Jingo (Discworld, #21; City Watch, #4)

by Terry Pratchett

Sergeant Colon had had a broad education. He’d been to the School of My Dad Always Said, the College of It Stands to Reason, and was now a postgraduate student at the University of What Some Bloke In the Pub Told Me.

I mean, you’re a soldier, right, and the other buggers is the enemy. You march into some big field somewhere and all form up into them oblongs, and then a bloke with the feathery helmet gives the order, and you all forms up into big arrows—” “Good gods, do people really do that? I thought it was just how they drew the battle plans!” “Well, the old duke, sir, he did it by the book . . .

“No women in here,” he went on. “Why not?” said Nobby. “No women asking questions, neither.” “Why not?” “’cos it is written, that’s why.” “Where’m I supposed to go, then?” The barman shrugged. “Who knows where women go?” “Off you go, Beti,” said the Patrician. “And . . . listen for information!” Nobby grabbed the cup of wine from Colon and gulped it down. “I dunno,” he moaned, “I’ve only been a woman ten minutes and already I hate you male bastards.”