In Thief of Time in the great stinking metropolis of Ankh Morpork, an obsessed clockmaker receives an unusual commission from an excessively beautiful woman whose feet do not touch the ground; strict school-teacher Susan finds herself summoned by her grandfather, Death, to do him a favour; the monks who manage the even distribution of Time find themselves with a recalcitrant novice; and dairyman Ronnie Soak muses on his glory days, when he was the Fifth Rider of the Apocalypse, the one who left before they got famous.

Terry Pratchett's Thief of Time, confronts Discworld and a variety of its defenders with an insidious menace; never before has the phrase "The End of History" had quite so sinister a sound. As always, the sometimes startlingly surrealistically original, sometimes comfortingly groan-worthy, jokes are underlain by some intensely complex ideas and tight plotting. Susan makes a reappearance as one of Pratchett's more interesting heroines; the sinister Lady LeJean is one of Pratchett's most interesting villains, particularly once we learn the answer to the mystery about her.

There is an attractive darkness to much of the humour here—Pratchett is often at his best when at his darkest.—Roz Kaveney

The Truth is Terry Pratchett's 25th novel about Discworld in general and the dirt-encrusted metropolis of Ankh-Morpork in particular—home of the sinister Patrician, the Unseen University of magicians and guilds for everything from Assassins to Thieves, taking in Clowns (but not mimes) along the way. Ankh-Morpork has weathered several influxes of technology in its time—a demon-inspired invention of the movies, the brief fad for Music with Rocks in it—and now it has acquired a free press, dedicated newshounds, dwarf printers with not especially nasty tempers (for dwarves), and people who want to see their amusing vegetables in the "On a Lighter Note" section. The business of politics (attempts by the old aristocracy to unseat the Patrician) is ratcheted up a notch and Vimes, of the City Watch, is in a worse temper than usual. William de Worde, editor, reporter and investigator, is another attractive Pratchett hero, captured for us in the middle of wonderfully parodied routines from old movies and fiction that he, in his world, is doing for the first time. This is inventive farce with touches of high seriousness and ethical good sense, and two of the nastiest doomed hitmen outside Tarantino. —Roz Kaveney

When you have an author as good as Terry Pratchett writing for children, you expect that the result will be a novel of great invention, assured comic timing and a generally all-round highly readable fantasy tour de force. Readers of The Wee Free Men will not be disappointed. After winning the prestigious Carnegie Medal award for his previous story of Discworld for younger readers, The Amazing Maurice and his Educated Rodents, Pratchett has followed up with another irresistibly entertaining adventure.

Miss Perspicacia Tick, a witch of some renown, is worried about a ripple in the walls of the universe—probably another world making contact. Which is not good. This errant activity is centred on some chalk country—where traditionally good witches simply do not grow well. Fortunately, Miss Tiffany Aching of Home Farm on The Chalk, nine years old, misunderstood and yearning for excitement, wants to be a witch and has just proved herself to be of great potential by whacking a big Green Monster from the river with a huge frying pan while using her annoying younger brother as bait. Miss Tick is impressed. So, after travelling to the chalky downs at once and dispensing some stop gap advice to Tiffany about holding the fort until she gets back with more help, Miss Tick is off.

Any hesitation Tiffany may have had about the seriousness of the situation expires when the Queen of the fairies kidnaps her younger brother. With the help of a talking frog, loaned by Miss Tick, and an army of thieving, warmongering, nippy, boozy wee free men called the Nac Mac Feegle (who used to work for the Queen but rebelled), Tiffany sets off rescue her kin.

There's humour at every turn, and the situations that follow are both wonderfully dramatic and preposterously unreal. Pratchett really is the master of his genre and it's difficult to imagine a more entertaining read. (Age 10 and over) —John McLay

When Masklin and his tribe from the Outside first ventured into the world of Arnold Bros (est 1905) they heroically saved the nomes under the floorboards from certain death. But Masklin also made a discovery that was to change his life—Thing, the little black box he carried as a talisman, could speak and was ,in fact, awfully clever. So Masklin has no reason to doubt that Thing is telling the Truth when it speaks of a Ship which will take the nomes Home to their place in the Stars, and begins to seek a way of returning the nome race to its rightful place in the Universe. And if that means stealing Concorde, then so be it.

Pratchett does it again in this sublimely silly follow up to Truckers and Diggers, forcing the reader to gag on each giggle as this divine, ridiculously mad fantasy trilogy hurtles to its conclusion. —Susan Harrison

In Robert Rankin's latest warped fantasy, a serial killer is murdering notable nursery-rhyme characters and leaving very special sweeties as calling cards at the scene of each crime: The Hollow Chocolate Bunnies of the Apocalypse.

Humpty Dumpty is the first of Toy City's upper crust to sleep with the fishes. Boiled alive in his own swimming pool. A nasty fate, but maybe not as nasty as Little Boy Blue's, with his own shepherd's crook thrust a long way into a place where the sun does not shine.

Bill Winkie the P.I. has gone missing, and his hard-drinking teddybear sidekick Eddie takes up the case. Down these mean streets a bear must go. He needs a hand, though—two hands, owing to a lack of opposable thumbs—and reluctantly teams up with "gormster" country boy Jack, who foolishly thinks he can make his fortune in Toy City.

Of course the police, jolly bouncy rubber policemen who are sadistic at heart, object to interfering freelances. So does the mystery assassin, who seems to be a curvaceous woman in a kinky rubber outfit—death on high heels. Even kindly old Mother Goose, madame of the Toy City brothel, gets her neck wrung before she can talk, and Eddie is in serious danger of losing his very stuffing.

Fast, demented, fairytale-noir action, filled with gruesomely silly deaths, self-referential thriller gags, and the true meanings of those nursery rhymes whose royalties made Humpty and the rest so rich.

Robert Rankin is fond of introducing peculiar, repeated figures of speech, and this book's is the Maddeningly Incomplete Simile. Like this: Hollow Chocolate Bunnies is as good as. It's as weird as. It's as deeply bonkers as. In short, it's as Rankin as.—David Langford

Robert Rankin's wondrously oddball fantasies have caused addicted readers' heads to spontaneously explode on five separate continents, most of them in Brentford. Some call him the Terry Pratchett of seedy suburbia, but only if they want a punch in the chops...

Waiting for Godalming reports the greatest case of private eye Lazlo Woodbine, hired to investigate God's murder and the suspicious fact that Earth was inherited not by the meek but by God's other son Colin—edited out of the Bible when Jesus got full artistic control. Woodbine is strong on gunplay, dark alleys, rooftop confrontations and talking bizarre drivel in bars, but one worries about the Holy Guardian Sprout called Barry living inside his head.

Meanwhile, light-fingered Icarus Smith discovers the "Red Head" reality pills that reveal the disguised demons among us for the awful, scaly, insect-mouthed horrors that they are. Meanwhile, Prof. Bruce Partington's "spectremeter" device raises ghosts but can't make them go away again. Meanwhile, conspiracy theorists will shiver to the dread Ministry of Serendipity hidden under Mornington Crescent station, and its awful uses for barbers' chairs.

As Rankin's anarchic storylines go, this is unusually sober and logical. There's a flood of running gags, self-referential japes, author interjections, allusions to a million Sherlock Holmes titles, and deranged one-liners like this architectural description of Wisteria Lodge:

To the original Georgian pile had been added a Victorian bubo, an Edwardian boil and a nineteen-thirties cyst.

Full of inspired silliness throughout, this is Rankin in good form. —David Langford