MISFIT RELUCTANT TO PLEAD CLOUGH JUSTICE
(The Times, Saturday, 12 December 1998)
Ultimately, I just didn’t have the courage. The opportunity arose several times, but I made a metaphorical shuffle to the touch-line, out of harm’s way. I went as near as I dared, but always held back on the absolute truth. How do you tell someone that they are hated?
Now, away from the gaze of those keen brown eyes, the vitriol Manchester City fans hold for Nigel Clough can be related fully. He is, according to the City fanzine, King of the Kippax, a ‘lazy, money-grabbing leech’. To further reinforce the point, a cartoon drawing of Clough shows him with a contemptuous smile on his face, a bundle of cash in his hand and the taunt, ‘Suckers’, on his lips.
Fanzines are habitually cruel and direct, so the attack in itself is nothing new or particularly disconcerting. The inky anger of the disgruntled fan-cum-writer is now an accepted constituent of football, but this demonisation of Nigel Clough has also suited others in and around Manchester City FC. In the cartoon world that is Maine Road, Clough is the black-cloaked baddie; admittedly not quite the boo-hiss anti-hero of Alan Ball, but running him fairly close.
Clough was signed by Ball so, to many observers, they form a heinous double act. Both men are seen as a reminder of a foolhardy, inglorious recent past, a time when the club fired from the hip with a wad of notes. When Clough left City two months ago, the Manchester Evening News painstakingly relayed how much he had cost per game, per goal, and the subtext was crudely apparent.
David Bernstein rejoiced that he had stymied this flow of cash – reportedly £6,000 per week – to a player not even on the fringes of a first-team place. Bernstein is a gentleman, a man to whom a deal is a deal, but in professing City’s new-found pragmatism and parsimony, he inadvertently cast Clough as avaricious, another example of player putting himself before club.
Until Clough joined City in January 1996 for £1 million from Liverpool, he was – for a footballer anyway – a surprisingly popular figure. We had known him since a boy. He was the thin, dark-haired youth half-smiling on family photographs next to his famous dad. Secretly, we all felt a bit sorry for him. Brian Clough was great on television, but imagine him in your front room, every night! Nigel became a neat, intelligent professional footballer, while off the field he was patently not a chip off the old block. He spoke quietly and sensibly, without the extravagant gestures and rhetoric of his father.
City fans were delighted when he signed, because above all else they exalt the ball-player. They were also encouraged that he had taken a drop in wages (thought to be £2,000 per week) to join. He scored on his home début but thereafter his form was inconsistent. City were relegated in May 1996 and when Frank Clark replaced Alan Ball as manager he believed Gio Kinkladze and Clough were not compatible in the same team. Clough played just 19 games in the 1996–97 season and last season did not make one appearance for City, though he was loaned to Sheffield Wednesday and Nottingham Forest.
Clough has spent most of his life in close proximity to journalists. He is cautious, not rude or evasive, but vigilant. He had not been forewarned that we would talk at length about City. Clearly, he would rather we didn’t. His eyes narrow, there is an invisible fire beneath his chair. ‘I got on with most people at City. I would like to think that I could call Joe Royle tomorrow and he would sort me out with a match ticket if I wanted one,’ he says.
He is oblivious to the ill-feeling that has developed since he left the club. He does not look surprised, or particularly upset. He has been in the game a long while, he knows the capricious nature of the supporter. A stern look suddenly falls across his face, perhaps he senses a set-up, that I want him to ‘clear his name’ and speak disparagingly about City. ‘I’m not going to have a go at City,’ he says.
Without ever sounding pompous, he says that he would not use a newspaper article to, as it were, ‘tell his side of the story’. I inform him that he is among a minority of footballers who would feel this way. He shrugs his shoulders. He mentions his family, his friends at Maine Road, players he has worked alongside; it is their respect he covets the most. ‘Supporters only get to find out so much . . .’ he begins. And then ends, abruptly.
His reluctance to elaborate is frustrating, his politeness and quiet dignity infuriating. I push and push, he moves further away. It must have been distressing, as a relatively young man, to spend a whole season out of the first team, I proffer. Perhaps now, the catharsis will begin, we will learn of the ignominy, the misery. He is, inevitably, two moves ahead: ‘When you’re out of the team you just get your head down in training and get on with it. I am not the type to go hammering on the manager’s door. I turned up every day at City and always made myself available for selection,’ he says.
Eventually, reluctantly, he presents the facts: it took precisely one hour to negotiate his three-year contract with City. For once, the language is colourful and linear: ‘It was done in no time, I didn’t try to screw the club to the floor,’ he says. He was unhappy to remain in City’s reserves and asked the PFA several times to help find him another club. Unfortunately, no one wanted to sign him. He left City with a cash settlement which was significantly less than if he had remained and drawn his weekly wage.
He is now manager of Burton Albion of the Dr Marten’s Premier Division. He has inherited a squad of about 50 players and smiles at the irony of having to shed some of his staff. Later, as he talks more of the club and enthusiasm washes over his prudence, his eyes dance and the smile becomes more frequent. It was a long time in coming, but well worth the wait.
Saturday, 12 December 1998
Manchester City 0 Bristol Rovers 0
An uninspiring game saw City booed off for the second time within a week. ‘It was our poorest display of the season,’ said Joe Royle. It left them 14 points behind league-leaders Stoke City. They had not won in their last five matches and had won just four times in 19 outings.
Before the game, supporters were handed invitations to an after-match Christmas pub crawl with the editorial teams behind three City fanzines, Bert Trautmann’s Helmet, Chips ’n’ Gravy and City ’til I Cry! The leaflet boasted: ‘We will guarantee the much-loved sore head tomorrow morning, but who cares – you will probably suffer more this afternoon!’
During the match, an ugly scene developed in the press area when the freelance reporter covering the game for the Daily Mirror, Lindsay Sutton, was accosted by fans. ‘We’ll get you, you’re dead,’ shouted one fan. A group of about 20 supporters laid siege to the press room at half-time and four people were ejected from the ground. Sutton, who did not write the original piece, was given a police escort from the ground.
Sunday, 13 December 1998
Masked thieves carrying baseball bats tied up staff at City’s Platt Lane training complex and made off with ‘a large amount of cash’.
Monday, 14 December 1998
The sports editor of the Daily Mirror took the unusual step of including an editorial in the paper defending its right to contrast City with United. ‘The fact that a club of City’s size and history is struggling is worth talking about,’ he wrote.
City supporters were not appeased. Matches in the Auto Windscreen Shield habitually drew extremely low crowds and they were upset that the Mirror’s reports made no reference to City’s renowned high league attendances. ‘If they want to criticise the board or even the team at the moment I can understand it, but not the supporters,’ said David Bernstein.
Tuesday, 15 December 1998
Manchester City 1 Darlington 0 (FA Cup Second Round Replay)
Another low crowd, just 8,595, saw an extra-time winner from Michael Brown. Both teams had been reduced to 10 men when Danny Tiatto and Marco Gabbiadini were involved in a scuffle. Darlington’s manager, Dave Hodgson, was also dismissed and ordered to leave the dug-out area. ‘I’ve got a right to get upset when a player nuts one of my men,’ he complained.
Friday, 18 December 1998
A
group of fans recorded their own City song in a bid to ‘lift the doom and gloom from Maine Road.’ ‘Going Back’ (‘City ’til I Die’) included the refrain: ‘Blue blood flowing from my heart, waiting for a beginning and a brand-new start . . .’
David Bernstein issued one of a series of rallying calls via the Manchester Evening News under the headline of ‘We Will Succeed.’ ‘Ultimately I am totally aware of the need to win matches and get promoted,’ was his closing address.
Club chaplain, Tony Porter, chipped in with his own manifesto for success. ‘The thing I pray for above all at City is stability. If I’d had seven bishops in two years we’d be up the pole. I long for City to get away from this quick-fix idea,’ he said.
CANDID TUEART MEANS BUSINESS
(The Times, Saturday, 19 December 1998)
The tea lady got the message. So did the photographer and the giddy supporter reckless enough to laugh out of turn. Dennis Tueart does not suffer fools. Not one bit.
Firstly, the indiscreet fan. Tueart had just given one of his typically direct responses while on the panel at a supporters’ club meeting. Someone sniggered. ‘What are you laughing for? he snapped, his eyes ice-cold and piercing. ‘Have I said something funny?’ ‘No,’ came the response. ‘Well don’t laugh then.’
Our photographer had asked Tueart to pose in front of City’s trophy cabinet. He liked the light reflecting off the glass. ‘You’re not going to take the piss about it being empty are you?’ asked Tueart. He was also reluctant about being pictured near the bust of Joe Mercer. ‘We’ve had enough of all that past-glory stuff,’ he grumbled. The tea lady arrived. She had been overgenerous with the milk. Tueart pointed to his cup. ‘I can’t drink that, love.’ Polite, but firm. Within seconds, another was placed before him. Thanks, love.
It has been a bad couple of weeks in the life of Manchester City. Their form in the league has remained disappointing: they recorded an all-time low home attendance against Mansfield Town in the Auto Windscreen Shield; and a replay and extra-time were required to see off Darlington in the FA Cup. ‘We’ve had a few upper-cuts lately,’ he says. ‘You obviously feel frustrated by it, but you’ve got to play the percentages game. We try and do the right things at the right time and put in the commitment. If we do that, on the field and off it, we’ll give ourselves the best possible chance of succeeding.’
Tueart played 259 games for City in two separate spells in the 1970s and early 1980s. He is best remembered for the stunning overhead kick which gave City victory in the 1976 League Cup final against Newcastle United, his home-town club. When he left City for the first time, in 1977, he joined New York Cosmos, to play alongside the likes of Franz Beckenbauer and Carlos Alberto. Off the field, the company he kept was also stately. ‘You were more likely to find me in the sponsors’ lounge after the game, than the players. I was very interested in the corporate side of the game, the way sport dovetailed into business.’
Back in the UK, he worked for a company specialising in launching products, usually against a sports backdrop. He would hire suites at football grounds to stage conferences, and he rightly saw football clubs as a natural focus for media interest. In 1988 he bought out a partner and launched Premier Events. He also has business interests in a travel agency and a property company. Clearly, he is equally at ease in a suit as he was a football kit.
His father was a fitter in the shipyards of the north-east and Tueart has the rugged edge of a working-class boy made good. He has been quick to learn, shrewd and single-minded. He tells a story of a conversation he had with a fellow apprentice-professional while he was with Sunderland in the late 1960s. Tueart asked him whether he would go easy on a challenge if the ball fell between them. It took some time before his friend responded. ‘I wouldn’t even have had to think about it . . .’ said Tueart.
His vocabulary is peppered with business-speak. He rarely says ‘me’ or ‘I’, but talks of ‘Dennis Tueart’, what is good for Dennis Tueart, what Dennis Tueart believes. He has a brusque charisma, one could imagine him at a business seminar, drawing out the unbelievers, inspiring the indifferent. He is at the point where evangelism meets consumerism and pleased to be there.
He joined the board at City last December. His company had held an executive box at Maine Road and he maintained a keen interest in the club’s fortunes. He was asked to provide expertise in his field of corporate hospitality and also to form a link between Joe Royle – with whom he played at City – and the board. ‘I am not here through ego,’ he says. ‘I’ve come to City because I want to be part of a good spirit and an on-going development of the club. We’ve had a lot to sort out behind the scenes, but we are building foundations that will serve us well. I can understand that the fans are getting frustrated and edgy, but we are doing everything we can to progress.’
Noticeably, he is the same weight as he was as a player, though he is now 49 years old. He works out in the gym every day. His mobile phone rings, so does another phone in the room. He is quick to his feet, energetic and nimble. He seems like a man heading some place and others will gladly travel with him. This busy-busy aura is infectious, many will want to please him, to secure his approval.
Before the interview he had twice asked, ‘What’s your angle?’ It is hard not to feel sorry for the off-field personnel at City and, of course, the supporters. They are the epitome of dedication and enterprise, yet the team on the pitch continue to play like 11 young men who met for the first time an hour before kick-off. The few spoil it for the many and a certain malcontent is inevitable. ‘We’ve been knocked from pillar to post lately,’ Tueart laments.
Some gossip-mongers have implied that Tueart is a potential club chairman, a natural leader. They suggest that after the tenure of the equable David Bernstein, City might require a more bullish approach, fronted by someone who has spent foggy mornings on training pitches and long evenings in the oak-panelled boardrooms of multi-national plcs. Tueart refutes the claim and laughs for the first time. Take that as you will.
• I had seen Tueart at close-quarters several times before actually meeting him. On the various supporters’ panels, he emitted a forceful aura. City supporters were habitually reverential towards him and he appeared comfortable with this deference.
His fussiness about having his photograph taken was comical; he was convinced we were laying a trap for him. He was supposedly the club’s expert on PR, yet his opening gambit was a major PR faux pas. He was immediately confrontational and his ramblings about a possible set-up bordered on the neurotic. It suggested a vulnerability that would have hitherto remained hidden.
He commented on my clothes soon after we met. He said he had expected that I would dress more formally, to have worn a suit even. No one had said this to me before during my 15 years as a journalist. I asked him about his grown-up children and he was most proud that they had each secured a good education.
Close up, one-on-one, he is not particularly spiky or intimidating. He is trim, vigilant, sharp of movement and mind. He is also quite likeable, with a ready smile and laugh. He is best when recalling his playing days; the stories are rich and engaging, he tells them with a boyish enthusiasm. He becomes more direct and punctilious when he talks of his interest in corporate affairs. The child in him disappears. He seems a man who has read too many business self-help books, taken on capitalism with the zeal of a religious convert. He has learned the jargon, seen its rewards, but has no interest in that which is not fervent and linear – the subtleties, the softer edges, the emotional side.
Later in the season, I met one of his former team-mates. He asked me what I thought of Tueart. I told him and he smiled and said something along the lines of, ‘He fooled you then . . .’ I think he was implying that Tueart had adopted the posture of the assertive, abrasive businessman. It suited him, validated him in the circles in which he mixed. The brashness covered the tracks that lay to his resolutely working-class background. Underneath, though, he was a sympathetic character, less strident and sure o
f himself than he would like to appear.
When we parted after the interview, Tueart looked continually over my shoulder. It was nightfall, it might have been a trick of the light, but I suspected he was trying to catch sight of my car, making an assessment.
Saturday, 19 December 1998
York City 2 Manchester City 1
City’s season reached its nadir at Bootham Crescent on a bitterly cold afternoon. They dominated the match but lost to a goal by 18-year-old débutant Andrew Dawson four minutes before the end.
Gordon Connelly had given York an early lead before Craig Russell equalised. Veteran goalkeeper Bobby Mimms, who had been on loan to City a decade earlier, made a series of excellent saves.
Traditionally, league tables were said not to really count until mid-December. City were now twelfth, 15 points adrift of the pace-setters Fulham and Walsall. While they had briefly been in fourteenth position after the away draw at Notts County in August, with the season now half-completed, the club was indubitably at the lowest point in its history.
Sunday, 20 December 1998
Former City player Alan Kernaghan, now playing for St Johnstone in Scotland, was highly critical of the club in an interview with a Scottish newspaper. ‘Four years of my prime were completely wasted at City,’ he said. ‘I still follow their results though, with a snigger.’
Monday, 21 December 1998
Richard Edghill, City’s longest-serving player, was granted a new four-year contract. He had made his début back in September 1993 in a 1–0 defeat at Wimbledon.
In the various City fanzines he had received stinging criticism for his inconsistent form. ‘I suppose the fans have got to pick on someone but I am not going to start sulking about it. I can take the abuse. My shoulders are big enough,’ he said.
Meanwhile, Ray Kelly was released and returned to his native Ireland after five years at City. The 21-year-old had played just 45 minutes of first-team football in a 1–0 defeat at Huddersfield Town in 1997. ‘I think Ray might have been the biggest victim of the stockpiling of players at City in recent years,’ said Joe Royle.
Blue Moon: Down Among The Dead Men With Manchester City Page 10