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

by Terry Pratchett

It was a terrible thing to think, but there was something itchy about the thought of Nobby being allowed in the gene pool, even at the shallow end.

“Well, that’s society for you, I’m afraid,” said Carrot. “Everything is dumped on the people below until you find someone who’s prepared to eat it. That’s what Mr. Vimes says.”

You fought them, they fought you, everyone knew the rules, and if you got your head cut off you jolly well didn’t blub about it afterward.

Nobby turned. He was being addressed by an elderly lady with a certain turkey-like cast of feature and a capital punishment expression.

After a lifetime of street meals his stomach wasn’t set up right. What it craved was little crunchy brown bits, the food group of the gods, and Sybil reliably always left the pan too long on the dragon.

history was full of the bones of good men who’d followed bad orders in the hope that they could soften the blow. Oh, yes, there were worse things they could do, but most of them began right where they started following bad orders.

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.”

one of the advantages of armies. People looked to other people for orders.

Mrs. Palm overruled opposition on the basis, she said, that unnatural acts were only natural.