The Damned Utd

Day Fifteen

I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room with an old-fashioned fucking hangover and no one but myself to blame –

No one but myself and Harvey, Stewart, Lorimer, the Grays, Bates, Clarke, Hunter, McQueen, Reaney, Yorath, Cherry, Jordan, Giles, Madeley, Bremner, Cooper, Maurice bloody Lindley and Sydney fucking Owen.

Two wins, one draw and one defeat (on penalties) and I should be happy; if this was for real, Leeds would have five points from four games, four games away from home, and I would be happy; not ecstatic, not over-the-moon but not gutted; not sick-as-a-parrot, just happy. But this is not for real –

For real is Saturday. For real is away at Stoke.

I get out of bed. I have a wash and a shave. I get dressed. I go downstairs to see if I can still get any breakfast. I sit in the deserted dining room and stare at my bacon and eggs, my tea and my toast, trying not to throw up again –

This is not real life. Not the life I wanted –

Those days gone. These days here –

Not the life for me.

* * *

January 1971 is a miserable month; Peter’s still at home ill, Sam still on his holidays; no one here but you and Webby, and you’re already regretting appointing Stuart bloody Webb as club fucking secretary; too bloody big for his bloody posh boots is Stuart Webb.

Folk had been coming up to the ground all morning for tickets for the cup tie against Wolves; almost sold the bloody lot; got a carpet of fucking cash, the apprentices stuffing it into plastic bags and wastepaper baskets, anything and anywhere to get it out the way. Now here’s this bloody johnny-come-lately of a secretary, a secretary you fucking appointed, here he bloody is giving you the third fucking degree –

‘The ladies in the office say there were four whole bins full of cash,’ he says. ‘There’s three here; now where’s the fourth?’

‘How the bloody hell should I know?’ you tell him.

‘Well, someone said you took one home at lunchtime, for safe keeping.’

‘Who the fucking hell told you that?’

‘It doesn’t matter who told me,’ he says. ‘What matters is where the cash is.’

‘Exactly,’ you tell him. ‘So stop bloody yapping and start fucking looking!’

‘All right,’ he says. ‘I will and I’ll get the police to help me, shall I?’

‘All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘It’s at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow.’

‘Why did you take it home?’

‘Because, one, you won’t give us a key to the bloody safe and, two, it’s safer in my house than in this fucking office and, three, I can do what the bloody hell I want here because I’m the fucking boss — not you. You’re a secretary and you answer to me.’

Stuart Webb shakes his head. Stuart Webb slams the door on his way out.

Peter is still ill, Sam still on his holidays –

Suddenly, this is a lonely place.

* * *

The taxi drops me at the ground. Training has already finished, the players gone home. But through the doors. Under the stand. Round the corner. Down the corridor. Bobby Collins is waiting for me –

Bobby Collins, former captain of Leeds, now manager at Huddersfield –

‘You’re bloody late,’ he says as I show him into the office. ‘Huddersfield Town might not be in the First Division, Mr Clough, but I’m still a busy man and I don’t like to be kept fucking waiting.’

I pull open a drawer. I take out a bottle of Scotch. ‘Drink?’

‘Not just now, thank you very much.’

I pour myself a large one and ask him, ‘Now do you want Johnny Giles or not?’

‘Of course I bloody want him,’ he says. ‘Who fucking wouldn’t?’

* * *

January was bad but February could be worse. Pete is still fucking ill; the whole town ill now. Rolls-Royce in collapse. Thousands out of work. The Derbyshire Building Society on the verge of bankruptcy. The whole fucking town. That’s why Derby County FC must be on the mend. That’s why you start to win some matches again, away at Ipswich and West Ham. For the whole town. You lose at Everton in the cup, but you then beat Palace and Blackpool. That’s why you also go shopping. For the whole fucking town. No Peter to hold your hand this time either. But this time you know exactly who you want. This time you go back to Sunderland for Colin Todd –

You coached this lad in the Sunderland youth team; the Almighty Todd –

‘He’s too expensive,’ you tell the press. ‘We’re not interested.’

You don’t ask Peter. You don’t ask the chairman. You don’t ask the board –

You are the manager. You are the man in charge. You are the Boss –

You sign the players. You pick the players. Because it’s you who sinks if they don’t swim. No one else. That’s why you don’t ask. That’s why you just do it –

This time you break the British transfer record; £170,000 for a defender; £170,000 as Rolls-Royce collapses, the whole town, the whole fucking town –

But you’ve also done it for them; for the whole bloody town –

To cheer Derby up; the whole fucking town.

Longson is in the Caribbean. The tactless old twit. You send him a telegram:

‘Signed you another good player, Todd. Running short of cash, love Brian.’

In Colin Todd’sfirst game you beat Arsenal 2–0 and you’re hailed a hero again. The next game is away against Leeds. Revie tries to get it postponed because of a flu epidemic in the Leeds United dressing room. You’re having bloody none of that and, fucking surprise surprise, only Sniffer Clarke is absent from the Leeds eleven. Norman Hunter’s certainly not absent and eventually ends up in the book as Revie and Cocker leap out of their dug-out, arms flapping, shouting and carrying on as if Norman really were bloody innocent. But fifteen minutes from the end Lorimer fucking scores and sends Leeds seven points clear of Arsenal and Derby back to the drawing board –

You lose to Liverpool, Newcastle and Nottingham bleeding Forest and do not win a single bloody game in the whole of fucking March –

Fear and doubt. Drink and cigarettes. No sleep. That’s March 1971 –

It is your worst month as a manager. Your loneliest month.

But then Peter finally comes back to bloody work and you finally get a fucking win, at home to Huddersfield. You lose again at Tottenham but then you do not lose again; you beat United at Old Trafford and Everton at home –

But it’s not enough for Peter; Peter’s had a long time alone in the house with his Raceform; a long time alone to think; to brood and to dwell –

‘Longson slipped you a £5,000 rise, didn’t he?’

‘Who fucking told you that?’

‘Answer the bloody question,’ Peter says. ‘Am I right or am I wrong?’

‘I want to know where you got your bloody information.’

‘That doesn’t fucking matter, Brian. What matters to me is that you took a £5,000 rise, that you took it eighteen fucking months ago, and that you’ve never said a bloody word about it to me. I thought we were partners, Brian.’

‘Pete, listen —’

‘No, you listen, Brian,’ he says. ‘I want my share of the cake.’

‘Pete —’

‘I want my share of the fucking cake, Brian. Yes or no?’

* * *

‘Bobby Collins thinks that Giles is the player to do Huddersfield proud, but Giles will be very much involved in my squad for Saturday’s game at Stoke. That is my priority now. So Johnny Giles, at the moment, is absolutely necessary to Leeds United. If the situation changes, Bobby Collins will be the first to be informed.’

‘What do you think about the comments made by Kevin Keegan’s father that if Johnny Giles hadn’t punched Keegan then none of this would have happened?’

‘It’s only natural for a father to stick up for his own son; I’d do the bloody same for my two lads and I hope you’d do the same for yours.’

‘But do you blame Giles for the whole affair? Believe he started it?’

‘How it all started is a mystery to me. We shall just have to wait until we get the referee’s report to get things sorted out. But I did feel very sorry for Kevin Keegan.’

‘Will Billy Bremner be appealing?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think of the decision by the FA to call this meeting of representatives of the Football League, the Professional Footballers’ Association, linesmen, referees and managers to study ways of improving behaviour on the pitch?’

‘I’m all for cleaning up the game, you gentlemen know that. But I wouldn’t want to see it done on the back of Billy Bremner.’

‘You still intend to play Bremner on Saturday?’

‘Of course I bloody do.’

‘And you’ll be accompanying Bremner to London on Friday?’

‘I don’t think I’ve any fucking choice, have I?’

* * *

These have been a bad few months but at least Pete is back at work. He’s still not happy; still after his slice of cake, but at least he’s back at work, back doing what he’s paid for. Pete has found another one; another ugly duckling, another bargain-bin reject. He’s been down to Worcester three times to watch Roger Davies in the Southern League. He’s offered Worcester City £6,000 but Worcester have put up their price; Worcester know Arsenal, Coventry and Portsmouth are all in the hunt now –

Now Worcester want £14,000 for Roger Davies.

‘Is it definitely yes?’ you ask Pete.

‘It’s definitely yes,’ he says, and so you get in your car and drive down to Worcester to meet Pete and sign Roger Davies for £14,000 –

‘I hope you’re right about Davies,’ says Sam Longson to Pete when you all get back home to Derby.‘£14,000 is a lot of money for a non-league player.’

‘Fuck off,’ replies Pete and walks out of the room and out of the ground.

You follow Pete home; knock on his door; let yourself in. You pour him a drink; pour yourself one; light you both a fag and put your arms around him.

‘You shouldn’t let the chairman upset you,’ you tell him.

‘Easy for you,’ sniffs Pete. ‘The son he never had, with your £5,000 raise.’

‘Right, listen, you miserable bastard, why did we buy Roger fucking Davies?’

‘You doubting me and all now?’ he shouts. ‘Thanks a fucking bunch, mate.’

‘I’m not bloody doubting you, Pete,’ you tell him. ‘But I want to hear you tell me why we went down to Worcester City and bought a non-league player for £14,000.’

‘Because he’s twenty-one years old, six foot odd and a decent fucking striker.’

‘There you go,’ you tell him. ‘Now why didn’t you say that to Longson?’

‘Because he questioned my judgement; questioned the one bloody thing I can do: spot fucking players. I’m not you, Brian, and I never will be — on the telly, in the papers — and I don’t bloody want to be. But I don’t want to be questioned and fucking doubted either. I just want to be appreciated and respected. Is that too much to ask? A little bit of bloody respect? A little bit of fucking appreciation every now and again?’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘What was the first thing you ever said to me? Directors never say thank you, that’s what. We could give them the league, the European Cup, and you know as well as I do that they’d never once say thank you. So don’t let the bastards start getting under your skin now and stop feeling so fucking sorry for yourself.’

‘You’re right,’ he says.

‘I know I am.’

‘You always are.’

‘I know I am,’ you say. ‘So let’s get back to work and make sure next season we bloody win that fucking title. Not for any fucking chairman or any board of bloody directors. For us; me and you; Clough and Taylor; and no one else.’

* * *

I am on my hands and my knees on the training ground, looking for that bloody watch of mine in the grass and the dirt. But the light is going and I’m sure one of them fucking nicked it anyway. There’s a ball in the grass by the fence. I pick it up and chuck it up into the sky and volley it into the back of the practice net. I go and pick it out of the back of the net. I go back to the edge of the penalty box and chuck it up into the sky again, volley it into the back of the net again, again and again and again, ten times in all, never missing, not once. But there are tears in my eyes and then I can’t stop crying, stood there on that practice pitch in the dark, the tears rolling down my bloody cheeks, for once in my fucking life glad that I’m alone.

* * *

This has been a bad season; a season to forget. But today it’s almost over. Today is the last game of the 1970–71 season. Today is also Dave Mackay’s last game –

1 May 1971; home to West Bromwich Albion –

West Brom who last week helped put pay to the ambitions of Leeds United and Don Revie; Leeds United and Don Revie who have lost the league by a single point to Arsenal; Arsenal who have not only won the league but also the cup and become only the second-ever team to win the Double –

Tottenham being the only other team. Tottenham and Dave Mackay.

Two minutes from the end, from the end of his last match, a match Derby are winning 2–0, and Dave Mackay is still rushing to take a throw-in; still clapping urgently, demanding concentration and 100 per cent –

He has played all forty-two games of this season. Every single one of them.

Then the final whistle of his final match comes and off he goes, running from the pitch with a quick wave to the 33,651 here to see him off, off down that tunnel, down that tunnel and he’s gone –

Irreplaceable. Fucking irreplaceable.

Derby County have finished ninth, scoring fifty-six and conceding fifty-four, drawing five at home and five away, winning sixteen and losing sixteen –

The symmetry being no bloody consolation whatsoever –

Because there is no fucking consolation –

No consolation for not winning –

That’s irreplaceable.

* * *

I don’t go back to the Dragonara. Not tonight. I go back home to Derby. Past the Midland Hotel. Past the Baseball Ground. But I don’t stop. Not tonight –

Tonight, I get back to the house, the lights off and the door locked. I put away the car and I go inside the house. I put on a light and I make myself a cup of tea. I switch on the fire and I sit down in the rocking chair. I pick up the paper and I try to read, but it’s all about Nixon and resignation, resignation, resignation:

‘I have never been a quitter. To leave office before my term is complete is abhorrent to every instinct in my body …‘

I put down the paper and I switch on the telly, but there’s nothing on except documentaries and news programmes about Cyprus, Cyprus, Cyprus:

Deceit and division; division and hate; hate and war; war and death.

I switch off the telly and I switch off the fire. I wash up my pots and I switch off the lights. I go up the stairs and I clean my teeth. I look in my daughter’s room and I kiss her sleeping head. I look in my sons’ room and my eldest one says, ‘Dad?’

‘You still awake, are you?’ I ask him. ‘You should be asleep.’

‘What time is it, Dad?’ he asks me.

I look at my watch, but it’s not there. I tell him, ‘I don’t know, but it’s late.’

‘You going to bed now, are you, Dad?’

‘Course, I am,’ I tell him. ‘I got work tomorrow, haven’t I? You want to come?’

‘Not really,’ he says. ‘But will you tell us a joke? A new one?’

‘I don’t think I’ve got any new jokes.’

‘But you’ve always got jokes, Dad,’ he says. ‘You know loads of jokes.’

‘All right then,’ I tell him. ‘There’s this bloke walking about down in London and suddenly London gets hit by an A-bomb …’

‘Is this the joke, Dad?’ he asks me.

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Just listen …’

‘Is it a funny joke?’

‘Just listen to me, will you?’ I tell him again. ‘So there’s this bloke walking about and London gets hit by an A-bomb and now this bloke is the only man left in the whole of London. So he walks around and around London, the whole of London, and it takes him four or five days, until finally he realizes that he must be the only person left in the whole of London and he suddenly feels very, very lonely because there’s nobody else to talk to. Nobody else but him. So he decides that he’s had enough, that he doesn’t want to be the only man left, and so he climbs up to the top of the Post Office tower…’

‘The Post Office tower’s all right then, is it, Dad?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘After the bomb,’ he says. ‘It’s still all right, still there, is it?’

‘Yes, it’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Don’t worry about the Post Office tower. So anyway, this bloke, he climbs all the way up to the top of the Post Office tower and then he jumps off the top and he’s falling down, down and down and down, the sixteenth floor, the fifteenth floor, the fourteenth floor, and that’s when he hears the phone ringing!’

‘When?’

‘When he’s passing the fourteenth floor!’

‘But you said everybody else was dead?’

‘But they’re not. That’s the joke.’

‘I don’t get it, Dad,’ he says.

‘That’s good,’ I tell him. ‘I hope you never do.’