Hogfather is not quite peak Pratchett, but it’s getting there. And, of course, even so it is better than most genre fiction by a margin. Hogfather beats you over the head with uncomfortable truths, while also having you giggle at Death trying to be jolly Father Christmas, because the cosmic bureaucrats sent out assassins against him. This is a slight problem because Hogfather is responsible for making the sun rise, naturally.

Apart from the neat plot, this book provides a lot of worldbuilding that fleshes out Discworld details for future use: A A crash-course in gods by way of the Oh God of Hangovers, turning the badassery of Susan Sto Helit up to eleven, impressive women using household implements as weapons against stronger opponents when defending little children in their care (recognise that theme?) …

It’s fun and also good for your soul if you read it just before Christmas, is what I’m saying.