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Whatsapp Author Terry Pratchett received an honorary degree from Trinity College Dublin in 2008

While dean of research at Trinity College Dublin, David Lloyd was thrilled to offer Terry Pratchett, his hero, an honorary degree. Pratchett refused. Thus began a two-day odyssey involving robes, hats, Guinness and unbridled scatological glee.

Some assert that you should never meet your heroes, but I'm very glad that I did. I read my first Discworld novel when I was about 14. It was 1988.

The book was Sourcery, set in an improbably flat world of magic and mayhem—a disc, balancing on four elephants, riding a giant star turtle.

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between man and plumbing, which would ultimately see the latter immortalised in print several years later in The World of Poo.

I found it hilarious, and I never looked back. So began my love affair with the writings of one Terence David John Pratchett.

Fast forward 20 years and through an as-yet not wholly understood sequence of events, I found myself in the unlikely position of my day job being that of dean of research at Trinity College, Dublin.

My wife Annie, who is immeasurably cleverer than I am, and who is also a long-time fan of the goings-on on the Discworld, and I were at home in Dublin having a conversation about honorary degrees. As you do.

I was quite fixated on Trinity College advancing candidates of international renown for these honours. I was bringing my work home with me.

Annie said, 'What about Terry Pratchett?' Bing.

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Whatsapp Sir Terry Pratchett, creator of the Discworld series of fantasy novels

Terry's nomination sailed through the labyrinthine committee structure in charge of such things and popped out the far side—he was to receive his degree during the following December's commencements.

Nominators for honorary degrees get a little perk: they get to chaperone their nominees on the day in question. So. Terry Pratchett was coming to Dublin and I was going to look after him. Ear-to-ear grinning ensued.

Honorary degrees are not lightly bestowed. Once proffered, the mechanics of ensuring their actual acceptance by the nominee are complex.

With high profile nominees, there's not usually a direct link to the person.

Ordinarily, a letter is dispatched to a third party who is in a position to ask said person if they'll actually accept the award.

That way refusals are not seen as huge snubs, they may be just miscommunications. Anyway, the third party in question in Terry's case was Colin Smythe, Terry's long-time literary agent.

Colin was the man who first published Pratchett and launched Great A'Tuin into the cosmos of print.

Colin also happened to be a graduate of Trinity College Dublin, and an honorary doctor of the institution to boot.

(This is a useful set of qualifications to hold, if an honorary degree offer is coming from Trinity College Dublin to someone you know—particularly if that someone might require some convincing to accept)

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Whatsapp Terry Pratchett at a book signing

'All the way to Ireland to dress up for a parchment? No bloody way—I'm trying to write a book!'

I'm paraphrasing. But that, apparently, was Terry's initial reaction.

Enter Rob Wilkins, Terry's assistant. Rob lived outside Salisbury, but he used to work for U2 as their resident techno-wizard.

Rob viewed Dublin as his spiritual home, and relished the thought of a visit even if Terry didn't.

This confluence of unlikely circumstances relating to matters Hibernian and academic led to arms being duly (though gently) twisted, and the offer of a Trinity College honorary award was grudgingly accepted.

Whatever the reluctance behind the scenes in the UK, I was determined that, for me at least, this would not be a missed opportunity.

As he had now signalled acceptance, I would have access to Terry Pratchett for two days.

Still, chaperoning your hero could prove to be either absolutely fantastic or just plain awful. Then there was the small matter of Alzheimer's—Terry had been diagnosed with the disease in late 2007. The 'embuggerance', he called it.

Notwithstanding the seemingly light-hearted treatment he publicly afforded such a horrible reality, I simply didn't know how the disease affected him or, indeed, anything much about him beyond what could be gleaned from the inside covers of his books.

These told me: that Terry liked carnivorous plants, that he was not dead, and that he felt he was living a number of lives in parallel. Not exactly helpful. I simply didn't know what to expect of Terry the man.

Friday, 12 December 2008 rolled around. Ahead of the ceremony, I was told that Mr Pratchett was waiting for me in the provost's drawing room.

And there, perched on the seat of a rather uncomfortable formal reception chair, wearing black tie, is Terry Pratchett.

I knew it was him as:

1) I had been told he was in the room, and;

2) I recognised him from his author photos on the back inside covers of his books, and;

3) He was wearing That Hat.

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Whatsapp That hat

That particular black hat is as well known and iconic to Pratchettphiles as a certain brown fedora is to fans of Indiana Jones.

And there it was, sitting on the head of its owner, who was sitting there, I realised, waiting for me to say something.

Hello is often a good start, so I started there.

I noted that Terry wrapped his arms around himself as he talked, almost like an extended folding of the arms into a hug, self-embracing.

Now I know that it means he was not enjoying the experience—but at the time, I was busily fluffing along telling him how pleased I was that he was there and trying to pussyfoot around with small talk while intently watching for any outward signs of dementia.

The man had Alzheimer's, after all. I asked him what he was working on, and he told me that the next book, Unseen Academicals, would be coming out next year.

'2009?' I asked.

A strange look of befuddlement passed across his face. He took his hat off and ran his hand across his forehead.

'Oh. Erm... What year is this?'

I thought to myself, 'Oh no. Oh, you poor man, you're so ravaged by this terrible affliction you don't even know what year it is...'

My face must have been a mask of sheer and abject horror because he quickly smiled and said, 'You know, there isn't that much wrong with me, not as you might tell.'

He had, to use the vernacular, been extracting the urine. With aplomb. Obviously he was used to being given the eggshell treatment and had decided in this instance that he was going to stomp on them.

With the ice suitably smashed, we chatted about how I had come to be in the room with him that morning, about what he could expect to happen later that day, and about what was happening next.

Which was, to be precise, a pee stop.

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Whatsapp Terry and David backstage

As Dean, my office was located in House 1 of Trinity College—in the old college armoury to be precise.

This abutted the provost's residence at 1 Grafton Street: a Georgian Palladian townhouse of utter magnificence, where VIPs are looked after on occasions such as this.

The house is truly splendid, with many period features spanning its Georgian origins and later Victorian innovations, such as indoor loos and central heating.

The lavatory to which I escorted Terry was a late-adopted, early Victorian affair, a pull-chain number, with a rather ornate porcelain throne complete with the original wooden seat—in near mint condition, lightly polished by generations of provostorial and deanly buttocks.

So proud were its creators that they had christened it 'The Deluge' and emblazoned its name brazenly in brown glazed script just beneath the rim, for all future users to marvel at.

As Terry entered the chamber of ablution, I heard an exclamation of pure joy.

Personally, I was more sanguine about The Deluge as it was simply the closest loo to my office and we had a functional, rather than spiritual, relationship once the original novelty had worn off.

But for Terry, this was love at first sight.

'You've got to hang on the chain a while to get it going properly,' I advised as he entered.

I waited respectfully outside the door. There came a rattle of chain.

The whoosh of the Deluge deluging accompanied by a 'whoo-hoo' of pure delight from Terry.

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship between man and plumbing, which would eventually see the latter immortalised in print several years later in The World of Poo.

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Whatsapp Honorary Doctors

During the ceremony, each of the honorands has a public oration read of them, in Latin. Terry had swapped the fedora for a mortar board and lapped up the oration, the applause and the pomp and circumstance that goes with a graduation commencement in a 400-plus-year-old university.

The caput paraded across the cobblestones of Front Square to the dining hall, where, Terry was reunited with his own hat and introduced to a pint of celebratory Guinness.

He and the other honorary degree recipients were marvellous: signing autographs, and talking to staff and students alike.

I managed to get a snap of Terry with one of my PhD students, Georgia, who was graduating that day, thinking that wasn't too bad a tally for one day's work.

I pointed out to Terry that Georgia had at least done some work to earn her degree and that his chance to earn his would come tomorrow during the public interview.

Later my wife Annie brought a couple of books, which Terry kindly signed, noting that he had signed so many the unsigned ones were probably worth more to collectors.

The evening was splendid. I admit, the dinner remains something of a blur to me now. Conversation was flowing, wit and wisdom were dispensed in equal measure.

Colin, Terry's agent, had the very bright idea of having all assembled autograph the dinner menu, which he then secreted about his person for posterity.

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Whatsapp The distinctive Discworld spine designs feature artwork by Josh Kirby

The next morning I sat down with my daughter Emelia who was, at the time, five years old.

I very earnestly explained to her that I was going to be interviewing 'the man who wrote all those books with the funny covers', and that I could ask him any question.

I asked if she had any ideas. Her suggestions were very age appropriate:

1) What is your favourite number?

2) What is your favourite colour?

That day I had my first real experience of the impact that Alzheimer's was having on Terry.

He had been diagnosed with a rare variant of the disease called Posterior Cortical Atrophy—PCA. At that stage, PCA largely affected Terry by mucking up his visual acuity.

This turned commonplace things like chequerboard tiles into obstacle courses, as Terry's brain would misinterpret the relationships and distances between his feet, the floor and where exactly in space the tiles were.

He had to feel his way slowly across such surfaces, testing the ground level step by step. The other complete bugger was navigating revolving doors. These were to be avoided at all costs.

Geospatial oddities aside, there was very little to suggest that Terry's brain was pitched in a tooth-and-nail fight with a terrible and debilitating disease.

His wit, his encyclopaedic knowledge and his charm were all fully intact. His inability to go up and down stairs without giving his chaperone a stroke from worry, well, that was the main giveaway.

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Whatsapp A mural depicting Pratchett (and Death)'s visage

Terry received a standing ovation from a full house as he took to the stage. He'd re-donned his blue and red doctoral robes, but wore his own hat.

I had chosen a more subtle plain black academic robe – which earned the first quip of the session as Terry likened his attire to that of Spider-Man and mine to Batman. I felt he was displaying classic signs of robe envy.

To satisfy millennia of cultural stereotype, I'd arranged for him to have a pint of Guinness onstage. I poured it myself and it may have been worst pint of Guinness ever, but was consumed nonetheless.

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Whatsapp Pratchett receives his honorary degree and his honorary Guinness

I'd been warned that Terry could be an adversarial interviewee. He went easy on me, thankfully, and we had a very fine time.

That year, 2008, was a big one for Terry, so we ended up talking about 25 years of Discworld, 40 years of marriage, his turning 60 and all things books.

At one point, during a follow up question, Terry fixed me with a stare and said 'I don't have to answer that.'

I, brimming with overconfidence, returned with: 'My university, my questions. Do you want to keep that degree?' A fatal error.

Terry stood up, and with a flourish of his Spiderman robes, put his hand firmly on my shoulder and turned to face the audience.

'Now, it is my turn,' Terry said.

Uh-oh. Rob suddenly appeared onstage with an Unseen University scarf and a parchment.

'My university, my questions,' Terry said.

Terry informed the audience that as creator of the Discworld, it was within his power to award honorary degrees from the Unseen University, and now I would have to answer a question to earn my degree.

'What is the Ankh-Morpork city motto?'

Not a clue. No idea whatsoever. A tumbleweed crossed the stage.

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Whatsapp A map of the Discworld city of Ankh-Morpork

'Anyone?' Pratchett asked.

'OK, an easier one,' he said, eyes glinting malevolently.

'What,' he began, 'is the Unseen University motto?'

As before, not a clue.

Mentally, I began preparing my resignation from the university, the public humiliation of a college officer surely being grounds for summary dismissal on the basis of demonstrated and inexcusable ignorance of things said officer simply should have known before embarking on so foolhardy an endeavour as to cross swords with Terry Pratchett.

Terry once again turned to the audience. 'You can help him out, save him, if you like.'

They didn't know either.

'Now you see it,' he began, charitably.

'Now you don't...?' I finished feebly.

Terry handed me the parchment and so bestowed an honorary doctorate of Unseen University upon me.

Strictly speaking, the degree was unearned, and bestowed largely, I felt, out of pity. But what the hell, I had it! It now features on my CV.

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Whatsapp An representative arrangement of the books David Lloyd re-read

The next day saw Terry and the gang depart, and I made my way into town to say goodbye and send them on their way.

Most of the previous night had been spent flicking through Discworld novels and restlessly googling to try to figure out why the answers to these relatively simple Discworld questions had not materialised in my brain in my hour of need.

I said to Annie before going to sleep: 'I just can't remember ever seeing those answers in any of the books. Right. I'm going to read them all again!'

About two years later—strangely enough in the vicinity of The Deluge—I casually brought up the subject. It had remained strictly taboo in the interim.

'Terry?'

'Yes?'

'You remember that public interview we did when you got the degree?'

'Yes.'

'You remember those questions you asked me, about mottos? Ankh-Morpork and Unseen University?'

'Yes.'

'The answers. They're not in the books. I've gone back and checked. All of them. Not there.'

'Ah. It was a test of your canonical knowledge.'

Bugger. He had an uncanny knack for getting you coming and going. Back at the hotel, pre-departure, Terry and I were perched on a sofa.

He was impatient to get going, he had work to do, best-sellers to write. I said I had to pose two last questions to him.

'What, is your favourite number?'

A raised eyebrow. I thought he was going to tell me to get lost.

'What age is Emelia? he asked.

'Five.'

'Tell her my favourite number is six.'

This is an edited version of two talks first delivered on Ockham's Razor.

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