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

by Terry Pratchett

“Look, Nobby, when all’s said and done they ain’t the right color, and there’s an end to it.” “Good job you found out, Fred!” said Nobby, so cheerfully that Sergeant Colon was almost sure that he meant it. “Well, it’s obvious,” he conceded. “Er . . . what is the right color?” said Nobby. “White, of course!” “Not brick-red, then? ’Cos you—” “Are you winding me up, Corporal Nobbs?” “’Course not, sarge. So . . . what color am I?” That caused Sergeant Colon to think. You could have found, somewhere on Corporal Nobbs, a shade appropriate to every climate on the disc and a few found only in specialist medical books. “White’s . . . white’s a state of, you know . . . mind,” he said. “It’s like . . . doing an honest day’s work for an honest day’s pay, that sort of thing. And washing regular.” “Not lazing around, sort of thing.” “Right.” “Or . . . like . . . working all hours like Goriff does.” “Nobby—” “And you never see those kids of his with dirty clo—”