WOSSNAME - AUGUST 2007 -- PART 4 OF 7 (continued)
====Part 4 -- MAKING MONEY, B.U. NEWS AND WEIRD ALICE
16) MAKING MONEY: A SILLY REVIEW
17) BUGARUP UNIVERSITY CAMPUS NEWSROUND
18) THE CLACKS LOG OF WEIRD ALICE LANCREVIC
16) MAKING MONEY: ONE WHOLE LOTTA GOLD
Money! Intrigue! Murder! Family feuds! Politics! Economics! Romance!
Cookery! Interest rates! Wobbly bits! This one's got 'em all!
See what goes on behind closed doors at Mrs Cake's boarding house!
View the future in a rather twisty glass of water! Learn the
ancestral secrets of the Igors and discover why Discly fandom can
be a dangerous hobby! Marvel at the results of Consciousness Raising
101 for Golems! Discover the strange connection between finance and
fetishwear! See how the high and low businessmen of Ankh-Morpork
react to modern bank loans! Calculate the size of Adora Belle
Dearheart's tobacco bill!
MAKING MONEY! A story of true love, animal magic, shiny hats,
cottage-industry coinage, nepotism, despotism, Omnianism,
Differently Normalism, and the power of a well-placed woof! In
living colour, especially the gold! This is a novel NOT TO BE
Go on, pre-order it now! You know you want to!
MAKING MONEY! A heartwarming tale of a boy and his Mint! Out soon!
 The secrets of the Igor clan, that is. Not the actual secrets of
Igoring. We can't just tell, like, everyone how to reanimate
leftover bits of people, because it might destabilise the very
fabric of society
 Although the Quirm Cabbage Greens are rather a nice colour
 A fairly tatty gingham and probably not up to much, from the
look of it
17) AROUND THE BUGARUP UNIVERSITY CAMPUS
A roundup from WOSSNAME's sister Yahoogroup, ozdw
SOUNDS FAMILIAR: AN INCONSIDERED TRIFLE
Libwolf the BU Librarian quoted the following in his sig-line:
"The problem with defending the purity of the English language is that
the English language is as pure as a crib-house whore. It not only
borrows words from other languages; it has on occasion chased other
languages down dark alley-ways, clubbed them unconscious and rifled
their pockets for new vocabulary."~ James Nicoll, 1846-1918
Jase of the Faculty of Technomancy replied:
Had you not attributed that I would have assumed it was Pterry. Sure
sounds like his style of personification
Mrs Peculiar mused:
Now we have to wonder if Pterry, being a picker-up of inconsidered
trifles (and the occasional toasted figgin), was well aware of
Nicoll's bon mot :-)
PTERRY'S WORK RATE: SHOULD WE BE TOLD?
The other day my SO was grumbling about the distinct lack of a DW
book in recent memory and that Pterry was getting "slack". I
responded that we should forgive him since he is nearly 103 (okay,
okay he's approaching 60). This was not accepted as an argument of
merit according to her as he used to put at least two out a year. So
I pose this to you, the faithful: Should we consider that Mr
Pratchett may become a little less prolific in the coming years?
And, if so, should we accept that or kidnap him and have monkeys
with whips in the deepest Amazon forest force him to write more?
Keeper of the Wombat: This very subject was discussed on the a.b.p
newsgroup not so long ago. It seems Mr P is getting on a bit and
slowing down a bit too. So he's cut back to one book a year instead
of the two he's produced up until now. He's also cutting back on all
the signing tours and conventions and stuff he's been doing.
I'd say we are going to have to accept it. Forcing him to write more
will kill him quicker and thus we get less books than if we just
adopt the patience of Lu Tze and await the one book per year. For
does not Mrs Cosmopilite say:- "Penny wise, dollar foolish."?
Awww, give the man a chance to rest! There's only just so much sand
in every lifetimer, after all...
And quite fairly, I think he's done tremendous work giving us as
many good quality and highly amusing books already.
We also have to keep a close eye on Mogg. Every time she reads *all*
published novels by an author, the author is suddenly visited by
someone WHO SPEAKS LIKE THIS.
Right, tie her up. NOW!
The conversation then turned to areas over which it's best to draw a
veil. Seven of them, in fact.
And finally, it looks like the Smoking Gnu is lurking on campus,
according to the scuttlebutt in room 3b:
Jase: Loopy is running spam out of the university Hex hehe www
Libwolf: "Your Sta33 not big en0ugh? "
Jase: W4NT L0NG3R L45T1NG CUST4RD?
Libwolf: "4r a b1gg3r bR00mst1ck, cl13k h3r3"
18) THE CLACKS LOG OF WEIRD ALICE LANCREVIC
Post 6. THIS GREAT SOUTHERN SAND
First Clog: "When you came in here, didn't you have a plan for
So we crashed. In the desert. I imagine that counts as a breakdown.
But first we got blown off course going over the Hublands by a
random storm of raw magic somewhere on the Circle Sea side, which
meant we didn't make it as far as Al-Khali, or even anywhere near
Al-Khali. I suppose this is partly my fault, but hey, it takes two
to horizontally tango (and I have to say that you haven't lived
until you've horizontally tango'd on a flying carpet; just make sure
you have somewhere safe to land), and how was I to know it was
really true about wizards and the not tangoing thing? Or that when a
wizard loses his magic it sucks out all the other magic in the
immediate area? So we crashed. The effect is only temporary (luckily
for us), but this explains why wizards get their oats as students,
and why wizards daren't marry. Cert says you can always tell the
students who *aren't* getting their oats; apart from doing better on
exams, they're the ones with hairy palms and a permanent aura of
Klatch is big. Really big. You just wouldn't believe how vastly
hugely mindbogglingly big it is. And sandy. So much sand. And dry.
Big and sandy and dry and so very, very empty, except for us and a
patch of less sandy-coloured sand that may have been a lizard...oh,
and D'regs. According to my guidebook, the D'regs are a noble desert
tribe, a "warlike, fierce and honourable" people who take pride in
their ancient traditions. Since my time in Uberwald taught me that
"noble" is often as not another word for "arrogant, unsympathetic
and bloodthirsty, sometimes literally", you can imagine my dread
when they rose up out of the sand around us like lizard-coloured
patches. But our luck was in that day, because they neither killed
us nor treated us badly. All right, we were captured, but once again
my lute got us out of serious trouble. Instead of killing us out of
hand, they invited us to a party! The chieftain, whose name is al-
Rhaiva, spoke a little trade patois, and with my smatterings of Year
6 Klatchian, we were able to communicate well enough. They loaded us
onto a spare camel in exchange for our carpet (I am so very not
getting up in one of those again, ever), gave us a good long drink
of stale water (best drink I ever tasted in my life), and off we
went to...well...another stretch of featureless sand, but they
seemed to know where they were going...
End of Part 4, continued on Part 5 of 7.
If you did not get all seven parts, write: interact@...
Copyright (c) 2007 by Klatchian Foreign Legion