But I’ve always wondered what life would have been like if a convenient journalistic job hadn’t opened up on our local paper and I had gone on to university instead. I’m sure I would have enjoyed the cheap beer. On the other hand, that was in the late sixties, and as we know from our politicians the only thing you were sure of learning at university in the sixties was how not to inhale, so maybe I made the right choice. After all, now I have my degree, which I believe means I’m allowed to throw my hat into the air, something I’ve always wanted to do. Once again, many thanks to all of you from all of them and all of me. Thank you—and now for a small but important change in your advertised programme.
I said I did not go to university but I have since made up for it by owning one. Unseen University as the premier college for wizards came into being about eighteen years ago in the very first Discworld book and seems to be becoming more real every day. And since I have some influence there, I have prevailed upon the Archchancellor to allow me to perform a little reciprocal ceremony to celebrate the bond between our two great seats of learning. So … forward, please, Professor Michael Page.
Although he is far too thin to be a real wizard, Michael has nevertheless impressed me by having a sense of humour while nevertheless being an accountant, an achievement of such magnitude that it most certainly earns him an honorary degree in magic. In order to make him a member of Unseen University, of course, he must don … the official hat … the official scarf, with the University’s crest … and the Octagonal badge worn by all alumni. There … you are now, professor, causas diabolici volentus, an honorary Bachelor of Fluencing. Due to a lack of foresight this does means that you will have to have the letters BF after your name, but that is a small price, I am sure you will agree, to pay for greatness.
Thank you very much, Vice-chancellor, ladies, and gentlemen.
A WORD ABOUT HATS
Sunday Telegraph Review, 8 July 2001
I like hats, particularly the black wide-brimmed Louisianas which most people think are called fedoras. Coming as I do from a family where the males go bald around twenty-five, I prefer to have more than a thickness of bone between my brain and God.
The article says it all, and got commissioned merely because of a remark I made to a journalist at a party. You’d think there was something funny about hats.
I was obviously very upset when my hat was kidnapped. You hear such stories. Was it going to be chained to a radiator? Would I get a photo of it holding a newspaper? Or—terrible thought—would it side with its captors and refuse to leave them? I think that’s called the Stockholm syndrome, although the Swedes aren’t hugely famous for hats.
So I just paid up with a cheque for ￡75 to the student Rag Day charity, which was the object of the whole exercise. The dreadful drama was over in ten minutes, and I didn’t even get an opportunity to speak to the hat on the telephone.
I got the big black hat back and was, once again, myself.
I like hats. They give me something to do with my head.
In my family the men go bald in their twenties, to get it over with. It stops it coming as a nasty shock later in life. But it means that there’s nothing there to absorb all those bumps and scratches that the hairy people never even notice. The modern remedy is a baseball cap. A baseball cap? I’d sooner eat worms.
I spotted the first big black hat in a shop called Billie Jean in Walcot Street, Bath, back in the late eighties. There it was, on a shelf. It was everything I wanted in a hat although, up until that point, I hadn’t realized that I did, in fact, want a hat.
It was black, of course, and wide brimmed, and quite tough, and flexible enough to hold a decent curve once I’d done a bit of work with a steaming kettle.
Sometimes you see something and you just have to go for it.
Since then I must have owned about ten of them, all identical to the inexpert eye. All right, I’ll own up: when I was a kid I remember being impressed by John Steed of The Avengers opening a wardrobe door to reveal, disappearing into the distance, apparently endless lines of bowler hats and furled umbrellas. That taught me something. If you’re going to be serious about hats, you can’t have just one.
Some, after a decent airing, have been donated to charity auctions or used as competition prizes (“Win Terry Pratchett’s Hat!”). One is the proud possession of my Czech translator. One just died. It was one of the best ones—thin felt that looked like velvet, a perfect fit, and as black as the ace of spades. It was like wearing a head glove. Never found another one like it. Took me a year to get it exactly as I wanted it, and two years to wear it out.
No two hats are alike. Every hat has its own character. All confirmed hat wearers know this. I’ve got a heavy felt stunt hat, useful if I’m doing a school visit where half the class are probably going to end up trying it on, a quality hat for those select occasions, and some suitably rugged ones for signing tours. A black fedora or Louisiana wouldn’t do for Australia, though, where I prefer an Akubra Territory, the largest hat they do short of a sombrero. If you look closely you can still see where the koala bear pissed on it.
When I became an officially famous author, the black hat became a kind of trademark. It wasn’t on purpose, but photographers liked it. “One with the hat on, please,” they’d say. And you always do what the photographer wants, don’t you? And so the hat—sorry, the Hat—turned up in PR photos and I was stuck with it. It became me, according to all the photographs.
For that reason, people assume that I should be wearing it all the time. “Where’s your hat?” is the demand when I’m signing in a shop, as if people aren’t sure who this little bearded bald guy is unless the Hat confers the official personality. Readers want to be photographed with me at bookshop events, and that’s fine and part of the whole business, but I just know that as the camera is elevated they’ll give that little gasp of realization and “with the hat, of course.”
There have been a couple of foiled attempts at hat theft.
Then there was the hat stretching. I bought a new hat for a tour last year. It turned out to be on the tight side, and I had foolishly not brought the spare hat. But a wonderful bookshop in the town of St. Neots had once been a gentleman’s outfitters and there, on a high shelf, was a Victorian hat-stretching engine. No bookstore should be without one. They kindly racked the hat in front of the crowd while I signed the books. I believe that some people thought it was a way of forcing me to sign.