30 years ago this month I sat on a packed Intercity train from Leeds to London and spent the entire journey laughing uncontrollably - real snorting, handkerchief-stuffed-in-mouth, tears-pouring-down-cheeks, deeply-embarassing-in-public hilarity. I don't often have such a clear reTerry Pratchett's 'The Colour of Magic' for the first time was an absolute joy, one doubtless shared by all those other fans who misspent their adolescence reading 'Dragonriders of Pern' instead of cracking on with that T.S Eliot essay.
I've only ever laughed like that at one other book - 'Good Omens', Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman's re-imagining of 'The Book of Relevations' in which the Antichrist grows up as Just William, the Four Horseman of the Apolcalypse are a quartet of trivia-quiz-addicted bikers and "the very shape of the M25 forms the sigil odegra in the language of the Black Priesthood f Ancient Mu, and means 'Hail the Great Beast, Devourer of Worlds'."
Thanks for all the laughs Terry, and for your boundless faith in the ultimate goodness of humankind.
"In the Ramtop village, where they dance the real Morris dance, for example, they believe that no one is finally dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away - until the clock he wound up winds down, until the wine she made has finished its ferment, until the crop they planted is harvested. The span of someone's life, they say, is only the core of their actual existence."