The guard on the hole in the fence looked puzzled. He was aware of excitement back in the base, and his radio seemed to be picking up nothing but static, and his eyes were being drawn again and again to the card in front of him.
He'd seen many identity cards in his time‑military, CIA, FBI, KGB even‑and, being a young soldier, had yet to grasp that the more insignificant an organization is, the more impressive are its identity cards.
This one was hellishly impressive. His lips moved as he read it again, all the way from "The Lord Protector of the Common Wealth of Britain charges and demands," through the bit about commandeering all kindling, rope, and igniferous oils, right down to the signature of the WA's first Lord Adjutant, Praise‑him‑all‑Ye‑works‑of‑the‑Lord‑and‑Flye‑Fornication Smith. Newt kept his thumb over the bit about Nine Pence Per Witch and tried to look like James Bond.
Finally the guard's probing intellect found a word he thought he recognized.
"What's this here," he said suspiciously, "about us got to give you faggots?"
"Oh, we have to have them," said Newt. "We burn them."
"Say what?"
"We burn them."
The guard's face broadened into a grin. And they'd told him England was soft. "Right on!" he said.
Good Omens - T. Prachett and Neil Gaiman