The great goblin detective, who solved so many baffling cases and tracked down so many do-gooders,* Dögsthorpe is also a byword in the Labyrinth for his total inability to hold a rational conversation with anybody. Even the most brilliant goblin conversationalists of his day have been unable to get anything out of him beyond the odd whine and the occasional bark.
Brêgg the poet is greatly admired and loved throughout the Labyrinth. Perhaps he is the single most admired and loved goblin there has ever been, and yet, oddly enough, he is also the most pitied, for he is haunted by a doppelgänger, or familiar, by the name of Fitch. This Fitch is, in itself, perfectly harmless, but it is also given to nibbling the hideously smelling Yeurrrrrrrch! root (fig. 5c). The odour that this vegetable gives off (particularly when nibbled in a special way) is so offensive that no goblin will go within three miles of it. (And one goblin mile is equal to fifty-nine of ours!) And so, since Fitch is never found not nibbling a Yeurrrrrrrch! root, poor Brêgg, though admired and loved, is forever shunned by all the other goblins of the Labyrinth.
From the humble Twark you come, or do you?
As you can see, goblin poetry is not all that good.
+ For Night-Troll, see Septimus, page 112.
# Corduroy trousers - this is the smell of the Twark's egg (see page 54).
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