I’m as vain as the next ink-slinger – possibly a soupçon more, let’s be honest – so I do enjoy a little self-promotion. But this time there’s an actual occasion, not just ego in a dinner jacket: the British Fantasy Society has accepted one of my pieces for its winter special. The theme is war (timely, unavoidably dark), yet the great thing about fantasy wars is that nobody – strictly speaking – dies.
My piece doffs its hat to Sir Terry and the Discworld; I am doubly proud – positively fizzing.
Back home, or
into the footnotes?
The Event
- Publication
- British Fantasy Society Journal #27
- ISSN
- 2046-7966
- Official Links
- * British Fantasy Society
Chapter presentation - When Swords Gleam Like Toothpaste Ads
Fantasy often makes war look glorious: banners fly, swords shine and armies clash. Terry Pratchett’s Discworld novels puncture that spectacle with humour. In Jingo and Monstrous Regiment, comedy carries a sustained critique of militarism – the celebration of war and military power. Pratchett exposes the myths that make conflict seem necessary or noble, while keeping a clear sympathy for ordinary soldiers caught in systems they have little power to control.
In Jingo, war is manufactured through political opportunism. Leaders and a compliant press exploit public fear and patriotism, turning a minor dispute into a justification for conquest. Commander Vimes, a sceptical policeman, cuts through these grand claims with his practical commitment to justice. Seen through the everyday work of keeping order, the rhetoric of national glory begins to look absurd. Monstrous Regiment turns to the army’s rules about gender and identity. Women enter its ranks disguised as men, revealing how much military authority depends on assumptions about masculinity. Their disguises expose both the inequality of those rules and the fragility of an institution that treats them as unquestionable.
Across both novels, the army emerges as a mechanism that consumes civilian and soldier lives for political advantage. Pratchett’s achievement lies in keeping the comedy sharp without trivialising suffering: the laughter targets those who organise and justify conflict, while compassion remains with those who endure it. His satire broadens what fantasy can say about warfare, showing how humour can expose contradictions that solemn accounts may leave untouched. It also challenges readers to question the stories nations tell about war – and why those stories remain so easy to accept.