The Damned Utd

by David Peace

  Then John looks at his watch. Then John says, ‘It’s time, Brian.’

  You finish your drink. You pat Pete on his knee. You both stand up. You leave the restaurant of the Kedleston Hall Hotel. You go out into the car park. You get into the Rolls-Royce. The front seat of the golden Rolls-Royce. You turn the key. You start the engine and off you set through the streets of Derby. Pete on the back seat, you at the wheel. Through the deserted streets of barricaded houses and police reinforcements, deserted but for the police and the demonstrators and their banners. The demonstrators who have boycotted the match, their banners demanding, ‘BRING BACK CLOUGHIE!’

  Through the deserted, barricaded streets to the Baseball Ground.

  It is five minutes to three o’clock when you park the Rolls and the policeman asks, ‘How long do you intend staying, Brian?’

  ‘Five minutes, no longer,’ you tell him.

  ‘So you’re not stopping to watch the match?’

  ‘Believe it or not,’ you tell him, ‘I’m just nipping in to say cheerio.’

  The policeman lets you park the Rolls, lets you leave Pete on the back seat, so you can nip through the demonstrators, through the cameras and the lights, past the bewildered steward and through the turnstiles, into the ground on your borrowed Derby County season ticket, where you then head off towards the players’ entrance, but here the commissionaire blocks your way and thwarts your plans to appear on the running track, so you run instead out beneath the main stand and then up, up, up the steps you go and along the row to your borrowed seat, just along from the directors’ box –

  And there you stand, risen, your arms outstretched –

  Immaculate in your new grey suit –

  Your arms outstretched –

  Immaculate and back.

  The players stop their warm-up, the Derby County players and the Leicester City players, as the Derby crowd applaud their hero –

  Applaud, adore and love their hero.

  Just along from you, Longson now gets to his feet as his fellow directors and the season-ticket holders behind the directors’ box applaud him –

  But it’s too little and too late. Much too late –

  The real applause, the real adoration, the real love is for you –

  ‘Cloughie! Cloughie! Cloughie!’

  Then the referee blows his whistle and you’re gone, gone again, down the stairs. Through the turnstiles. Past the same steward –

  Across the deserted street. Into your golden Rolls-Royce and away –

  Down to London. To the Parkinson show. To television –

  No looking back. No turning back –

  Saturday 20 October 1973.

  THE SIXTH RECKONING

  First Division Positions, 1 September 1974

  P W D L F A Pts

  1 Liverpool 5 4 1 0 9 2 9

  2 Ipswich Town 5 4 0 1 8 3 8

  3 Everton 5 3 2 0 8 5 8

  4 Man. City 5 4 0 1 9 6 8

  5 Carlisle United 5 3 1 1 6 2 7

  6 Stoke City 5 2 2 1 7 4 6

  7 Middlesbrough 5 2 2 1 6 4 6

  8 Wolves 5 2 2 1 7 6 6

  9 Sheffield Utd 5 2 2 1 8 7 6

  10 Derby County 5 1 3 1 4 4 5

  11 Newcastle Utd 5 2 1 2 10 10 5

  12 QPR 5 1 3 1 4 4 5

  13 Chelsea 5 2 1 2 8 10 5

  14 Arsenal 5 2 0 3 6 6 4

  15 Leicester City 5 1 2 2 7 8 4

  16 Burnley 5 1 1 3 8 9 3

  17 Luton Town 5 0 3 2 3 6 3

  18 West Ham Utd 5 1 1 3 4 9 3

  19 Leeds United 5 1 1 3 3 7 3

  20 Tottenham H. 5 1 0 4 3 5 2

  21 Birmingham C. 5 0 2 3 5 10 2

  22 Coventry City 5 0 2 3 5 11 2

  The last of the Cunning Men is here –

  I have the hair from your comb. I have the hair from your drains –

  Tonight I will burn it. Tonight I will bury it.

  All the beasts of the field here too –

  The birds and the badgers. The foxes and the ferrets –

  The dogs and the demons. The wolves and the vultures –

  Come to devour, to eat you.

  Day Thirty-three

  The loneliest bloody day of the week, the loneliest fucking place on earth; under the stands, through the doors, round the corners to the bathroom and toilet in the corridor. The bathroom door is locked, the bathroom mirror broken. There is a dirty grey handkerchief wrapped around the knuckle of my right hand and when I look up into that mirror again there are black splintered cracks across my face, terrible black splintered cracks across my face –

  Leeds United lost yesterday. 2-bloody-1 to Manchester City at Maine Road; Leeds United have just three points from five games and have scored just three goals. By this stage last year, Leeds United had beaten Everton, Arsenal, Tottenham, Wolves and Birmingham City; this stage last year, Leeds had ten points from five games and had scored fifteen goals with six from Lorimer, four from Bremner, two from Jones and one a piece from Giles, Madeley and Clarke –

  This time last year, when Don bloody Revie was the manager of Leeds United and I was the manager of Derby County; when Don was fucking top and I was second; this time last year, when Alf Ramsey was still the manager of England.

  I run the taps. I wash my face. I open the bathroom door. I go down the corridor. His corridor. Round the corner. His corner. Down the tunnel. His tunnel. Out into the light and out onto that pitch. His pitch. His field –

  His field of loss. His field of blood. His field of sacrifice. His field of slaughter. His field of vengeance. His field of victory!

  I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home with my wife and with my kids, carving the roast and digging the garden, walking the dog and washing the car. Not here. Not in this place –

  This hateful, spiteful place –

  Flecked in their phlegm.

  It starts to spit again. I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I walk off that field, off that pitch. Down that tunnel, down that corridor. Round those corners, through those doors and out of Elland Road.

  In the car park of the ground, in the shadow of the stands, there are four young kids in their boots and their jeans, kicking a jam-jar lid about –

  ‘Morning, lads,’ I shout.

  ‘Afternoon, Mr Clough,’ they shout back.

  ‘How are you today then, lads?’

  ‘All right, ta,’ they shout. ‘And you?’

  ‘I’m surviving,’ I tell them and walk across the car park, across the car park to the huts on their stilts beside the banking that leads up to the training pitch. The huts are all locked so I have to give the lock a right good kick before it gives in –

  ‘What you doing?’ the young lads ask me.

  ‘You’ll see,’ I tell them and force open the door to one of the huts. I go inside and drag out one of those huge string bags that hold all the old match-day balls. I open up the bag and boot one of the balls down the steps from the hut to the lads in the car park –

  ‘There you go,’ I tell them. ‘Courtesy of Leeds United.’

  ‘Ta very much,’ they all shout.

  ‘You’re very welcome, lads,’ I tell them and walk back down the steps from the hut, down to the car park and across to my car, a little lad waiting by the door –

  He asks, ‘What happened to your hand, Mr Clough?’

  ‘I got it caught somewhere, didn’t I?’ I tell him.

  ‘How did you do that then?’

  ‘Stuck it somewhere I bloody shouldn’t have, that’s how.’

  ‘Least it weren’t your fucking nose,’ he laughs.

  ‘You might be right there,’ I tell him. ‘But there’s no need for language like that, not on a Sunday, so you bugger off home and get that big mouth of yours washed out.’

  Day Thirty-four

  The scenes have shifted, the sets changed again. The curtain falls and another one rises. You have taken your final bow at the old Baseball Ground. You have transferred to London. You have been on the Park
inson show. You have been in the papers, all over the papers, the front and back pages –

  Never out of the papers. Never off the television –

  Risen in your new grey suit, arms outstretched –

  Cloughie, Immaculate.

  Jimmy Gordon, Judas James Gordon, might be in temporary charge of the team, might be the one who picked Saturday’s team, but the Derby players, your players, beat Leicester City 2–1. ‘For Brian and Peter,’ they said. ‘For Brian and Peter.’

  Not for Jimmy. Not for the bloody board and not for fucking Longson.

  But Longson has not been silent. Longson has responded. Longson in the papers. Front and back pages. Longson on the telly and things have got nasty now; very, very nasty now because Longson has made all kinds of allegations about you; allegations about expenses; allegations about transfer deals; allegations about players’ salaries and bonuses; allegations about tickets and petty cash; about money, money, money –

  Always funny, funny money –

  Not allegations made by the whole board. Just by Longson.

  You drove back from London yesterday in a rented car. You kissed your wife. You kissed your kids. You had your Sunday lunch. Then you spent the rest of the day on the phone to your friends, your friends who came round, to drink your drinks and hold your hand, your friends who are solicitors, your friends who went through Longson’s statement, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by sentence, word by word, your friends who helped you repudiate that statement, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by sentence, word by word. Allegation by fucking allegation.

  Today your friends who are solicitors will begin a libel action on your behalf. They will issue a writ. Not just against Longson, but against the whole board –

  ‘It’ll turn them against Longson,’ said John. ‘It’ll drive a wedge between them. Set them at each other’s throats, you’ll see. At each other’s throats, they’ll be.’

  You get out of bed. You get washed. You get dressed –

  You go downstairs. You go into the kitchen –

  Risen again in your new grey suit –

  Cloughie, Immaculate –

  Unemployed.

  * * *

  The sun might be shining outside, the sky might be blue, but I’m under the covers of my bed, with the tables and the fixtures in my head; next Saturday, if Leeds beat Luton then Leeds will have five points. Five points could take Leeds up to eleventh or twelfth, if Leicester lose to Wolves, West Ham lose to Sheffield United, QPR lose to Birmingham, Chelsea lose to Middlesbrough, Tottenham lose to Liverpool, and if Arsenal and Burnley draw, Carlisle and Stoke draw, Ipswich and Everton draw. The problem is Derby vs Newcastle. If Derby and Newcastle draw, both teams will have six points and, if Leeds beat Luton, Leeds will only have five points. The best result then would be a defeat for Derby. Then Newcastle will have seven points and both Derby and Leeds will have five points. Then it will come down to goal average. So Leeds will need to beat Luton by three or four goals to make certain that Leeds climb above Derby; beat Luton who were promoted as Second Division runners-up to Middlesbrough last season –

  The tables and the fixtures in my head, the doubts and the fears that should Leeds lose to Luton and then Tottenham beat Liverpool, Birmingham beat QPR and Coventry beat Manchester City, then Leeds would be bottom of the First Division –

  The wife is frying some bacon, the kids eating their cereal –

  Leeds would be bottom of the First Division …

  I pour a cup of tea, heap in four sugars –

  Bottom of the First Division …

  Four kisses bye-bye –

  Bye-bloody-bye.

  * * *

  The Derby players, your players, have written a letter to the board. This is what the Derby players, your players, have written in their letter to the board:

  Dear Mr Longson and the directors of Derby County Football Club,

  During the events of last week we, the undersigned players, have kept our feelings within the dressing room. However, at this time, we are unanimous in our support and respect for Mr Clough and Mr Taylor and ask that they be reinstated as manager and assistant manager of the club.

  It was absolutely vital that we won against Leicester on Saturday for ourselves, as well as for the club and fans. Now that match is out of the way, nobody can say we have acted on the spur of the moment and are just being emotional.

  We called the meeting of first-teamers and it was emphasized that nobody was under obligation to attend. But everybody was there. We then decided to write this letter and again nobody was under pressure to sign. But again, everybody did.

  Yours sincerely,

  Colin Boulton. Ron Webster. David Nish. John O’Hare. Roy McFarland. Colin Todd. John McGovern. Archie Gemmill. Roger Davies. Kevin Hector. Alan Hinton. Steve Powell.

  You have tears running down your cheeks at what the Derby players, your players, have written about you, a big bloody lump in your throat and the phone in your hand:

  ‘I am staggered,’ you tell the Daily Mail, exclusively. ‘Whatever happens I will always be grateful to the players, my players, for restoring my faith in human nature.’

  * * *

  The cleaning lady is cleaning the office, under the desk and behind the door, not whistling or humming along to her tunes today –

  I ask her, ‘How are you today then, Joan?’

  ‘I’ve been better, Brian,’ she says. ‘I’ve been better.’

  I ask, ‘Why’s that then, love?’

  ‘State of that bloody bathroom down corridor,’ she says. ‘That’s why.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘You should’ve seen it,’ she says. ‘Mirror broken. Blood in sink. Piss over floor.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I tell you, Brian,’ she tells me, ‘they don’t pay us enough to clean up all that.’

  My face is red, my hand still bandaged as I say, ‘I’m sorry, love.’

  ‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Not like it’s your fault, is it, Brian? Not you that thumped mirror and bled all over sink then pissed on floor just because you lost, was it?’

  * * *

  You have your faith in human nature back, but you still have no job and no car. You have to take a taxi to meet the Derby players, your players, for lunch at the Kedleston Hall Hotel, your new headquarters. You have to pay for the taxi yourself. The Derby players are confused and waiting, their heads in their hands; the players are depressed and worried, their faces long; the players scared and furious, their eyes wide, on stalks –

  ‘It’s a bloody outrage,’ says Roy McFarland; Red Roy, as the press call him. ‘The way they’ve treated you, after all you’ve done for them. I tell you, last week was the worst week of my whole bloody life. Drawing with Poland and losing you as a boss, the worst week of my life. I didn’t hang around after the England match, didn’t go back to the hotel with the other lads; I just got in me car and drove straight back home to Derby.’

  Eyes filling up and drinks going down, tempers rising and voices choking –

  ‘What can we do, Boss?’ they all ask you.

  ‘You’ve done enough,’ you tell them. ‘That letter was brilliant. Meant a lot.’

  ‘But there must be more we can do?’ they all ask. ‘There has to be, Boss?’

  ‘I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ you tell them. ‘We’ll have a bloody party. Tonight.’

  ‘A party?’ they all say. ‘What kind of a party?’

  ‘A fucking big one,’ you tell them. ‘So bugger off home and get your wives and your bairns and your glad rags on and meet us all at the Newton Park Hotel tonight.’

  * * *

  There should be no training today. There should be no players in today. They should all be at home with their wives and their kids, the girlfriends and their pets. But then Jimmy told me they were all coming in anyway, coming in for their complimentary club cars, their brand-new bloody club cars. But after Saturday, after Maine Road, they don’t dese
rve a club fucking bicycle between them and so I cancelled their days off and told them to report back here at nine o’clock, Monday morning, if they wanted their bloody fucking club cars –

  ‘The bloody chances you lot missed on Saturday,’ I tell them. ‘They ought to make you all fucking walk to the ground and back every game, never mind giving you a bleeding club car. Only you’d get fucking lost, you’re that bloody thick half of you.’

  I turn my back on them. I leave them to Jimmy. I walk off the training pitch. Down the banking. Past the huts on their stilts. John Reynolds, the groundsman, and Sydney Owen are stood at the top of the steps to one of the huts. They are staring at a broken lock and an open door –

  ‘Be bloody kids,’ I tell them as I pass them.

  Sydney says something that sounds like, ‘Bloody big mouth again.’

  ‘You what?’ I ask him –

  ‘I said, be bloody big ones then,’ says Sydney.

  Least there’s no Maurice today. Maurice is in Switzerland to watch Zurich play Geneva. To spy on Zurich. To compile his dossier. To write his report. There’s no John Giles either. The Irishman is down in London with his Eire squad. To meet with Tottenham. His ticket bloody out of here.

  This is what those players are thinking about at training today –

  Not Stoke City. Not QPR. Not Birmingham or Manchester City –

  Not the chances they missed; the chances they must take –

  Against Luton. Against Huddersfield and against Zurich –

  Johnny fucking Giles, that’s what they’re thinking about –

  Johnny fucking Giles and Vauxhall bloody motors –

  ‘What kind you going to get, Boss?’ Jimmy had asked me first thing this morning.

  ‘I’m not off, am I,’ I told him.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not been invited, have I.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked me again.

  ‘Maybe they think I won’t be around long enough to need a new bloody car.’

  ‘I hope you’re fucking joking,’ said Jimmy.

  ‘I wish I were,’ I told him. ‘Wish I were.’