set, and even had a remote control and, wonder of wonders, a VHS recorder.  Stacks of tapes sat next to the TV.  They had once had paper labels, though these seemed to have been scratched off by some unknown vandal.  The tapes now had titles lovingly printed on them in Dymo.  Unfortunately, every single title seemed to be PORN.

The College Video Society is refusing to pay a ransom to the bank account of someone who's calling himself The Great Encrypto, said Blunt, without taking his eyes off the screen, where horses were running round and round a track being watched by rich people.  He claims to have a key to which movie is on which tape.  Until then, they're all porn.

Why don't they just watch the first five minutes of each video? said Phil.

Aha, you divine the flaw in the Great Encrypto's plan, said Blunt.  I do not think he has a future ahead of him in crime.  I feel he may have a future ahead of him in getting pissed up and sneaking down to the video room at two in the morning with a Dymo printer.  Now shush, they're nearing the finish line.

On the screen, horses continued to attempt to run faster than each other with tiny little men on their backs.

I thought guineas didn't exist any more, said Phil.  Didn't we stop all that in 1971?

Not in anything to do with horses, said Blunt.  You buy a horse in guineas, but you get paid for selling one in pounds.  The difference is the auctioneer's commission.

"But you can bet on horses in pounds.  My dad does, on Grand National day."

Well, yes, but that would hardly be the act of a gentleman.  A gentleman must maintain a thin veneer of civilization at all times COME ON, YOU FOUR-LEGGED CUNT!  USE THE FUCKING WHIP ON IT, YOU TINY SPASTIC!  THRASH THE GRASS-EATING WANKER!  And oh look, I appear to have won myself one hundred and five pounds.

Some of us get jobs in the holidays to pay for our drinking money, said Phil.  And Mo has a job in term time, behind the counter at Fat Al's Megapizzarama.  He's only working there because it's the only place he's certain Pete Pringle will never go.

Well, yes, dear boy, but I'm pretty certain working somewhere would involve actual work.

How long, said Phil, fixing Blunt with a penetrating stare, do you spend each week checking racing form?

I forget, said Blunt defensively.  "Maybe about five or six hours a day.  But checking racing form is a gentlemanly activity."

What's a furlong?  Is it bigger than a cubit?  We'd discovered fire and embarked on rudimentary cave painting and the manufacture of stone tools in my school.  The old ways were a mystery to us.

A furlong, said Blunt, is equal to exactly four hundred and forty cubits.

Get away!

It's true.

Fascinating.  So that's the race over now.  And one of the horses won.

Yes, and because of that, I can now afford food for the rest of the month.

Phil attempted to make sense of a TV screen full of totalisator gobbledigook.  Which one was your horse again?

For Christ's sake, Philip, you just saw it win.  All Racing Commentators Are Paedophiles.

Well, I'm sure that's only your opinion.

"No, it's the name of the horse.  Look there at the top left, see?  It's kind of a joke name, so that the racing commentator has to say it.  Like I'm Not Wearing No Pants or I Like It Up The Bum.

"Although, ironically, as it happens, you do like it up the bum", Phil pointed out.

"Oh hardy har har.  As luck would have it, in fact, I do actually have a hot date this evening.  An absolutely divine young choral scholar from Andrew's.  Hair like spun gold and the expression of a startled faun.  His college supervisor, Father Confessor and dear old mama have no idea as yet that he pitches his tent towards Sodom.  I'm pretty sure he still has his bum cherry, and and I plan the loudest sound in the jungle tonight to be this giraffe, eating cherries."  He stuck his neck out and thrust two thumbs in