The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  ‘Then that’s me and you finished,’ I tell him and I hang up.

  * * *

  The Leeds defeat was a turning point. Again. You have now beaten Chelsea, Southampton, Coventry and Forest. You have beaten Notts County 6–0 in the FA Cup. You have given away tickets to striking miners. You are Cloughie. You can do what you want –

  Football manager one week, prime minister the next.

  Manchester United are in Nottingham. Frank O’Farrell is there to sign Ian Storey-Moore. Storey-Moore is a left-winger; fast, direct and twenty-eight years old. Nottingham Forest have accepted a £200,000 bid from United. O’Farrell and the Forest secretary have gone up to Edwalton Hall to finalize the deal with Ian Storey-Moore. Then Pete hears the deal is breaking down over Storey-Moore’s personal terms –

  Pete says, ‘This one’s ours, Brian.’

  You pick up the phone. You dial Edwalton Hall. You catch Ian Storey-Moore –

  ‘Cloughie here,’ you tell him. ‘Stay where you are, I’m coming over.’

  You and Pete drive over to Nottingham. You make him an offer he can’t refuse; Ian Storey-Moore will play for Derby. Not United –

  Ian Storey-Moore signs blank forms –

  The only thing missing is the signature of the Forest secretary.

  Longson calls you. Longson asks you, ‘Are you sure you’re in order?’

  ‘He wants to play for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘So I’ve bought him.’

  You take Ian Storey-Moore to the Midland Hotel, Derby. You introduce him to his new teammates. Before the home game against Wolves, you parade him around the Baseball Ground in a Derby County shirt as your new player. Your new player waves to the crowd. Your new player sits up in the directors’ box to watch Derby beat Wolves 2–1.

  Then you drive him back to the Midland Hotel after the game –

  You lock him in a room with his wife, a nice room –

  You cross your fingers. You hope for the best –

  But Forest won’t sign the transfer forms:

  ‘I am absolutely staggered and distressed at the performance of Nottingham Forest Football Club this morning. They are depriving the game of the dignity it deserves, and I will not have Derby County brought into any disrepute by anyone in football.’

  Sir Matt Busby buys Mrs Ian Storey-Moore a bouquet of flowers –

  Ian Storey-Moore joins Manchester United.

  You are outraged. You send a four-page telegram in protest to Alan Hardaker and the Football League Management Committee. Your chairman sends a second telegram disassociating himself from you and your protest –

  You are outraged, fucking outraged –

  Outraged and out for revenge, again.

  Day Seventeen

  I don’t think I’ve slept; not since I hung up on Peter. Just lain here; eyes closed, thinking. Next news there’s my old mate John Shaw from Derby banging on the hotel door:

  ‘Do you fancy some company for the trip down to London?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m booked on the bloody train with Billy Bremner, aren’t I?’

  ‘Sod him,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you. Meet him at the FA.’

  That’s what we do then. We drive down to London –

  Day before the season starts. Day before our first game –

  Drive down to London, thanks to Billy Bremner, talking politics and unions, socialism and football, wishing it was a one-way trip –

  ‘I hate them,’ I tell John. ‘I hate managing them. But what can I bloody do? They’re filthy and they cheat. They’ve got it off to a fine art. If the pressure’s on, someone goes down in the penalty area to give them time to regroup. Then one of them gets boot trouble, which is just an excuse for the trainer to pass on messages from the bench. You wouldn’t believe what they’re capable of …’

  ‘Need to get you back to Derby County,’ says John. ‘Back where you belong.’

  ‘Either I’ll bust them or they’ll bust me.’

  * * *

  April Fool’s Day 1972, and Leeds United have come to you; 39,000 crammed inside the Baseball Ground to see you versus Revie.

  Don’s been up to his old tricks again too, telling anyone who’ll listen that there’ll be no Giles today; John ruled out with a troublesome strain. But then, surprise surprise, come three o’clock and here comes Johnny Giles –

  It makes no odds. No difference today –

  Today you will not lose. Not today –

  Not on this field. Not today:

  You create chance after chance as Robson hustles Bremner and O’Hare turns Charlton time after time to score twice, the second cannoning back off Sprake and going in off Hunter for an own goal. It is the first time you have beaten Leeds since that Easter when Revie fielded his reserves; but these were not his reserves today –

  Today you have beaten Leeds United. Beaten Don Revie –

  Today you go top; top of the First Division:

  ‘Brilliant, indefatigable and utterly ruthless; Brian Clough and Derby County did not so much beat Revie and Leeds at the Baseball Ground as massacre them …’

  You have beaten Leeds. You are top of the table. You resign –

  You, Peter and Jimmy. The three of you resign –

  ‘For want of a bit more money –’

  * * *

  ‘Now you let me do the talking,’ says Sam Bolton when we meet. ‘You’re here to listen.’

  Bremner of Leeds and Keegan of Liverpool don’t even get to listen. They are made to wait outside the FA, so it’s Brian Clough and Sam Bolton vs Bob Paisley and John Smith in front of Vernon Stokes, Harold Thompson and Ted Croker of the FA, here at Lancaster Gate, in the Corridors of Power, with the portraits on the walls:

  Her Majesty the Queen and HRH the Duke of Kent; the patron of the Football Association and the President of the Football Association –

  Power and money; money and power –

  The Honorary Vice-Presidents; the Life Vice-Presidents; the plain old Vice-Presidents; the letters after their names, the titles before them; the Dukes, the Earls, the Air Marshals, the Generals, the Admirals, the Field-Marshals, the Majors and the Aldermen; the Right Honourable this and the Right Honourable that –

  These are the men who run the game, who control English football –

  These men with their money; these men with their power –

  The money to appoint people. The power to sack people –

  The money to select people. The power to drop them –

  To fine and suspend them –

  ‘You’re here to listen.’

  ‘Both clubs agree that the conduct of certain players in the match was deplorable and cannot be tolerated. Both realize that the good name of their club is involved, quite apart from the image of the game. The FA understands that both clubs are taking strong disciplinary action against the players concerned and the two who were sent off will also be dealt with by the FA in accordance with the agreed procedure. They will also face an FA disciplinary commission on charges of bringing the game into disrepute.’

  ‘You’re here to listen.’

  ‘Our disciplinary work is costing us £30,000 a year, over and above the cost of maintaining a disciplinary department. We have better ways of spending this money.’

  ‘You’re here to listen.’

  ‘We have to show that we will take disciplinary action against misdemeanours on and off the pitch; everyone agrees this has to be done.’

  ‘You’re here to listen.’

  ‘I am not pessimistic about the future of football. We showed a slight improvement in the number of disciplinary cases last season but we have to increase that rate of improvement. No one is expecting no fouls to be committed on a football field. What we are trying to get rid of is dissent, and we want an acceptance of disciplines.’

  ‘You’re here to listen.’

  ‘Leeds’s disciplinary record was so much better last season than in the year before that they have obviously made a considerable effort to put their ho
use in order.’

  I stop listening. I start telling them, ‘Eighty-four players will miss the opening-day fixtures due to suspensions from last season. Players like Stan Bowles and Mike Summerbee. Players like Norman Hunter and Allan Clarke.’

  ‘I told you to listen,’ says Bolton after the meeting. ‘Told you to keep it bloody shut for once.’

  ‘Let me give you some friendly advice, Mr Bolton,’ I tell him. ‘Never tell me what to do and then I’ll never have to tell you what to do. Now take me back to Leeds.’

  * * *

  On 11 April 1972 your resignations are accepted by the Derby County board.

  You’ve lost to Newcastle and drawn with West Brom. You held dressing-room inquisitions. Then you went to Sheffield and beat United 4–0 away –

  You are still top. But you’re still gone –

  You, Pete and Jimmy. To Coventry.

  Except Coventry City are getting cold feet now; their chairman has had the champagne on ice too long and the warmer his champagne gets, the colder his feet.

  Three hours after your resignations are accepted, you and Pete drive out to Sam Longson’s pile. You bring one of your tame directors with you.

  ‘Do you really want to be remembered as the chairman who lost the best team in football management?’ you ask Sam Longson. ‘When Derby County were top of the league? The Championship within touching distance? Derby’s first ever Championship. European glory on the horizon? Is that how you want to be remembered? As the chairman who gave it all away? Is that what you want, Mr Chairman?’

  ‘For want of a bit more money,’ adds Pete.

  Sam Longson shakes his head. Sam Longson asks, ‘But it’s too late, isn’t it? You’ve already signed with Coventry, haven’t you?’

  Y ou put your arm around Sam and tell him, ‘It’s never too late, Mr Chairman.’

  ‘For want of a bit more money,’ adds Pete again.

  ‘I told them they couldn’t bloody have you,’ says Longson. ‘I told them hands off. But Coventry told me you wanted away from Derby –’

  ‘No, no, no,’ you tell him. ‘Home is where this heart is; right here beside you.’

  ‘They’ll tell Coventry City to go to hell,’ says your tame director –

  ‘For want of a bit more money,’ says Pete for the third time.

  Longson dries his eyes, blows his nose and asks, ‘How much will it take?’

  ‘All we’re asking,’ you tell him, ‘is for you to match their offer.’

  Longson takes out his cheque book and asks, ‘Which is?’

  ‘An extra five grand for me, three for Pete and one for Jimmy,’ you tell him.

  Longson nods his head and signs the cheques while you pour the drinks.

  In your car in his driveway, Pete asks, ‘What if the old twit finds out?’

  You stop looking at your cheque and ask him, ‘Finds out what?’

  ‘Finds out that Coventry had already pulled out of the deal.’

  ‘So what if he does,’ you tell Pete. ‘What’s he going to do? Sack us?’

  * * *

  It’s late and pissing it down, and we’re late and pissed off when we finally arrive at the hotel alongside the M6 near Stoke. The team get off the coach and walk towards the entrance and the reception, the warmth and the light. I call them back outside –

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I ask them. ‘Get out here, the lot of you.’

  They march back down the hotel steps, into the rain and into the night.

  ‘This way,’ I tell them and lead them round to the back of the hotel.

  They stand there in their suits and their ties, in the rain and in the night, on the hotel lawn, and they listen, they listen to me:

  ‘Tomorrow it all starts again; the first game of the season. I’ve won a League Championship and you’ve won a League Championship and so, no doubt, you all think you know what it bloody takes to win the fucking League Championship. Well, you don’t, because you won your titles through deceit and deception. This season you’re going to win the league my way; honestly and fairly. Now last season you played forty-two league games and you won twenty-four, drew fourteen and lost four; well, this season you’ll play forty-two games and lose only three. Last season you scored sixty-six goals and you let in thirty-one; well, this season I want you to score more than seventy and let in less than thirty. And, if you do it my way, not only will you win the league, not only will you win it honestly and fairly, you’ll also win the hearts of the public, which is something you’ve never fucking done before.’

  In their suits and their ties, in the rain and the night, they listen:

  ‘Not only the league title either; this season we’re going after everything in sight. If Leeds United are entered for a competition, we’ll be playing to win that competition. There’ll be no reserve teams in the League Cup, no second-string teams in a Leeds shirt, not under Brian Clough. Because I won’t settle for second best for my team. It is not in my nature. I am after excellence in all things and that includes every game we play –

  ‘Every single fucking game, starting tomorrow. Right?’

  There’s silence on the hotel lawn from the suits and the ties, in the night and in the rain, so I ask them again and ask them louder than before, ‘Right?’

  ‘Right,’ they mumble and they mutter.

  ‘Right what?’ I ask them.

  ‘Right, Boss,’ they say, in their suits and their ties, in the rain and in the night –

  Under their breath, through gritted teeth.

  ‘Right then,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s go get our bloody dinners then.’

  * * *

  You easily beat Huddersfield Town 3–0 to stay top with just two games to go. You are now certain to finish in the top four; certain of a place in the UEFA Cup; certain of that, at the very least –

  Just two games to go; two games, against Manchester City and against Liverpool. City, who are third, away; Liverpool, who are fourth, at home –

  Two games to stop Leeds, two games to win the league.

  On 22 April 1972 you travel to Maine Road, Manchester. It is the last home game of the season for Manchester City; Manchester City who are managed by your TV mate Malcolm Allison; Malcolm Allison who has just spent £200,000 on Rodney Marsh; Rodney Marsh who scores in the twenty-fifth minute and wins a second-half penalty, which Francis Lee converts. You have your chances too, but you also have your nerves –

  Manchester City go top and you drop down to third:

  GP W D L GF GA Pts

  Manchester City 42 23 11 8 77 45 57

  Liverpool 40 24 8 8 64 29 56

  Derby County 41 23 10 8 68 33 56

  Leeds United 40 23 9 8 70 29 55

  Now there is just one game to go for you in the league –

  Home to Bill Shankly and Liverpool.

  But before Bill Shankly and Liverpool, you have one other match: the sec ond leg of the Texaco Cup final against Airdrieonians –

  It is not the FA Cup. It is not the League Cup. But it is a cup.

  You drew the first leg 0–0 in Scotland back in January. It was a hard bloody game and you know the return game will be a physical one too; you also know some of your squad will be called up for internationals and you still have to play Liverpool –

  Bill Shankly and Liverpool.

  You are forced to field five reserves. Not through deceit. Not through deception. Not like Don. This is through necessity. Sheer necessity. Roger Davies is one of those reserves and he scores, to Pete’s delight. But Airdrie take the Derby man in every tackle and it is another hard and bloody night, but you win 2–1 –

  You have won the Second Division Championship, the Watneys Cup and now this; the 1971–72 Texaco International League Board Competition –

  It is not the FA Cup. It is not the League Cup. But it is a cup –

  ‘It doesn’t matter what Derby win,’ you tell the newspapers and the television, ‘just as long as we win, and it’ll set us in good store for Liver
pool and the league title.’

  Day Eighteen

  The Liverpool game has been moved to the first of May; your favourite day of the year. But you are not a superstitious man; you do not believe in luck –

  ‘Not over forty-two games,’ you tell the world. ‘There’s no such thing.’

  But if you beat Liverpool today, you’ll still have a chance of the title –

  If Liverpool do not win their last game. If Leeds lose theirs.

  But first Derby have to win; to beat Bill Shankly, Kevin Keegan and Liverpool; Bill Shankly, Kevin Keegan and Liverpool, who have taken twenty-eight out of the last thirty available points; who have not been beaten since the middle of January; who have conceded just three goals since then; who still have a game to go after this, away at Arsenal, still one more game; something you do not have; something you do not need.

  ‘This is it,’ you tell the dressing room. ‘The last game of our season. The best season of our lives. The season we will win the League Championship. Enjoy it.’

  It’s an evening kick-off , but the sun’s still shining as the two teams are announced, as the record 40,000 crowd gasp at your selection; you have named sixteen- year-old Steve Powell for the injured Ronnie Webster.

  The score is still 0–0 at half-time. Your team, your boys, exhausted –

  Exhausted by the tension of it all; the tension which crawls down from the fans on the terraces to the players on the pitch; the tension which crawls from the players to the referee; from the referee to the bench, to Peter and to Jimmy, to Bill Shankly and his Boot Room, but not to you; you put your head around the dressing-room door:

  ‘Beautiful,’ you tell them. ‘More of the same next half, please.’

  In the sixty-second minute of your forty-second game, Kevin Hector takes a throw on the right to Archie Gemmill; Gemmill runs across the edge of the Liverpool area and slips the ball to Alan Durban; Durban who leaves the ball with a dummy for John McGovern; McGovern who scores; John McGovern, your John McGovern, your boy –

  The one they like to blame. The one they love to jeer –

  1–0 to John McGovern and Derby County:

  Boulton. Powell. Robson. Durban. McFarland. Todd. McGovern. Gemmill. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton; Hennessey on the bench with Pete, Jimmy and you; Cloughie, Cloughie. Cloughie.