The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  Longson spits on his hands. Longson rubs them together and then Longson says, ‘Right then, Brian, we’ll see, shall we?’

  * * *

  The cleaning lady is cleaning my office, under the desk and behind the door, whistling and humming along to the tunes inside her head –

  ‘You know, I once sacked all the cleaning ladies at Derby.’

  ‘What did you do that for then, Brian?’ she asks me.

  ‘For laughing after we lost.’

  ‘Least you had a good reason then,’ she says. ‘Not like Mr Revie.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, ‘Mr Revie once sacked a lass here for wearing green.’

  ‘Wearing green?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says. ‘He thought green brought bad luck to club.’

  ‘And so he sacked her?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she says again. ‘After we lost FA Cup final to Sunderland.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Just like that.’

  The telephone on my desk starts to ring. I pick it up. I tell them, ‘Not now.’

  * * *

  The new season, 1973–74; but this new season is no new start; no beginning and no end. Things just going from bad to worse; out of Europe, in the dock; your chairman out to sack you and your mam still dead; this is how the 1973–74 season starts –

  You face Sunderland and Bob bloody Stokoe in the second round of the League Cup and a thousand bad fucking memories. But Derby have a two-goal lead by half-time. You outplay the winners of the FA Cup and conquerors of Leeds United for three quarters of the match. You are playing exhibition football.

  Then Sunderland hit back and equalize with two goals. Now you will have to travel to Roker Park for a replay. Now no one would bet on Derby to win that game.

  ‘Sheer lack of fucking professionalism!’ you tell the dressing room. ‘Your brains are still in Spain, sat on that fucking beach in the sun. The season’s bloody started –

  ‘Never take your eye off that fucking ball –

  ‘Never play exhibition football –

  ‘Always kill a game –

  ‘Always win it –

  ‘Always!’

  * * *

  Up the stairs. Down the corridor. Round the corner and through the doors. I’m late for the Monday lunch with the board. Late again. The board waiting in the club dining room, their bread all gone and their soup cold, their vegetables soft and their wine cheap –

  I sit down. I light a cigar and I ask for a brandy, a bloody large one –

  I thought there might be more smiles here. More laughter now –

  ‘Someone died, have they?’ I ask the dining room –

  But the room is silent and stinks of cigarettes; the ashtrays full and the wine gone. The waiters clear away the club crockery and cutlery, the white linen tablecloths.

  ‘What time is the team leaving for London?’ asks Cussins, eventually.

  ‘After this party breaks up,’ I tell him, holding up my glass.

  * * *

  Your first two league games of the new season are against Chelsea and Manchester City. You win these first two games at home to Chelsea and Manchester City, win them both by one goal to nil. You have four points out of four. Not since 1961 have Derby County won the opening two games of a season, and that was in the Second Division. Not the First.

  Then you draw 0–0 at Birmingham, defending in depth, adopting the very tactics you repeatedly castigate the England manager for, those negative tactics you repeatedly deplore on ITV and in your columns. There was also a clear, clear penalty; the most blatant, blatant one you have ever seen:

  ‘The only good thing to come out of this was a clear demonstration of the discipline of the Derby County players,’ you tell the world and his wife. ‘I am sure that a certain other team who usually wear white, on the outside at least, I’m sure that particular team would have besieged the referee.’

  You can say what the hell you want. You have five points out of six –

  You do say what the hell you want. Twice weekly on the box –

  Cloughie, that’s you. Twice weekly. The hell you want.

  * * *

  I have been in the kit room. I have been among the socks and the straps, the shirts and the shorts, but I have found what I was looking for. I have changed out of my good suit and nice tie into my tracksuit bottoms and this old Leeds United goalkeeping jersey.

  Down the corridors. Round the corners. Through the doors and into the car park. The team and their trainers are already sat on the bus waiting for me. I climb aboard and plonk myself down next to Syd Owen at the front of the coach –

  ‘What do you think of this then, Sydney?’ I ask him.

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of this?’ I ask him again, pointing at this old Leeds United goalkeeping jersey.

  ‘I think if the team have to wear suits when they travel, so should their manager.’

  ‘But what do you think of the colour, Sydney?’

  ‘Green?’ he asks. ‘I think it suits you, Mr Clough.’

  * * *

  You have five points from your first three games. The fourth game of the 1973–74 season is at Anfield against the League Champions; against Kevin Keegan and Liverpool, against Bill Shankly. Young Steve Powell and John McGovern force early saves from Ray Clemence, but then it’s all Kevin Keegan, all Liverpool. Nineteen-year-old Phil Thompson scores the first of the night and his first for Liverpool; the first goal Derby have conceded in 305 minutes of First Division football. In the eighty-fifth minute of this game, Keegan scores a second with a penalty –

  You have been beaten, well beaten, and outplayed –

  Derby County drop from fifth to seventh place.

  Eight days later, on Wednesday 12 September, Liverpool come to the Baseball Ground. Between these two games, you have beaten Everton in a game that some of the papers described as the very worst Derby County performance since you took over:

  ‘A shambles of a match … the kind of match one wants to forget … a complete lack of application … Everton robbed by two decisions from a linesman.’

  Peter pins these words to the dressing-room wall; no team talk tonight and, four days after one of your worst performances, you take apart the League Champions –

  You attack. You attack. You attack –

  ‘To go like this, from the macabre to the sublime,’ say the newspapers now, ‘means that Derby County are superbly managed. Nobody has ever doubted the ability of this team, but somebody had to make these players produce their best –’

  Roger Davies stabs home a rebound after Kevin Hector’s shot is blocked –

  ‘That somebody is Brian Clough –’

  Roy McFarland exchanges passes with Hector and fires in a well-taken strike –

  ‘Last Saturday, one had to scratch around to find someone who had played even adequately. Last night, one could fill a book describing the fluid moves and the brilliant individual performances –’

  Then Nish, Davies and Gemmill combine before Hector scores the third –

  ‘Even Don Revie and Leeds United, gazing down with a three-point lead over the Rams, would have been pleased with McGovern, Powell and Gemmill.’

  You’ve beaten the League Champions 3–1; beaten Kevin Keegan and Liverpool; beaten Bill Shankly; beaten and outplayed them –

  Buried and slaughtered them.

  You are on your way back to the top. Right back to where you belong –

  It is Wednesday 12 September 1973.

  * * *

  There are no smiles on the team coach down to London. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers, packs of cards and paperback books. Bremner hasn’t travelled with us; he’ll be making his own way down tomorrow, ready for the FA Disciplinary Committee on Wednesday. I glance back down the aisle at Giles from time to time, the backseat boy, glance back to look for hints of doubt, hints of fear –

  But the man doesn’t
give a fuck.

  Not smiling, not laughing, he plays a hand of cards here, then reads another page of his paperback book, The Exorcist.

  There are still no smiles as we check in at the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington. No smiles and no laughter at the team talk with their timetable for tomorrow. The drinks and then the dinner. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers –

  The early night for them and the late, late night for me –

  The late, late night with no, no sleep –

  No, no sleep but dreams of dogs –

  Big black dogs that bark:

  ‘Clough out!’

  Day Twenty-eight

  There is no beginning and there is no end. Things just going from bad to worse; worse and worse, week by week, worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse –

  Longson wants his seat on the League Management Committee, his place on the plane when England travel abroad, a word or a wave from the Duke of Kent in the Royal Box at Wembley, dinner and drinks with Hardaker and Shipman –

  Longson thought you were his passport to these places, his ticket to the top, and so he gave you the keys to his car and his bungalow at Anglesey, a waste-disposal unit for your kitchen and a Burberry suede coat for your back, presents for your kids and the photograph in his wallet of the son he never had –

  ‘It’s in the eyes, the power Brian has over the players, power he has over me.’

  Now Longson wishes he’d never looked into your eyes, into the eyes of the son he never had; the son he no longer wants; this son he no longer speaks to.

  So you dictate while Peter types:

  ‘Due to the complete breakdown of communication, common sense and ability to have a reasonable discussion with the chairman, we find it impossible to work with Mr Longson for the good of Derby County any more. Would you please advise the best way to resolve this urgent problem?’

  You both sign the letter, put the letter into an envelope and then the post.

  * * *

  The sun is not shining, the sky is not blue, and it’s an ugly Tuesday morning in August 1974. The lack of sleep and the lack of dreams. The excess of nightmares and the excess of drink. The hangover and the call home. To the wife and to the kids. To say I love you and I miss you and wish I was there –

  There, there, anywhere but here –

  The Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington High Street, London.

  * * *

  There is no response. No answer to your letter. No beginning and no end. Things just getting worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse, hour by hour, worse and worse –

  Jack Kirkland and Stuart Webb, the new director and the new secretary, have got their feet right under the table now, your table. Kirkland and Webby have unveiled their plans for a new 50,000-capacity stadium, a 50,000-capacity stadium with a sports and leisure centre attached, a 50,000-capacity stadium that means no more money for transfers, no more money for players and no more money for you.

  You would protest to the chairman, but he is not speaking to you. You would protest to the board, but they are not speaking to you; no one is but Jack Kirkland:

  ‘I’m going to give you some good advice,’ he tells you. ‘No matter how good you are, or how powerful you think you are, the chairman is the boss, then come the directors and the secretary, then come the fans and the players, and finally and last of bloody all comes the fucking manager.’

  But you’ve already got your fingers in your ears and your eyes on the clock; hour by hour, minute by minute, things just getting worse and worse –

  Fingers in your ears, your eyes on the clock –

  There is no beginning. There is no end.

  * * *

  There is no one in the dining room when I get down there. Breakfast has finished. The waiters clearing away the cups and the plates. The team gone. I sit down and drain the last dregs from a cold pot of tea and scrape a last bit of butter over a cold slice of toast. The waiters watching me from the doors to the kitchen –

  ‘Have a seat,’ I tell them. ‘Pull up a pew and let’s have a chat.’

  But the waiters stay where they are by the door to the kitchen, watching me.

  ‘I’ll tell you this story, shall I?’ I ask them. ‘Frank Sinatra was once in this bar late at night in Palm Springs, just him and the barman, the barman tidying up and getting ready to shut up shop for the night when, suddenly, the door opens and in runs this woman and says, “Excuse me! Excuse me! Do you have a jukebox in here?” And Frank Sinatra turns around and looks her right in the face and says, “Excuse me? What did you say?” And so the woman says again, “Do they have a jukebox in here?” So Frank looks around the room and then turns back to her and says, “Doesn’t look like it but, if you want, I’ll sing for you.” And the woman says, “No thanks.” And she turns and walks out. So, anyway, the barman is very embarrassed and he says, “She obviously didn’t recognize you, Mr Sinatra.” But Frank just shrugs and says, “Or maybe she did.”’

  The waiters walk over to my table by the window. The waiters have found their courage now, their pens and their pieces of paper –

  ‘He met me, you know,’ I tell them, as I sign my name for them –

  ‘Who did?’ they ask.

  ‘Frank Sinatra.’

  * * *

  You have been told there is no money. You have been told not to buy any new players. You have been told there is no money for transfers. But you lose 1–0 at Coventry and you know you have to buy some new players. You make a telephone call. You drive down to London. To the Churchill Hotel.

  ‘I hear you are interested in winning a Championship medal?’

  ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Someone who already had one.’

  Bobby Moore smiles. Bobby Moore grins. Bobby Moore, captain of West Ham and England. Bobby Moore, World Cup winner and national treasure.

  ‘Would you play for Derby County?’ you ask him.

  Bobby Moore lights another fag. Bobby Moore laughs, ‘Why not?’

  ‘That’ll do for me,’ you tell him and take him for lunch in the restaurant.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ begins the maître d’hôtel at the door, ‘that Mr Moore is not dressed appropriately for our restaurant …’

  ‘Listen to me,’ you tell him. ‘My team will never stay here again if my player can’t sit in this restaurant, my player who has won the World Cup for this country, my player who has done more for this bloody country than any other person you have ever had in your fucking little restaurant!’

  ‘I don’t play for you yet,’ whispers Bobby Moore.

  ‘Shut up!’ you tell him. ‘You’re my player. I’ll ring Ron straight after lunch.’

  * * *

  The team will be training, having their rub-downs and their massages, lunch back at the hotel and then a short nap. I meet the London press in the hotel bar. I confirm that Madeley and McKenzie are still injured and will not play tonight. I admit that Yorath will. I deny any interest in Burnley’s captain Dobson. I refuse to talk about Bremner and Giles and tomorrow’s FA Disciplinary Committee. I have a couple of drinks with a couple of journalists and then a long, long lunch with David Coleman. Half an hour late back to the hotel, I go up to my room, throw my clothes in my case and take the coach with the team to Loftus Road.

  * * *

  You do not make an appointment. You do not telephone. You go straight to Upton Park. You do not wait in line and you do not knock on Ron Greenwood’s door. You just walk right into his office and tell him, ‘I’m here for a chat. Now, have you got any whisky?’

  Ron Greenwood gets to his feet. Ron Greenwood gets you a whisky.

  ‘Any water?’ you ask him. ‘I am driving.’

  ‘The kitchen’s just round the corner,’ he tells you.

  You go off to find the kitchen. You get the receptionist to take you up to the directors’ box. You ask her all sorts of questions about West Ham United, about Ron Greenwood and Bobby Moore –

  Twenty minutes later, you’
re back in Ron’s office –

  ‘I’ve been having a good look around this place,’ you tell him. ‘Isn’t it lovely? All nice and spruce. You don’t know how lucky you are, a nice place like this.’

  ‘Glad you like it,’ says Ron Greenwood. ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Yes,’ you tell him. ‘I want to sign Bobby Moore and Trevor Brooking.’

  ‘You can’t be serious, Brian?’

  ‘Every man’s got his price,’ you tell him. ‘And I’d make sure it was a nice big bloody price, with a nice big fucking piece of it for you and for Bobby and Trevor.’

  ‘They’re not for sale,’ says Ron Greenwood.

  ‘How about we start at £300,000 for the pair of them, plus your slice?’

  ‘They’re not for sale,’ he says again.

  ‘Well then, how about £400,000 for the pair of them, plus your slice?’

  ‘Brian,’ says Ron Greenwood, ‘they are not for sale.’

  ‘Well listen then, if I can’t have Moore, can I have Brooking? Or how about this? If I can’t have Brooking, can I have Moore?’

  ‘They’re not available,’ he says again. ‘But I’ll pass your offer on to the board.’

  ‘How about £500,000?’ you ask. ‘£500,000 for the pair of them? Not forgetting your slice of the cake for all your toil and trouble. Can’t say fairer than that, now can we, Ron?’

  Ron Greenwood is on his feet again, the door to his office open –

  ‘Any chance of another whisky then?’ you ask him. ‘One for the road?’

  * * *

  It’s only six days since Queen’s Park Rangers beat Leeds United 1–0 at Elland Road. My first home game, to a warm reception. Just six days ago, just last week. It feels like six years ago, another lifetime –

  ‘This lot came to your house last week and they beat you,’ I tell the visitors’ dressing room at Loftus Road. ‘They beat you in your own house, in front of your own fans; the League Champions, in their own house, in front of their own fans. They beat you because you couldn’t handle Gerry fucking Francis. Yorath will handle him tonight so the rest of you can forget about him, because you won’t see him. But remember this, the lot of you, every bloody one of you – they beat you in your own house last week, in front of your own fans. Now in my book there’s only one bloody answer to something like that and I hope you don’t need me to fucking tell you what that is – do you?’