by David Peace
Only Manchester United have lifted that cup –
Drunk from that European Cup –
No consolation whatsoever.
No consolation that Juventus will be beaten 1–0 by Ajax of Amsterdam in the final in Belgrade next month. No consolation that the Portuguese referee, Francisco Lobo, will tell UEFA that an attempt was made to bribe him before tonight’s game, that he was offered $5,000 and a Fiat car if he would allow the Italians to win the second leg. No consolation that five years ago you were losing at home to Hull City, in front of 15,000 people, sixteenth in Division Two –
It is no fucking consolation whatsoever –
There can be no consolation.
These days and these months, this year and this time will always be with you, never leave you, never leave you, never leave you –
The blackest two months of your whole life, months that still haunt and hound you, that will always haunt and hound you, always haunt and hound you –
March and April 1973; the end of anything good, the beginning of everything bad.
* * *
I go into the dressing room and the dressing room goes silent. I stare at David Harvey. I stare at Paul Reaney. I stare at Trevor Cherry. I stare at John McGovern. I stare at Gordon McQueen. I stare at Norman Hunter. I stare at Peter Lorimer. I stare at Allan Clarke. I stare at John O’Hare. I stare at John Giles and I stare at Paul Madeley –
‘You’re going to win today,’ I tell them. ‘You’re going to win.’
Then I leave that dressing room and walk down that tunnel and out into that stadium and make my way to that bench in the dug-out, where I take my seat on that bench between Jimmy Gordon and Joe Jordan –
No one says, ‘Afternoon, Cloughie.’
No one says, ‘Best of luck, Brian.’
No one says anything; the crowd is quiet and down 9,000 on the corresponding day last season; it might be the holiday weekend; it might be the violence on the terraces at some grounds; it might be Leeds United’s results so far –
It might just be me.
The doubt and the fear. That stink of Saturday. The whistle –
Birmingham have not come to defend. They have come to attack –
Four times they almost score. Through Francis. Through Burns. Through Hatton. Through Kendall. But four times they miss –
Hunter at the back. Hunter back from suspension. Hunter makes the difference –
McGovern has played better. McGovern has played worse –
O’Hare plays well beside Lorimer. O’Hare plays well beside Clarke –
Clarke up front. Clarke back from suspension –
Clarke makes the difference.
The Birmingham clearance hits the referee. The ball spins backwards into the path of a young, debutant Birmingham defender. Clarke is too quick for him –
1–0! 1–0! 1–0! 1–0! 1-fucking-fucking-0!
I’m off the bench and out the dug-out with a big, big kiss for Allan Clarke. A smacker, right on the chops –
No one in England could have scored it better than the way Clarkey did. It is one touch of class above all others –
Nothing lucky about it –
No blue suits. No dossiers. No bingo and no bowls. No ritual walks around the traffic lights or lucky routes to this bench in the dug-out. No envelopes full of cash. No gamesmanship or cheating –
Just football …
Not superstition. Not bloody ritual and not fucking luck –
Just good, clean, honest football.
‘There will be no stopping us,’ I tell the press. ‘No stopping us now.’
THE FOURTH RECKONING
First Division Positions, 25 August 1974
P W D L F A Pts
1 Carlisle United 3 3 0 0 5 0 6
2 Ipswich Town 3 3 0 0 4 0 6
3 Liverpool 3 2 1 0 4 2 5
4 Wolves 3 2 1 0 6 3 5
5 Everton 3 2 1 0 5 3 5
6 Arsenal 3 2 0 1 5 1 4
7 Derby County 3 1 2 0 3 1 4
8 Stoke City 3 2 0 1 5 2 4
9 Man. City 3 2 0 1 5 4 4
10 Middlesbrough 3 1 1 1 4 3 3
11 Chelsea 3 1 1 1 6 6 3
12 QPR 3 1 1 1 2 2 3
13 Newcastle Utd 3 1 1 1 7 8 3
14 Leicester City 3 1 0 2 5 6 2
15 Sheffield Utd 3 0 2 1 3 5 2
16 West Ham Utd 3 1 0 2 4 7 2
17 Leeds United 3 1 0 2 1 4 2
18 Burnley 3 0 1 2 4 7 1
19 Coventry City 3 0 1 2 4 7 1
20 Luton Town 3 0 1 2 2 5 1
21 Birmingham C. 3 0 0 3 3 8 0
22 Tottenham H. 3 0 0 3 0 3 0
I curse the man you are. I curse the land you have –
I go from field to field. I collect stone after stone –
I pile up the stones. I kneel by the stones –
‘May every kind of mishap, may every kind of misfortune –
Fall on this man. Fall on this land.’
I rise up from them stones and I take up them stones –
And I hurl them here. And I hurl them there.
Day Twenty-six
You are out of the European Cup. You are out of the league title race. You are out of the FA and the League Cups. The only way Derby County can now qualify for next season’s UEFA Cup is if Derby beat Wolverhampton Wanderers tonight and then Leeds United beat Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final tomorrow or Leeds beat AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. You beat Wolves. You do it in half an hour –
First Roy McFarland tucks in a ball from John O’Hare, next O’Hare centres for Roger Davies to lash into the roof of the net, then Davies pounces again to send home the rebound from a David Nish shot; the job done in half an hour, your eyes are on the roof of the stand, the fingers of grass on the pitch, the hands on the face of your watch –
Because these are the last few minutes of the 1972–73 season. The last few minutes you are League Champions. The final whistle will blow and Bill Shankly and Liverpool will be the new Champions, not you –
But who watches Bill Shankly on the box? Who reads his columns?
Does Mike Yarwood impersonate Bill Shankly on his show?
You know you annoy as many people as you amuse on the television; On the Ball and The Big Match. They might kick the screen, they might kiss the screen, but you know no one switches it off while you’re on. They bloody watch it. The same with your columns in the newspapers: the Sunday Express and the Sun. They might screw them up and stick them in their bin, they might cut them out and stick them on their wall, but you know no one turns the page. They bloody read them. The same with directors. You know you annoy as many directors as you impress. But you also know most would love to have you managing their club, know most would have you at the drop of a hat.
Just like you annoy as many managers as you inspire. But you know they’d all like a bit of what you’ve got, have a bit of what you’ve got, give their right arm for it.
The same with the bloody players; you know there are more who loathe you than love you. But you know not one would ask for a transfer, over their dead fucking body –
You have seen the tears in their eyes. Heard their pleas for mercy.
Because on your day, on your day there is no stopping you. On your day, you can do no wrong; walk on water, then turn it into wine –
Just like today; even after you’ve been knocked down and robbed blind by Juventus, even after you’ve been cheated out of the European Cup, cheated out of your destiny by that black-and-white old whore, even after all that, you’ve still gone out and fucking won the last three bloody league matches of the season –
Still scored nine goals, still conceded only one, still got six points out of six –
Beating Everton 3–1, Ipswich Town 3–0, and now Wolves 3–0.
But now it all stops. The season over. Champions no more. Europe no more –
You have done your job. The season over. It is out of your hands now –
Your empt
y hands. No trophies. Your season now over –
Between the fingers, the fingers of grass –
In the soil. In the dirt. In the mud –
Everything bad, bad, bad –
It hits you anew every day. Every time you close your eyes, that’s all you ever see, her face in the kitchen. In the doorway. In the garden. In her hat. In her nightie. In the hospital. You wish you’d buried your mam, not cremated her. Now there is no grave, no place to go. But if you had buried her, if there had been a grave, you’d go every Sunday –
But there’s no place to go but here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here –
Here where the crowd’s all gone home, here where there is no crowd –
No crowd. No trophies. No one. No one here now, now, now –
‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can say, over and over –
No spirits here. No ghosts here. No saints here –
‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can repeat –
Only devils are here. Only demons now –
‘I’ve lost my mam,’ all you can say –
Devils and demons. Here, now –
Now, now your mam is dead.
Day Twenty-seven
The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it’s a beautiful Monday morning in late August. The kind of day that makes you feel glad to be alive and glad to be English, glad of your family and glad of your friends, glad you’ve your health and glad you’ve a job; two away games this week, one in London and one in Manchester; Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles up before the FA Disciplinary Committee; but nothing can take this feeling away from me –
This feeling of victory. This feeling of winning …
I get washed and I get dressed; a good shave and a good suit; nice tie, clean shoes. I get out my other suit and get out my suitcase. I pack my razor and pack my toothbrush. Then I go downstairs, down to my family. The smell of bacon frying and bread toasting. The sound of eggs breaking and kettles boiling. I sit down at the table and I ask my eldest to pass me the sugar, and he knocks over the salt cellar, spills the salt my way, my direction –
Not superstition. Not bloody ritual and not fucking luck.
I get out the car. I put my suitcase in the back. I go back into the house. I kiss my wife and kids goodbye. I wave to them as I reverse out of our drive and blow them more kisses. I don’t pick up Jimmy Gordon; don’t pick up John McGovern or John O’Hare. Just me today, on the drive north. Just me on this beautiful Monday morning in late August, on my way to work with the radio on, listening to the news –
‘Kevin started watching Blackpool two years ago. He went to all the home games. I wouldn’t stop him going to matches but I’ve always told him: “Be careful, don’t get into any trouble.” I used to watch Blackpool myself, but the trouble on the Kop put me off and I don’t go now. I think it’s a disgrace. I feel sorry for those who are genuine supporters. They are going to have to do something about it. He was only fourteen years old.’
I switch off the radio as I come off the motorway. Round the bends and the corners to the junction with Lowfields Road and onto Elland Road. Sharp right and through the gates and I hit the brakes hard; there’s a big black dog stood in the entrance to the car park. I hit the horn hard but this big black dog will not move. I start to reverse. I look in the mirror. I see the writing on a wall –
TUO HGUOLC
* * *
Leeds were the shortest ever favourites to win the FA Cup. But Bob Stokoe –
The same Bob bloody Stokoe who looked down on you as you lay on that cold, hard Boxing Day ground and said, ‘He’s fucking codding is Clough.’
– Bob fucking Stokoe hates Don Revie even more than you and so Leeds United lose the FA Cup final to his Second Division Sunderland. Eleven days later, with Clarke and Bremner suspended, Giles injured and Revie supposedly on his way to Everton, Leeds lose the Cup Winners’ Cup final to AC Milan in Greece –
We’ve been robbed, Leeds say. We’ve been cheated –
But so have Derby. Derby are not in Europe.
‘Trust bloody Leeds,’ you tell folk. ‘I wouldn’t be fucking surprised if they hadn’t lost those bloody finals on fucking purpose! To keep Derby out of Europe!’
Leeds United have also been found guilty of ‘persistent misconduct on the field’; Leeds United have been fined £3,000, suspended for a year –
This is the final straw. This is what you write in the Sunday Express:
Don Revie should have been personally fined and Leeds United instantly demoted to the Second Division after being branded the dirtiest club in Britain. Instead, the befuddled minds of the men who run soccer have missed a wonderful chance to clean up the game in one swoop. But the trouble with soccer’s disciplinary system is that those who sit in judgement, being officials of other clubs, might well have a vested interest. I strongly feel that this tuppence-ha’penny suspended fine is the most misguided piece of woolly thinking ever perpetrated by the FA, a body hardly noted for its common sense. It’s like breathalysing a drunken driver, getting a positive reading, giving him back his keys and telling him to watch it on the way back home!
This article is the final straw for the Football League. You are charged with bringing the game into disrepute. This charge the final straw for Longson –
Your chairman is not speaking to you. You are in the dock. You are not in Europe. You lock the doors of your house. You pull the curtains and take the phone off the hook. You go up the stairs. You get into your bed and pull your covers over your head –
The 1973–74 season is but weeks away, days and hours away.
* * *
They are dirty and they are panting. The training almost finished, the practice almost done. The sun is still shining, but the rain is now falling. The sky black and blue, purple and yellow. No rainbows here. No smiles. I thought there might be some smiles today. Thought there might be some laughter. Now we are winning. But the only one smiling, the only one laughing is Allan Clarke –
‘You going to give us a kiss every time I score, are you, Boss?’
‘If that’s what it takes to keep you scoring, I will. You big bloody poofter.’
‘You’ll have a pair of sore lips come May then,’ laughs Sniffer again.
‘I bloody well hope so,’ I tell him. ‘I fucking well hope so.’
But there are no smiles today from Harvey, Reaney, Cherry, McQueen or Hunter. No laughter today from Lorimer, Giles, Madeley, Jordan or Bremner –
No smiles or laughter from McGovern or O’Hare either.
* * *
You can see a way out; out of the failures on the pitch, the injustices off it –
Jimmy Hill has jumped ship to the BBC and ITV are desperate, the 1974 World Cup only a year away. ITV offer you a full-time job at £ 18,000 a year; £ 18,000 a year and no directors to deal with, no defeats to suffer –
No victories and no cups, no applause and no adoration, no love –
You want it and you don’t. You don’t and you do –
You take the job part-time. You will travel to London on Thursdays to record one show and travel down again on Sundays to record another –
You don’t ask your wife. You don’t ask Peter. You don’t ask Longson or the board. You don’t ask anyone. You are Brian Howard Clough –
Cloughie, as the viewing millions call you –
And Cloughie doesn’t bloody ask folk –
Cloughie fucking tells them.
* * *
The Monday morning press conference; no long ropes and postmortems today, only garlands and accolades, tributes and compliments:
On Birmingham City?
‘Freddie Goodwin is not entitled to have lost three matches with his side,’ I tell the press. ‘He has an awful lot of talent and they are grafting like hell for him. They are by far, by far not the worst side in the league.’
On John O’Hare’s début?
‘He turned it on from start to finish all over the pitch,’ I tell t
hem. ‘Just you wait until John’s been here a few weeks.’
And as for Allan Clarke’s goal?
‘No one in England could have scored it better than the way Allan did,’ I declare. ‘It was one touch of pure class above all others.’
The rumours of departures and transfers?
‘No one goes,’ I repeat and repeat. ‘No one bloody well goes.’
On the prospects for Leeds United and the season?
‘There’ll be no holding us now,’ I tell the press. ‘No stopping us.’
And tomorrow night away, down at Queen’s Park Rangers?
‘There’ll be no holding Leeds United,’ I tell them again and again. ‘You just watch us bloody go.’
* * *
England will play Poland at Wembley in October. England must beat Poland to qualify for the 1974 World Cup in West Germany. It will be the nation’s most important match since the 1966 World Cup final itself. You will be part of the ITV panel for this game.
Before England, Poland have a warm-up game against Holland; this will be a useful game for you to watch, as a member of the ITV panel –
The leading member. The one that makes folk switch on –
The one that keeps them bloody watching.
You tell Longson you are going to Amsterdam. You tell Longson you’re taking Pete with you. You tell Longson that he can regard it as part of your holiday –
‘This is a private matter then,’ says Longson. ‘And Derby will not pay for it.’
‘Of course not,’ you tell him. ‘I wouldn’t bloody dream of it.’
Then Sam Longson asks you, ‘I wonder what you do bloody dream of these days, Brian?’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’
‘Do you dream of Derby County?’ he asks. ‘Or do you dream of television?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m not saying anything,’ says Sam Longson. ‘All I know is that a man cannot serve two masters. He will come to love the one and hate the other.’
‘If I have to give up all of this, the television, then I’ll resign, Mr Chairman.’
‘Bloody well resign then,’ laughs Longson.
‘But if I do, Mr Chairman, you know it’ll be curtains for you too.’