What happened once upon a while ago, was that a friend announced to The Duke something along the lines of "Folks who read Terry Pratchett have no imagination." I found this a rather bewildering generalization, and one, alas, that proved that the very intelligent individual didn't, in fact, have much of a clue about the work of Mr Pratchett.

Like so many (like, in fact, The Duke at one time), our anonymous critic assumed Mr Pratchett to be a purveyor of the kindsa nonsense one might find in fantasy trilogies about distant planets populated by drilling operations and three-headed octopi beasts.

Whilst technically, I guess, Pratchett can fit snugly enough beside the likes of Trilogy Of Isenfangle or whatever the hell in the old book emporiums, the truth is that what Pratchett writes about, is the right-now. The society and such. For sure, he sets things in bizarre, curiously mundane environments (as opposed to the flamboyant, enchanting lands of similar scribes), but what he's talking about is shit you see on the old news and such every evening, unless you turn it to The Simpsons after the soaps.

In fact, if you dig the subversive nature of The Simpsons, then probably this'll rock your boat somewhat, too. Or at least give it a good kick, a mild shudder perhaps resulting. Just like The Simpsons, this is a recognizable environment, recognizable issues being addressed, but lovably daft nonetheless.

Terry Pratchett is a brilliant, wickedly funny satirist. That his characters might be Golems or giant elephant things is neither here nor there.

So the fact of the matter is that I've wanted to read some Pratchett for some time, but had less than the hint of a possible clue about where the hell to start. I knew something about this ongoing Discworld carry-on, and assumed that what you needed to do was to read the first one first, and then go ahead with no.2, no.3 and so on, in chronological order.

Unlike, say, the Friday 13th series, where one could feasibly start in the middle and go any way they liked, I presumed that with these kindsa dense fictional universe affairs, a man needed to have his bearings, is what.

Turns out, though, that the first one I ever get a chance to read is his latest, a number by the name of Going Postal. What I can relate first and foremost, is that it's brilliant. It's incredibly funny, bringing to mind all sorts of surrealistic leg-pullers from Terry Gilliam to those Snake Men he used to hang around with back in the day.

You know the ones. "I want a parrot" or something was the joke.

What Going Postal concerns itself with, is a fella is granted a last-minute reprieve from the gallows. Rather than being free for to whore himself left and right like some exotic Hilton of some kind, though, he finds out that what he needs to do is to start working for the city's postal department.