The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  ‘Nothing. Honest, Boss,’ he pleads. ‘Just worried about their futures. Nervous –’

  ‘Course they’re all fucking nervous,’ I tell him. ‘They’re all fucking old men; over thirty the bloody lot of them.’

  ‘They just want to play well –’

  ‘Fucking shut up about them, will you?’ I tell him. ‘What about me? No one understands my position. No one understands the mess Revie left them in and put me in; no contracts, over-the-hill the lot of them. Team had shot it and he knew it. No chance in hell they can win the European Cup. That’s why he fucked off and took the England job. You think he’d have walked out on a team that he thought was going to win the European Cup? The fucking European Cup? That man? Never in a month of bloody Sundays. They’ve fucking shot it; he knew it and I know it. Half them bloody players fucking know it and all; know it in their boots; know it in their hearts. But now it’s my job to tell them, tell them what they already bloody know but don’t want to fucking hear.’

  He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will nod.

  ‘Thank Christ I got you,’ I tell him. ‘Now bugger off.’

  Duncan stands up. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Goodnight, Boss.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘Before I give you a bloody kiss goodnight.’

  But Duncan doesn’t move. ‘Boss, can I ask you one question?’

  ‘If you give us another fag.’

  Duncan hands me one, then asks, ‘What did you think of my goal?’

  ‘It was good,’ I tell him and Duncan smiles –

  A right broad Cheshire Cat of a grin –

  Just like my eldest. Just like my youngest –

  ‘Almost bloody good enough to make up for the other hundred fucking sitters you missed. Now get off to bloody bed, you’ve got fucking training tomorrow morning!’

  * * *

  It is the early hours of Saturday 9 January 1971. You are home to Wolves this afternoon. You are lying awake next to the wife –

  You cannot sleep. You cannot dream –

  You thought things had been on the up again; the draws with Liverpool and Manchester City, the wins over Blackpool and Forest. But then you lost at home to West Ham and away at Stoke, drawing 4–4 with Manchester United at home on Boxing Day –

  4–4 when you’d been leading 2–0 at half-time; you blame Les bloody Green for that. Blame fucking Pete; it was Peter who brought him from Burton Albion with him; Taylor who’s kept defending him, paying off his gambling debts, fending off the paternity suits, lending him money and keeping him in the side when he’s cost you games.

  You hear the phone ringing. You get out of bed. You go downstairs –

  ‘You won’t see me today,’ says Taylor. ‘I’ve not slept a bloody wink. I feel like fucking death. I think I’ve got cancer.’

  ‘Be at the ground in half an hour,’ you tell him.

  ‘It’s no good,’ he says. ‘I’ve had it.’

  ‘I want you there not later than nine,’ you tell him and hang up –

  I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.

  You get out your address book and the phone book and you start to make the calls; to call in favours, to trade on your fame; to pull strings, to get what you want –

  The best possible care for Peter.

  You get the X-ray department of your local hospital to open on their weekend. You get the best doctor in Derby to come in, to bring a cancer specialist with him.

  You pick Pete up at the ground. You drive him to the hospital –

  And then you wait, wait in the corridor, wait and pray for Pete.

  ‘He’s had a heart attack,’ the doctor says. ‘Probably about eight weeks ago.’

  ‘The Arsenal game,’ you tell Pete. ‘Remember how you were?’

  ‘When was that?’ asks the doctor.

  ‘October thirty-first,’ I tell him. ‘We lost 2–0.’

  ‘Well, that certainly fits,’ says the doctor. ‘Now you need to drive him home slowly and make sure he stays there.’

  ‘We’ve got a match against Wolves this afternoon,’ says Pete. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You’ve got no match. Nor will you have for several weeks,’ the doctor tells Pete. ‘It’s important that you rest completely.’

  You both thank the doctor, the consultant, the specialist and the X-ray department. Then you drive Pete home slowly and see him into his house, making sure he stays put.

  Back at the ground, you drop Peter’s old mate Les Green; drop him after 129 consecutive league and cup appearances; drop him and tell him he will never play for Derby County or Brian Clough again –

  You play Colin Boulton in goal. You lose 2–1 –

  It’s your twelfth defeat of the season.

  Day Fifteen

  I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room with an old-fashioned fucking hangover and no one but myself to blame –

  No one but myself and Harvey, Stewart, Lorimer, the Grays, Bates, Clarke, Hunter, McQueen, Reaney, Yorath, Cherry, Jordan, Giles, Madeley, Bremner, Cooper, Maurice bloody Lindley and Sydney fucking Owen.

  Two wins, one draw and one defeat (on penalties) and I should be happy; if this was for real, Leeds would have five points from four games, four games away from home, and I would be happy; not ecstatic, not over-the-moon but not gutted; not sick-as-a-parrot, just happy. But this is not for real –

  For real is Saturday. For real is away at Stoke.

  I get out of bed. I have a wash and a shave. I get dressed. I go downstairs to see if I can still get any breakfast. I sit in the deserted dining room and stare at my bacon and eggs, my tea and my toast, trying not to throw up again –

  This is not real life. Not the life I wanted –

  Those days gone. These days here –

  Not the life for me.

  * * *

  January 1971 is a miserable month; Peter’s still at home ill, Sam still on his holidays; no one here but you and Webby, and you’re already regretting appointing Stuart bloody Webb as club fucking secretary; too bloody big for his bloody posh boots is Stuart Webb.

  Folk had been coming up to the ground all morning for tickets for the cup tie against Wolves; almost sold the bloody lot; got a carpet of fucking cash, the apprentices stuffing it into plastic bags and wastepaper baskets, anything and anywhere to get it out the way. Now here’s this bloody johnny-come-lately of a secretary, a secretary you fucking appointed, here he bloody is giving you the third fucking degree –

  ‘The ladies in the office say there were four whole bins full of cash,’ he says. ‘There’s three here; now where’s the fourth?’

  ‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ you tell him.

  ‘Well, someone said you took one home at lunchtime, for safe keeping.’

  ‘Who the fucking hell told you that?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who told me,’ he says. ‘What matters is where the cash is.’

  ‘Exactly,’ you tell him. ‘So stop bloody yapping and start fucking looking!’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I will and I’ll get the police to help me, shall I?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘It’s at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’

  ‘Why did you take it home?’

  ‘Because, one, you won’t give us a key to the bloody safe and, two, it’s safer in my house than in this fucking office and, three, I can do what the bloody hell I want here because I’m the fucking boss – not you. You’re a secretary and you answer to me.’

  Stuart Webb shakes his head. Stuart Webb slams the door on his way out.

  Peter is still ill, Sam still on his holidays –

  Suddenly, this is a lonely place.

  * * *

  The taxi drops me at the ground. Training has already finished, the players gone home. But through the doors. Under the stand. Round the corner. Down the corridor. Bobby Collins is waiting for me –

  Bobby Collins, former captain of L
eeds, now manager at Huddersfield –

  ‘You’re bloody late,’ he says as I show him into the office. ‘Huddersfield Town might not be in the First Division, Mr Clough, but I’m still a busy man and I don’t like to be kept fucking waiting.’

  I pull open a drawer. I take out a bottle of Scotch. ‘Drink?’

  ‘Not just now, thank you very much.’

  I pour myself a large one and ask him, ‘Now do you want Johnny Giles or not?’

  ‘Of course I bloody want him,’ he says. ‘Who fucking wouldn’t?’

  * * *

  January was bad but February could be worse. Pete is still fucking ill; the whole town ill now. Rolls-Royce in collapse. Thousands out of work. The Derbyshire Building Society on the verge of bankruptcy. The whole fucking town. That’s why Derby County FC must be on the mend. That’s why you start to win some matches again, away at Ipswich and West Ham. For the whole town. You lose at Everton in the cup, but you then beat Palace and Blackpool. That’s why you also go shopping. For the whole fucking town. No Peter to hold your hand this time either. But this time you know exactly who you want. This time you go back to Sunderland for Colin Todd –

  You coached this lad in the Sunderland youth team; the Almighty Todd –

  ‘He’s too expensive,’ you tell the press. ‘We’re not interested.’

  You don’t ask Peter. You don’t ask the chairman. You don’t ask the board –

  You are the manager. You are the man in charge. You are the Boss –

  You sign the players. You pick the players. Because it’s you who sinks if they don’t swim. No one else. That’s why you don’t ask. That’s why you just do it –

  This time you break the British transfer record; £170,000 for a defender; £170,000 as Rolls-Royce collapses, the whole town, the whole fucking town –

  But you’ve also done it for them; for the whole bloody town –

  To cheer Derby up; the whole fucking town.

  Longson is in the Caribbean. The tactless old twit. You send him a telegram:

  ‘Signed you another good player, Todd. Running short of cash, love Brian.’

  In Colin Todd’s first game you beat Arsenal 2–0 and you’re hailed a hero again. The next game is away against Leeds. Revie tries to get it postponed because of a flu epidemic in the Leeds United dressing room. You’re having bloody none of that and, fucking surprise surprise, only Sniffer Clarke is absent from the Leeds eleven. Norman Hunter’s certainly not absent and eventually ends up in the book as Revie and Cocker leap out of their dug-out, arms flapping, shouting and carrying on as if Norman really were bloody innocent. But fifteen minutes from the end Lorimer fucking scores and sends Leeds seven points clear of Arsenal and Derby back to the drawing board –

  You lose to Liverpool, Newcastle and Nottingham bleeding Forest and do not win a single bloody game in the whole of fucking March –

  Fear and doubt. Drink and cigarettes. No sleep. That’s March 1971 –

  It is your worst month as a manager. Your loneliest month.

  But then Peter finally comes back to bloody work and you finally get a fucking win, at home to Huddersfield. You lose again at Tottenham but then you do not lose again; you beat United at Old Trafford and Everton at home –

  But it’s not enough for Peter; Peter’s had a long time alone in the house with his Raceform; a long time alone to think; to brood and to dwell –

  ‘Longson slipped you a £5,000 rise, didn’t he?’

  ‘Who fucking told you that?’

  ‘Answer the bloody question,’ Peter says. ‘Am I right or am I wrong?’

  ‘I want to know where you got your bloody information.’

  ‘That doesn’t fucking matter, Brian. What matters to me is that you took a £5,000 rise, that you took it eighteen fucking months ago, and that you’ve never said a bloody word about it to me. I thought we were partners, Brian.’

  ‘Pete, listen –’

  ‘No, you listen, Brian,’ he says. ‘I want my share of the cake.’

  ‘Pete –’

  ‘I want my share of the fucking cake, Brian. Yes or no?’

  * * *

  ‘Bobby Collins thinks that Giles is the player to do Huddersfield proud, but Giles will be very much involved in my squad for Saturday’s game at Stoke. That is my priority now. So Johnny Giles, at the moment, is absolutely necessary to Leeds United. If the situation changes, Bobby Collins will be the first to be informed.’

  ‘What do you think about the comments made by Kevin Keegan’s father that if Johnny Giles hadn’t punched Keegan then none of this would have happened?’

  ‘It’s only natural for a father to stick up for his own son; I’d do the bloody same for my two lads and I hope you’d do the same for yours.’

  ‘But do you blame Giles for the whole affair? Believe he started it?’

  ‘How it all started is a mystery to me. We shall just have to wait until we get the referee’s report to get things sorted out. But I did feel very sorry for Kevin Keegan.’

  ‘Will Billy Bremner be appealing?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What do you think of the decision by the FA to call this meeting of representatives of the Football League, the Professional Footballers’ Association, linesmen, referees and managers to study ways of improving behaviour on the pitch?’

  ‘I’m all for cleaning up the game, you gentlemen know that. But I wouldn’t want to see it done on the back of Billy Bremner.’

  ‘You still intend to play Bremner on Saturday?’

  ‘Of course I bloody do.’

  ‘And you’ll be accompanying Bremner to London on Friday?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve any fucking choice, have I?’

  * * *

  These have been a bad few months but at least Pete is back at work. He’s still not happy; still after his slice of cake, but at least he’s back at work, back doing what he’s paid for. Pete has found another one; another ugly duckling, another bargain-bin reject. He’s been down to Worcester three times to watch Roger Davies in the Southern League. He’s offered Worcester City £6,000 but Worcester have put up their price; Worcester know Arsenal, Coventry and Portsmouth are all in the hunt now –

  Now Worcester want £14,000 for Roger Davies.

  ‘Is it definitely yes?’ you ask Pete.

  ‘It’s definitely yes,’ he says, and so you get in your car and drive down to Worcester to meet Pete and sign Roger Davies for £14,000 –

  ‘I hope you’re right about Davies,’ says Sam Longson to Pete when you all get back home to Derby.‘£14,000 is a lot of money for a non-league player.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ replies Pete and walks out of the room and out of the ground.

  You follow Pete home; knock on his door; let yourself in. You pour him a drink; pour yourself one; light you both a fag and put your arms around him.

  ‘You shouldn’t let the chairman upset you,’ you tell him.

  ‘Easy for you,’ sniffs Pete. ‘The son he never had, with your £5,000 raise.’

  ‘Right, listen, you miserable bastard, why did we buy Roger fucking Davies?’

  ‘You doubting me and all now?’ he shouts. ‘Thanks a fucking bunch, mate.’

  ‘I’m not bloody doubting you, Pete,’ you tell him. ‘But I want to hear you tell me why we went down to Worcester City and bought a non-league player for £14,000.’

  ‘Because he’s twenty-one years old, six foot odd and a decent fucking striker.’

  ‘There you go,’ you tell him. ‘Now why didn’t you say that to Longson?’

  ‘Because he questioned my judgement; questioned the one bloody thing I can do: spot fucking players. I’m not you, Brian, and I never will be – on the telly, in the papers – and I don’t bloody want to be. But I don’t want to be questioned and fucking doubted either. I just want to be appreciated and respected. Is that too much to ask? A little bit of bloody respect? A little bit of fucking appreciation every now and again?’

  ‘Fuck off,’ I
tell him. ‘What was the first thing you ever said to me? Directors never say thank you, that’s what. We could give them the league, the European Cup, and you know as well as I do that they’d never once say thank you. So don’t let the bastards start getting under your skin now and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he says.

  ‘I know I am.’

  ‘You always are.’

  ‘I know I am,’ you say. ‘So let’s get back to work and make sure next season we bloody win that fucking title. Not for any fucking chairman or any board of bloody directors. For us; me and you; Clough and Taylor; and no one else.’

  * * *

  I am on my hands and my knees on the training ground, looking for that bloody watch of mine in the grass and the dirt. But the light is going and I’m sure one of them fucking nicked it anyway. There’s a ball in the grass by the fence. I pick it up and chuck it up into the sky and volley it into the back of the practice net. I go and pick it out of the back of the net. I go back to the edge of the penalty box and chuck it up into the sky again, volley it into the back of the net again, again and again and again, ten times in all, never missing, not once. But there are tears in my eyes and then I can’t stop crying, stood there on that practice pitch in the dark, the tears rolling down my bloody cheeks, for once in my fucking life glad that I’m alone.

  * * *

  This has been a bad season; a season to forget. But today it’s almost over. Today is the last game of the 1970–71 season. Today is also Dave Mackay’s last game –

  1 May 1971; home to West Bromwich Albion –

  West Brom who last week helped put pay to the ambitions of Leeds United and Don Revie; Leeds United and Don Revie who have lost the league by a single point to Arsenal; Arsenal who have not only won the league but also the cup and become only the second-ever team to win the Double –

  Tottenham being the only other team. Tottenham and Dave Mackay.

  Two minutes from the end, from the end of his last match, a match Derby are winning 2–0, and Dave Mackay is still rushing to take a throw-in; still clapping urgently, demanding concentration and 100 per cent –

  He has played all forty-two games of this season. Every single one of them.