O my fair Mistress, Truth! Shall I quit thee, / For huffing, braggart, puft Nobility?

This hurts like a brotherfucker!

Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.

Uncharacteristically for him, Lord Vetinari laughed out loud. He very nearly gloated at the downfall of his enemy and slammed his copy of the Ankh-Morpork Times, open at the crossword page, on to his desk. ‘Cucumiform, shaped like a cucumber or a variety of squash! l thumb my nose at you, madam!’