The Damned Utd

Day Nine

I don’t believe this. I get out of my car. Don’t fucking believe this. I slam the door. Bastards. I lock it. Who the fucking hell do they think they are? I put my jacket on. Bastards. Bastards. Bastards. I walk across the car park. Lazy fucking bastards, the bloody lot of them. Up the banking to the training ground and I ask Jimmy Gordon, Jimmy who’s picking up the balls and putting them back in their bags, ask Jimmy, ‘Where the fucking hell are they?’

‘They’ve finished up. They’ve all gone for their soap downs and their massages.’

‘Get them back out here,’ I tell him. ‘I’m the fucking manager here. I decide —’

‘But you weren’t —’

‘I wasn’t what?’

‘Nothing,’ says Jimmy. ‘You’re right, Boss. You’re right.’

‘I know I am,’ I tell him. ‘Now you get them back out here and you fucking tell them from me, you tell them they finish when I say so. Not a moment before.’

‘Boss, maybe it’d be better coming —’

‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘Or I’ll fucking sack you and all.’

Jimmy does it and, ten minutes later, there are sixteen very long faces in sixteen dirty purple tracksuits out on that training pitch; sixteen long faces until Duncan McKenzie, the new boy, gets hold of the ball and runs with it at Bites Yer Legs –

‘Nutmeg, Norman!’ he shouts out and plays the ball through Hunter’s legs –

Everyone is laughing now, even Hunter. Even Bremner. Even Giles –

I clap my hands. Jimmy blows his whistle. The laughter stops.

‘Now before you all go off for your lovely hot baths,’ I tell them, ‘before you all piss off in your lovely new suits and your lovely flash cars to your lovely new houses and your lovely young wives, you can all get down on your bloody hands and knees and look for my fucking watch!’

* * *

You and the team have three days’ relaxation at your Marlow HQ. You and the team go down to London on a luxury team coach. You and the team spend a night at one of the capital’s finest hotels. You and the team have your breakfasts in your beds. You and the team arrive to a splendid reception from your travelling fans at Selhurst Park. You and the team go and get changed. Then you and the team run out onto that pitch and beat Crystal Palace 2–1 with goals from Roy McFarland and Willie Carlin –

You beat high-flying Crystal Palace and you go top, top, top –

This is the day, this is the day, this is the day –

The day Derby go top of Division Two –

Saturday 30 November 1968.

Everything about you and Derby County has First Division stamped all over it; your preparation, your luxury coach, your choice of hotels, the style of your play and the manner of your victories –

You have lost only once in the league since you went to Leeds Road and were beaten by Huddersfield Town. Just once in the league since that day –

Just once since Willie Carlin joined.

Following that victory over Chelsea, you also went to First Division Everton and drew o — o in the fourth round of the League Cup. Then you brought them back to the Baseball Ground and beat them 1–0; another night to remember in a season never to forget. Next you got Swindon in the fifth round but you could only draw at the Baseball Ground. Swindon then beat you at their place and so now you’re out of the League Cup –

You took your eye off the ball. Took your eye off the ball. Your eye off the ball –

You were bloody angry at the time, fucking furious at the time, but not now –

Not now everything about you has First Division stamped all over it. Not now you are favourites to go up. Not now you are favourites to go up as Champions –

Not now you’ve gone from eleventh to first in just three months –

Not now you’ve been named Manager of the Month –

Not now you’re top, top, top of Division Two.

* * *

Under the stand. Through the doors. Round the corner. I’m walking down the corridor towards Syd Owen. He walks past me without a word, without a look. Then he says behind my back. Under his breath. Behind his hand. Through gritted teeth, Syd says something that sounds like: ‘Anything to do with peacocks is fatal …’

I stop. I turn round. I ask, ‘You what?’

‘There was a phone call for you.’

I ask him, ‘When?’

Syd’s stopped now, turned round and is facing me in the corridor. ‘Yesterday.’

I ask him, ‘Where was I?’

‘How I should I know?’ he laughs. ‘Probably off selling or buying someone.’

‘What time?’

‘Morning, afternoon,’ he shrugs. ‘Not sure.’

‘Well, who was it?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘But you answered it?’

‘Oh, aye.’

‘Where? Which phone?’

‘The one in the office.’

‘My office?’

‘It is now,’ he laughs again.

‘What were you doing in my office?’

‘I was looking for the Matthewson file,’ he says. ‘For Saturday.’

‘The what file?’

‘The file on Bob Matthewson,’ he says, slowly.

‘And who the fucking hell is Bob Matthewson when he’s at home?’

‘You mean you don’t know?’ he asks.

‘Course I don’t fucking know, Syd,’ I tell him. ‘That’s why I’m fucking asking you who the bloody hell he is.’

‘No one special,’ he smiles. ‘Just the referee for Saturday.’

‘You’ve got bloody files on the fucking referees?’

‘Course we have,’ he says. ‘What do you think we are, amateurs?’

‘Why?’

‘Turn a game can a referee,’ he says. ‘Specially if you know how to help him.’

‘Well, I told you,’ I tell him again, ‘I burnt all them fucking files with his desk.’

‘Lucky we’ve got copies then, isn’t it?’

I walk down the corridor towards him, my finger out and pointing straight at him. ‘I don’t need files on referees and I don’t need files on other teams and I don’t need you in my office and I don’t need you to answer my phone for me. Is that clear?’

‘Their scream forebodes rain and even death …’

‘You what?’ I ask him again. ‘Is that clear?’

‘Crystal,’ says Syd. ‘Crystal.’

* * *

‘You’re fucking shit,’ you tell him –

Tell Green. Tell Webster. Tell Robson. Tell Durban. Tell McFarland. Tell McGovern. Tell Carlin. Tell O’Hare. Tell Hector. Tell Hinton –

You tell the lot of them, the bloody lot of them except Dave Mackay –

‘Utter fucking shit. And, worse than that, you’re a fucking coward. The only fucking time you fucking ran out there was to find a new fucking hole to fucking hide in. So that makes you a fucking coward; a fucking coward to yourself, to your teammates, to me and the staff, to the club and the fans who pay your fucking wages, and to your own fucking moral sense of responsibility. So you’re a fucking coward and you’re fucking finished, you fucking cunt!’

You slam the dressing room door. Bang! You storm off down the corridor –

‘A cunt and a coward! A cunt and a coward! A cunt and a coward!’

Peter puts his arm round him. Peter tells him, ‘The boss didn’t mean that.’

Tells Green. Tells Webster. Tells Robson. Tells Durban. Tells McFarland. Tells McGovern. Tells Carlin. Tells O’Hare. Tells Hector. Tells Hinton –

He tells the lot of them, the bloody lot of them except Dave Mackay –

‘Didn’t mean a word of it, you know that. The boss is just disappointed because he has so much hope for you, so much belief in you. He knows you can be the best player out on that park, so he’s just upset because today you weren’t, because you let yourself down and you let him down. That’s why he’s angry, angry because he cares about you, because he loves you, thinks the bloody world of you. You know that, don’t you?’

And Green nods. Webster nods. Robson nods. Durban nods. McFarland nods. McGovern nods. Carlin nods. O’Hare nods. Hector nods. Hinton nods –

The lot of them nod, the bloody lot of them except Dave Mackay –

It is 18 January 1969 and you have just lost 2–0 at Charlton –

This is your first defeat in fourteen league games –

You’ve got it down to a fine art, you and Peter –

And you’re still top of Division Two.

* * *

There’s another set of feet outside the office, another knock –

‘What?’ I shout.

Terry Yorath opens the door slowly. Terry Yorath puts his head inside.

‘What do you want, Taffy?’ I ask him.

Yorath says, ‘Is it possible to have a word please, Mr Clough?’

‘It’s Boss to you, Taff,’ I tell him.

Yorath says again, ‘Is it possible to have a word please, Boss?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘If you take your hands out of your bloody pockets.’

Yorath takes his hands out of his pockets. ‘It’s about my contract.’

‘What about it?’

Yorath puts his hands back in his pockets, then takes them out again and says, ‘It’s run out, Boss. My contract …’

‘And?’

Yorath says, ‘And I was hoping I’d get a new one.’

‘Did you talk about a new contract with my predecessor?’

Yorath nods. Yorath says, ‘Yes, I did.’

‘And what did he say?’

Yorath wipes his mouth. Yorath says, ‘He promised to double my wages, Boss.’

‘To what?’

Yorath wipes his mouth again. Yorath says,‘£250 a week.’

‘£250 a fucking week! Why the bloody hell would he promise to do that?’

Yorath shrugs his shoulders. Yorath says, ‘Because I played in more than thirty first-team games last season, I suppose. And because we won the title.’

‘Who else knew about this promise?’

Yorath shrugs his shoulders again. Yorath says, ‘Just the chairman, I think.’

‘OK then,’ I tell him. ‘I believe you. You’ll have your new contract by Monday.’

Yorath nods his head. Yorath mutters his thank-yous. But Yorath doesn’t move.

‘Something else on your mind is there, Taff?’ I ask him.

‘Wembley, Boss.’

‘What about it?’ I ask him.

‘Will I be playing?’

‘No,’ I tell him.

‘Will I be in the squad?’

‘No,’ I tell him again.

‘So I won’t be going down to London?’

‘No,’ I tell him for the third time.

Yorath looks up at me. Yorath asks, ‘So what’ll I be doing on Saturday, Boss?’

‘You’ll be turning out for the reserves at Witton Albion, Taff.’

* * *

You are on your way. You, Peter, Dave Mackay and Derby County –

These are the happiest hours of your life …

This old, unfashionable, run-of-the-mill, humdrum provincial little club is on the bloody up and the board and Sam Longson can’t do enough for you –

The happiest hours and days of your life …

The keys to his cars. His holiday homes and his drinks cabinet. His wallet and his safe. Longson had had you in the York Hotel when you first came down to Derby; then he moved you over to the Midland, the hotel where you later set up Dave and Roy, the hotel that’s now a home from home for you and the whole bloody team; Longson then helped you and your wife and children find a house just outside Derby, a home of your own –

The happiest hours, days and weeks of your life …

You sweep the terraces and you sign the players. You take the training and you do the mail. You clean the baths and you water the grass. You talk to the press and you talk on the telly. You walk the pitch every Sunday morning and you plot, plot, plot and plot –

The happiest hours, days, weeks and months of your life …

Plot to stay top. Plot to go up. Plot to stay up. Plot –

The happiest times of your life.

* * *

I have locked the office door. Put a chair against it. I have opened a new bottle of Martell. Lit another fag. Tomorrow Leeds will have to travel to London. For the Charity Shield; the First Division Champions vs the FA Cup holders; Leeds United vs Liverpool. The first time the Charity Shield has ever been played at Wembley; the first time it’s ever been shown on television. The new curtain-raiser for the new season. The brainchild of Ted Croker, the new Secretary and self-styled Chief Executive of the Football Association, despite the protests of both Leeds United and Liverpool –

Two years ago, when Derby County won the title, I refused to take part in the old Charity Shield; pissed them off no end, the FA, the Derby board, the fucking lot of them. Two years ago, I sent Derby on their pre-arranged pre-season tour of Germany instead –

This year there’s no escape. No escape at all –

Three o’clock or thereabouts on Saturday afternoon, I will have to lead out that team at Wembley. His team. Not mine. Three o’clock, I will have to stand side by side with the great Bill Shankly. It will be Shankly’s last bow, having retired in July. His last chance to lead out a team of his at Wembley –

The Wembley Way. The twin towers. The Empire Stadium. The tunnel. The National Anthem. The handshakes. The presentations. The crowd. The kick-off …

Three o’clock. Three o’clock –

And I’ll wish I wasn’t there, anywhere but there.