Here it is... one of the ones you've been clamouring for. It's not a complete acount of the Sensitivity Training session, which when I applied myself to it turned out to be comedy gold. But it's so long it's easier to split it in two and call a break after 5,000+ words. The rest will follow!
Slipping between Worlds (49) – Sensitivity Training Class.
In the dull and airless meeting room at the Omnian Citadel, the Species Awareness Training progressed on its rather didactic and joyless course.
Ms Partleigh, full of her own self-importance, was remorselessly grinding on about the Rights of Dwarfs and how they should be treated with respect and consideration. In the background, the grotesque and fussy little vampire woman, the Countess von Vinkling, or Winking, was discreetly briefing a couple of guest speakers who would do brief presentations and then leave again.
Philip Holtack sighed and gloomily adjusted the set of a self-adhesive paper badge, one of those things that get handed out at conferences and committee members have to wear, lest they forget their own name or that of the other people sitting in the room. It had his own name on it, painted on with one of those marker pens he'd last seen at the Palace and which he gathered were high-tech here. The glue was some sort of mucous sludge that he feared was going to make a mark on his new clothes... oh hell, nothing for it. Maybe Matkin would know how to get the stain out. (1)
He thought gloomily for a moment about his acquired manservant and valet, who had been on hand to help him dress that morning. He suspected the man was taking advantage of his raw newness to this town to fleece him for tips. He'd have to ask Willikins what the accepted form was. He really didn't want to end up doubling or trebling the man's weekly take-home pay out of his diminishing cash resources. On the other hand, Matkin's rodent-like grasp of the realities of living in this city was another Asset to be carefully nurtured. He hadn't realised, for instance, they had contraceptives in this place, not until Matkin had thoughtfully slipped a packet in his inside pocket prior to his date with Sally.
And the clothes... suitable attire for a young gentleman, certainly, and thank you so much, Lady Sybil. But they took some getting used to, and he'd need a valet. And hadn't Seven Platoon taken the piss when he'd turned up in local civvies... even though Powell and the rest had been offered civvie clothes "suitable to their standing" so that they could blend in and be anonymous. Ruijterman and Hughes were in some sort of uniform: Holtack gathered it was standard Watch issue, everyday practical working clothes for the local police. Sergeant Williams had been tailored with far better quality civvies, looking like they'd been scrounged up from a reputable second-hand shop. These marked him down, in the informal local heirarchy, as some sort of relatively affluent skilled tradesman. Powell and Williams were in whatever workman's clothes that fitted: Holtack gathered they were working out their minimal sentence for theft, burglary, oh, and GBH, as labourers in the local park, digging things up.
In between cracking jokes about who the male model was, in all the swanky new clothes and things, they'd assured him their needs were being met – clothes, food and an indoor bed for the night – and two of them were now even on the Watch payroll as auxiliaries. Holtack was relieved – one obvious responsibility for the men he commanded had been taken care of.
He leaned back in the uncomfortable rickety chair and allowed himself a slight smile. Church halls were the same anywhere, he thought. Designed to remind people that bodily comfort was sinful and an Ungodly ostentation. Ms Estrella Partleigh was having a hard time of it up front. She really hadn't been warned about the people she was being employed to preach to. Or, perhaps, that devious wily Vetinari meant this to be some sort of obscure subtle punishment for her, too...
"The Dwarfs are a great and a noble people!" she emphasised, growing more red in face. Her lips, never the fullest, were invisible. Holtack looked across at the rather wobegone little dwarf sitting at one end of the semicircle she had ordered them to arrange their chairs into. He looked furtive, somewhat rat-like, somewhat undernourished. Despite the mandatory chainmail and accoutrements, he did not evoke the proud warrior spirit of a Gimli Gloinsson. Had this been Elrond's conference at Rivendell, the rest of the Dwarfs would have kindly told him his presence wasn't required, and could he go and, I don't know, sweep the stables or something? Holtack squinted to read the names. The Dwarf had started writing it in some sort of Runes, only for Ms Partleigh to kindly ask him to do it again in Morporkian. There had been a moment of confusion with the Dwarf looking miserable and confused, holding the pen as if it were an unexploded grenade. Then Sergeant Williams, a practical man, had seen the difficulty and said "Maybe if you spell it for me, cor-bach, I could write it for you?"
"Do not dare patronise him!" Ms Partleigh had hissed. Sergeant Williams had half-frowned, half-smiled up at her, and said:
"No shame in not being able to read or write in a foreign language, miss. These things can be learnt. I have worked with Dwarfs this last day or two and I have to say they shapes up very handy. Good soldiers. I would not like a fight with one!"
If she has any sense at all, she'll be told, Holtack thought. He usually deferred to his platoon sergeant if Williams thought he was in the wrong. It saved time. Williams then ignored her, leaving her to fume while he sorted out the phonetic spelling of the Dwarf's name.
"That's Ratbert Ratmetzgersson, cor-bach? Myself, I'm Emlyn Williams. Sergeant to some here, but you is not one of my men. German name is it? Sorry, Uberwaldean? Pleased to meet you, Mr Ratmetzgersson!" (2)
It occurred to Holtack that even after five days in this strange place, not only was Sergeant Williams completely at home, he was showing more practical courtesy to Dwarfs than Ms Partleigh, for all her protestations, appeared capable of. Her attitude was one of unworldly reverence tinged with a sort of unconscious patronising-ness. He remembered meeting associates of Dennie's,(3) right-on London social workers who thought poverty conferred virtue, and who, to a Doc-Martined foot, had expressed horror at Denise Holtack's brother being one of the privileged sort who took pleasure in applying the boot and grinding the faces of the poor and underprivileged with it. Who, me? He'd been harangued about Northern Ireland, military repression, and treated at length to a discourse on the evil of Bloody Sunday. Not being a paratrooper and never having had the slightest desire to become one – he was temperamentally disposed against the idea of jumping out of aircraft at great height – Holtack had thought this was somewhat harsh. He had pointed out his men could shoot straight, for one thing, and had they started firing into a crowd with malice aforethought, they'd have clocked up a lot more kills for a lot less expended ammo. Well, he had been provoked.(4)
" Dwarfs are a great and a noble people." she repeated, fighting for calm. Calm was losing; she was up against Powell, Hughes and Williams. Even the other, local, attendees at the meeting had perked up and were watching attentively. Maybe this wasn't going to be the dull and appalling punishment they thought it was going to be...
" A great and a noble people." she repeated, for the third time. "It positively behooves us to treat them with great respect and consideration!"
"She has got a point there." Head-Butt Powell said, exuding supportive agreement.
"She has indeed, Powell mun." said Fusilier Williams, nodding sagely.
Powell grinned his most innocent smile.
"I mean to say, mun, when these Australian lads came to Merthyr, and they set up the dwarf-throwing contest down the Miners' Welfare that night, it was a huge hit!"
"I know what you mean." Boy Hughes said. "We had some of that at the Raven, in Flint. Big hit, it was. Especially for the Dwarfs, if you took care and threw them right!" (5)
"My point exactly, Hughesy boy!" said Powell. "You has to take the little buggers with care and consideration. One hand on the back of the neck, see, and one on the waistband of the trousers. You has to take care with them and get the balance right, or else you cannot get the line and the length and they don't go very far."
"Mr Powell!" thundered Ms Partleigh, quivering with indignation. "I have never in my life heard..."
"And get it wrong, the little buggers gets up and complains." Powell went on, blithely. "And one thing you do not want in this life is a bloody dwarf with a grievance running at you and nutting you on the kneecap. That bloody well hurts!"
"Their teeth come in at about bollock-height, too." observed Hughes. "And they bite!"
Ms Partleigh had by now been rendered speechless and was just a vertical quiver.
Hughes turned to his neighbour, a typical Ankh-Morpork citizen who was fighting to contain his amusement.
"Excuse me, mun." he said, conversationally. "We're all new to this town, see, and I can't help noticing there's a lot of dwarfs round by here. You people must have heard of dwarf-throwing. Know anywhere it happens?"
It was the dwarf, Ratbert Ratmetzgersson, who spoke.
"Lads? You Llamedosian lads?"
There was the usual moment of incomprehension until it was remembered that here, Welsh was Llamedosian.
"You want the Fourecksian Embassy and High Commission." the Dwarf said, helpfully.
Powell turned to Holtack.
"Like Australian. They're the local Australians round here." he explained.
"Ah." said Powell. "Carry on, mun."
"The Cultural Attaché runs dwarf-throwing nights." said the dwarf. "The Embassy's above the Fourecksian pub on Green Dragon Road. The Flaming Kookaburra. Just off the Soake, nearby to Hide Park."
Ms Partleigh was fit to burst. She could hardly upbraid a dwarf for being politically incorrect. Holtack could see it was tying her in knots.
"It hardly becomes you to encourage them, Mr Ratmetzgersson!" she said, at length. "Now I see why you were sent here. You quite clearly need to have your consciousness raised!"
"Lowered, surely?" asked Hans Rujterman, who until this moment had been silent. She reddened, but ignored him.
"Can't you see how demeaning it is, mr Ratmetzgersson?" she almost pleaded with him. "This is exactly the sort of thing the Campaign for Equal Heights was set up to fight and wipe out!"
The dwarf thought for a moment. Then he said
"You'll have a job, miss. The Kookaburra might have started as a pub, but it's an Embassy now. Fourecksian soil, see? And Fourecksian law applies. It's cultural, miss. You can't muck with culture! And I don't know about demeaning. All I know is, it's popular and it's eight dollars a night, plus danger money, plus tips, plus free lager, plus free Igoring if anything gets broken. You don't get eight dollars for a night's work in many places round here!"
Ms Partleigh took a long drink of water to steady her nerves. It was a long drink.
"It's a fun job." said the Dwarf, reflectively. "You get out. You meet people. The one thing you don't want, though, are bloody Trolls, buncha bloody rocks."
The troll, who was sitting at the other end of the semicircle, as far away from the Dwarf as he could get, in a very pointed way, stirred and rumbled.
"I mean, no idea of their own strength. Lots of brute force and loadsa ignorance. That bloody rock over there nearly threw me through the bloody wall!"
"Listen to me, garden ornament. I did ap-oll-o-gise!" the troll rumbled. "What's wrong with you gritsuckers, can't take a joke, huh!"
There was a deathly silence. Philip Holtack put two and two together. There'd been a cultural misunderstanding at the dwarf-throwing event. A troll had thrown a dwarf too far. Things had escalated. Politically incorrect epithets had been exchanged. A fight had ensued. Arrests had been made. Vetinari had evidently sent both here – to the same session of Species Awareness Training, which could not be accidental – and the fight was rumbling on. It was like watching Powell squaring up to Andy Shank. Anyone trying to defuse it or wind it down would be caught, well, between a rock and a hard place. A hard axe, anyway. And he suspected Ms Partleigh would not be objective or even-handed towards trolls.
Sergeant Williams solved things.
"Gentlemen!" he said, in the commanding Sergeant voice. "This is not a place for fighting. We is all here to learn. About each other, and from each other. Besides, this is a church and a place of worship and if any of my men were to have a fight on Church Parade, they would get more than the usual degree of beasting for it!"
The voice had harmonics. It said "I am uniquely qualified to command respect and deliver beastings. Granted I have never beasted a dwarf or a troll before, but these here skills is transferable skills. Do you still want to try your luck?"
Both the would be fighters sat down, sheepishly. Williams nodded approval.
"Good lads." he said. "Now my knowledge of trolls and dwarfs is minimal, but since I arrived here I has seen a place where you both lives and works in harmony. That taught me a little. I would be pleased if after today's event is concluded, you were both to join me in a nearby tavern where I hears as how molten sulphur is served to people of the troll persuasion. I would be pleased to stand you both a drink. Are we agreed on this?"
There was a reflective silence. Ms Partleigh breathed out. She had the grace to say "Thank you, Mr Williams. Most constructive. Er.."
Then she gathered herself, and evidently chose to deal with the intractable problem of Hughes, Powell and the others by ignoring them. She picked on Holtack and skewered him with an uncomfortable glare. Not a full-bodied Alice Band glare, but a creditable imitation. It went on for a little too long.
"Mr Holtack." she said, at length. "My notes about you tell me you are an educated man. "you and your... colleagues... have apparently arrived in this world from a different planet, owing to some kind of highly untidy and unsatisfactory magical accident." She sniffed. "In my humble opinion, the University precipitates far too much of this sort of thing and should be stopped. In the event, you are here, and I can see you are all in desperate need of education."
Her glare took in Powell and Hughes, who contrived to look completely innocent.
"Some of you, more so than others." she added. "Indeed, I can see your attitudes all need to be orientated towards correctness Is there anything funny, Mr Powell?"
Oh dear, thought Holtack. Wrong choice of words there. Now she's actually called it an Orientation, there'll be no going back. No holding them now.
"Mr Holtack, I was briefed that on your arrival in this City, when you were detained by the Watch, you were observed to treat Dwarf officers in the Watch in a matter-of-fact way, as if you had encountered them before and they were not out of the ordinary to you. Yet your reaction to meeting Sergeant Detritus was one of horror and alarm and fear."
Perfectly reasonable and natural, I would have thought. someone muttered.
Dat Detritus? He even scare other trolls!
"I conclude that dwarf people exist on your world. Would you care to tell us all about them? And please, without reference to any sort of indignities inflicted on them by drunken oafs in seedy taverns for pleasure!"
Holtack thought furiously.
"Well, there's a nice family who live in my home village in Wales." he said, trying to get his thoughts into order. The Evanses were a nice bunch. He'd been to primary school with the son, Evan Evans. The parents made a tidy living as...
"Carry on." Ms Partleigh invited.
"They work in stage, theatre and TV" he said. "Entertainment, that is. They're ferociously busy around Christmas..."
There were unmistakeable Seven Platoon sniggers in the background as agile minds saw where he was going.
"Your officer is speaking, lovely boys!" Sergeant Williams growled.
"But you call it Hogswatch here, don't you? Anyway, dwarfs do exist on Earth. Er... there aren't many of them. There are plays, performances if you like, that specifically call for dwarf actors. A lot of our dwarfs find pretty constant employment, as there tend to be more more working parts than there are dwarfs. Er."
He recalled Evan Evans from early education at the Ysgol Yr Eifl near Llangollen. At first, apart from an oddly shaped face, he hadn't stood out much among five year olds of similar height. But as the years passed, it had become apparent there was something odd about Evan. The other kids' parents had nudged and slapped and ordered their kids not to stare, whenever Evan's parents came to pick him up after school. Mr and Mrs Evans only came up to the waists of other adults, maybe a little further. It was hard not to look. And he'd largely been accepted as a classmate. When some of the more unkind kids had made reference to his diminutive height and his slightly different facial features, the amicable and friendly Evan had become a leaping blur of aggression, all fists and feet and teeth. It had taken three of them to prise him off Iollo Price, a far bigger boy, who had carried the teethmarks on his nose for some time after. And the Evanses were a fiercely independent family, living in a house where everything had been adapted for their special needs. About the only time they needed help, and the village had contributed generously, was when really deep snow had piled up in drifts of over four feet. Everyone had offered to pile in with spades and shovels...
"Mr Holtack?" the harsh voice prompted. He realised he'd been lost in memories of Home.
"What sort of acting do dwarfs do on your world?"
There were more sniggers, swiftly muted. He thought, frantically. It wouldn't do to mention circuses or clowning... the Evans parents had done that too.
"Respectable roles, miss. Often drawing on folklore and old tales."
Heigh-ho! A Welsh voice. Others picked it up. Heigh ho! Heigh ho! It's off to work we go!
The Discworld dwarf looked round with surprise.
"You've even got the Heigh-Ho song on your world! I'd never have guessed!" he said.
Powell and the others broke up in some confusion.
"How many dwarfs exist on your world, Mr Holtack? How well are they treated? Do they have equality?"
Holtack thought back. He recalled a mellow night in the Mess where the new medical officer, a man who had done time in a busy Accident and Emergency ward before electing to join the Army, had been answering all the inevitable questions.
After exhausting all the possibilities involving Strange Things People Insert Into Their Own Or Indeed Other People's Bodily Orifices, And Their Subsequent Retrieval, the M.O. had been discussing other weird and off-colour things that an emergency room doctor will get to see in the course of his career. There had been much appreciative laughter, and even Alice Band had appeared to enjoy herself.
"Dwarfs are funny things." the M.O. had mused. "You've all heard about dwarf pornography, right? That's a specialised taste where male dwarfs get to do the business with all sorts of things." He had then launched into a long and involved tale about a male dwarf who had, shall we say, got himself dog-knotted into a normally endowed human woman who must have been six foot tall, give or take an inch. This embarrassing but not unknown medical condition occurs when the penis is so engorged with blood, and for whatever reason the woman is running a bit dry, that he cannot disengage. Well, he'd been deliverd to A&E by the local fire brigade, who for some reason had been first on the scene, and who had concluded that cutting equipment was not mandated in these circumstances. The police had then got involved, on the grounds that they'd heard a complaint that an adult woman was having sexual relations with a grossly underaged boy. The patients had then been delivered on a stretcher, covered for decency and anonymity, by firemen and policemen who were finding it hard to conceal their grins. Then when the A&E nurses had composed themselves, the appropriate erection-killing medication had been applied - "I can prescribe that for Lieutenant Probert, who I'm told has a problem keeping it in his trousers? No?" (6) and the amorous couple had been parted.
" Oh, they could have sex, alright, it's just that the poor woman had nobody to actually talk to, if you get my drift. Anyway, the point is, the genetic condition that causes dwarfism acts to shorten the arms and legs, the torso too, to some extent, and it causes slightly changed facial features like the craggy jaw and pronounced forehead, but it leaves the wedding tackle alone, as if it belonged to a normally sized human. Makes them much in demand in porn movies, I'm told." the doctor had said. "It makes dwarves look as if they've got bloody enormous todgers by comparison to the rest of them, but it's just an optical illusion. So no point in rushing off to find yourself a friendly dwarf just yet, Rebecca!" (This had been to Second Lieutenant Rebecca Trett, a painfully new arrival with the unit).
Holtack thought about relating the story, but it would only add to the poor woman's woes. Or maybe he'd hold it in reserve for if she got really obnoxious... he dredged up the details.
"On Earth, it's all because of a genetic condition called .Achondroplasia."
he said, remembering the M.O.'s informal lecture. It had been hard to forget. "It accounts for about one in forty thousand births." Fifty-five million divided by forty thousand. Knock off the noughts, that's 55,000 divided by four... "I'd say the dwarf population of my country is about fourteen thousand, miss. That's among fifty-five million people."
"So you're really saying there are no such thing as dwarfs on your world, only shorter humans?" Ms Partleigh demanded, seeming happier at winning a point.
"Well, er, yes. That's what I'm saying."
"And how do you know" she pressed onwards, furiously, " that it is not normally-sized people on your world who have this so-called disorder?" she demanded. "That in reality, it is the dwarf people who are correctly sized and shaped, and everyone else has a genetic disorder prompting them to be too tall and too long in the limbs?"
Holtack had faced down the City Council and argued with people like Lord Rust. He'd even crossed wits with Vetinari. OK, so he'd lost, but it had been a fair try. But here, confronted with Estressa Partleigh's monumental tunnel-vision and monomania, he was almost speechless.
"Er.. weight of numbers, miss? The majority in any population gets to decide what the norm is..."
But she wasn't listening. He wondered if she ever listened: some of Dennie's right-on feminist cohorts had the same functional defect, and were happy to provide your side of the conversation from a pre-set script somewhere inside their heads. He wondered how somebody like his sister put up with them.
The short fat Morticia Addams was gesturing frantically at Ms Partleigh, who eventually registered this and turned, excusing herself, to go for a huddled whispered conversation in the doorway. Holtack had the impression that something large was looming on the other side. Another woman had been standing there, inconspicuously watching the show, and betraying nothing on her face. She was slim, slender even, well-shaped, obviously human, and was attractive, in a tenacious terrier sort of way. She was also smoking, something Ms Partleigh had refused the rest of them with a contemptuous "we are here to learn, not to smoke!" Holtack thought he'd seen her, in the background, at the City council meeting. They had not been introduced. And the smell of the tobacco was reaching the attendees, all of whom were reminded they hadn't had a tab for hours...
"Oh, very well!" Ms Partleigh was heard to say, impatiently. She returned to the speaker's position in front of the class.
"I have been reminded that today is not all about dwarfs." She paused, incredulous that such a point of view was possible. "And that time is money and that some people have a business to run. Therefore the Countess and I will take a short break and leave you in the care of Miss Adora Belle Dearheart, of the Golem Trust, and her associate Mr Pump, who no doubt will take a strong line on any disruption or bad behaviour. The Countess von Winking - Vinking – will take the class later. Thank you for your participation, and goodbye for now!"
She flounced out, followed by the fat vampire. The slender woman stepped forward, still smoking, and cupped the elbow of her smoking hand under the palm of the other. She ran her eye over the class, silently, and eventually nodded.
"Right, I'll keep it brief and to the point." she eventually said. "I've seen enough to realise some of you have a low tolerance threshold for bullshit. I'm not here to preach at you, just to tell you about golems."
Powell raised a hand. She nodded, warily.
"Please, miss, can we smoke?" he asked.
She nodded, and a slight smile crossed her face.
"I'm hardly likely to tell you no, am I?" she said. "If it makes you more attentive and easier to deal with, please do!"
"Mun, I think I'm in love!" said Powell, appreciatively. The woman grinned.
"After Estrella, I'm willing to bet you'd fall in love with anyone." she said, unoffended. "Did I introduce myself? My name is Adora Belle Dearheart, and I run the Golem Trust. Among other things it advocates for the rights of working golems in this city, and I'm here to tell you about them. First thing. Can any of you tell me what a golem is? One of the Visitors to this city, maybe?"
"Oh, gollums. Easy, is that." said J.J. Williams, eagerly. "Rat-like little thing. Obsessed with Rings. Hisses a lot when it talks, talks about my preciousss, hygiene problem, eats fish..."
Adora Belle Dearheart frowned.
"I can see you people have got a lot to learn." she said. "Although that description reminds me of something the Queen of Lancre told me she saw once, and the witches weren't able to work out."(7) She paused. "Look, because of what the man people are pleased to describe as my fiancée does for a living, I get invited to a lot of official receptions as his plus-one. Doesn't mean I make a habit of hob-nobbing or any other sort of biscuiting with royalty. It's all Balls, anyway. Often very tedious, long ones."
Her attitude softened slightly.
"Now to introduce you to a friend of mine." she said. "Mr Pump, would you come in, please?"
Something large and ponderous moved into the hall, taking meticulous care to turn slightly so as not to damage the door frame.
"Bloody hell!" said Powell, nearly choking on his cigarette.
It was large, broad, and roughly humanoid, with terracotta-red colouring and two large glowing red eyes. It exuded power and strength. Holtack was unmoved, having met the police golems and now knowing what they were.
"Hello!" boomed Pump, in a voice exuding bonhomie and friendliness. "My name is Mr Pump. I currently work for Lord Vetinari as a Probation Officer."
"I bet nobody ever re-offends." muttered Hughes. The golem turned its smiling face to Hughes.
"The recidivism rate is currently near to zero, yes." it said. "I find it to be extremely interesting and socially valuable work, mr Hughes!"
"Mr Pump has been briefed as to who you all are." the woman said, tiny next to its bulk.
"Indeed, miss Dearheart! All of you in this room have recently offended, although nowhere seriously enough as to warrant my active intervention."
"I'm very pleased to hear that, mun." muttered Powell, who was having serious cognitive dissonance as to how this thing fitted into the same cave as Bilbo Baggins.
"Ah, Mr Powell! Several counts of breaking and entering, burglary, unlicenced theft, and an accessory to use of a Gonne and grievous bodily harm, in that the senior park-keeper, Mr Robert Flowerdew, was incapacitated by a missile fired by a Gonne. Although Lord Vetinari believes you can become a useful member of the community if suitably directed and supervised, and he was minded to treat you with leniency."
"A typical example of a working golem." she said, happily. "Spelt G-O-L-E-M, by the way. Now let me fill you all in as to what golems are on this world, as opposed to what they are on yours..."
And so the morning progressed. Holtack was attentive, and pleased that Seven Platoon were treating this woman with all the respect she deserved. He also learnt about golems and how to deal with them. It was useful stuff, delivered neutrally and without any preaching or flannel.
At the end of her presentation, Miss Dearheart said:
"I really have to go now, but I'd like to say you've all been a pleasure to work with. It makes this outreach work easier. Just one little piece of advice, though: Estrella Partleigh may be a total div, but she is in charge here and she has the power to refer any of you back to the Patrician if she thinks you haven't benefited from this course. And at the very least that means sitting through all her Gods-awful garbage again. At the end of the day she sets a written test. Try to take it seriously and get a pass-mark. That's all, and welcome to Ankh-Morpork!"
It was good advice. Holtack sighed. Next up was Morticia Addams. He wondered if she was as bad at managing people as Estrella. He hoped there'd be some sort of break for lunch...
To be continued! Thanks to Morthoron and Thranduil on the Cabbages and Kings forum for putting me in touch with the Little People of America organisation, whose website was most informative on things to do with dwarfs as they really are. Any errors are mine, not theirs.
(1) It would not have helped if he'd known the glue was made out of the refined essence of boiled slugs.
(2) In Yiddish, a metzger is a kosher butcher. Hack author "Leo Kessler" gave this name to the impeccable Nazi sergeant-major in his Waffen-SS potboilers about the Wotan battalion, possibly as a snide in-joke.
(3) Denise tried to avoid referring to them as "friends". If you identified yourself as a feminist in the 1980's, they came with the turf. Philip Holtack suspected she'd introduced them to her brother - and to Alice Band – out of devilment and a desire to educate both sides.
(4) Bloody Sunday – the occasion where the Parachute Regiment lost it completely, and discipline broke down to the point that they started firing wildly into largely unarmed and largely peaceful demonstrators – remains a black mark against the whole British Army, and its consequences affected everyone who subsequently served in N.I. Even if they were fired on by IRA terrorists using the demo for cover – and good evidence says this is what happened – then the response was wild, uncontrolled, and wholly disproportionate. One embarrassing and wholly unintended consequence for the British military was that, in subsequent inquiries, it was revealed the Paras had blazed off over a thousand rounds. And, given a packed mass of sitting targets at pretty close range, only thirteen people had been killed. In closed military circles, it was grimly accepted that the accuracy of the British infantryman, on this basis, left a lot to be desired. Up until the Falklands War in 1982, the Parachute Regiment was the butt of much black humour from other Toms concerning not being able to hit a barn door at ten feet, et c. Much remedial work was done on improving small arms proficiency, not least the ability to think clearly and respond appropriately when under fire, in the rest of the 1970's and early 1980's. This author humbly wonders why the Israeli Defence Forces, for one, have not grasped the lesson that if your first and preferred response to being demonstrated against is to respond with lethal force, it does tend to harden attitudes towards you, on the part of the people you are deploying lethal force against... who then manifest a wholly irrational and intrinsically bloody-minded desire to play catch-up with whatever resources come to hand. (That's not a comment on the rights and wrongs of the Israel-Palestine situation: just sheer hard-won common sense.)
(5) The Raven is a pub in Flint, North Wales, that used to have a serious reputation, even among hard-bitten Flintshire drinkers whose day jobs were in coal or steel. When miners from Point of Ayr encountered steelworkers from Shotton, all the usual informal tests of hard-working masculinity would ensue in a sort of cheerful mayhem. I'm told that a pub that could give the Mended Drum competition has since reformed and moved upscale, though. I had a lunchtime beer in there the last time I was home. Not a single fight or even an exchange of dirty looks, and some people were even drinking coffee...
(6)Lieutenant "Shagger" Probert, a notorious amateur Casanova, had taken it in good humour.
(7) See Witches Abroad by Terry Pratchett, in which a Gollum-like creature makes an enigmatic and brief appearance chasing a boat on a river in which he thinks there is a birthday present for him...
