his brain came a poor third , and delivered its thoughts all in one go , telling him what his legs had apparently worked out for themselves : that the dignity of the great could rarely survive a face full of custard , that a picture of an encustarded patrician on the front page of the times would rock the power-politics of the city , and most of all that in a post-vetinari world he , moist , would not see tomorrow , which was one of his lifelong ambitions .