The Damned Utd

Day Sixteen

Times change. Faces change. One season ends and another one starts –

New season, new hope, and your first game of the 1971–72 season is at home to Manchester United; a crowd of over 35,000 and a pre-match thunderstorm. It is also your first game without Dave Mackay; Roy McFarland injured as well.

Half-time and you’re two down; soft goals from Law and Gowling, both from Charlton corners. Soft, soft fucking goals. You go into that bloody dressing room and you let them have it, both fucking barrels:

‘Fucking rubbish the lot of you. You might as well get dressed and bugger off home now, the bloody lot of you. Useless every last fucking one of you. First day of the bloody season and you’re playing like this; first fucking day. You bloody lose today and you’ll lose every fucking day and you’ll be doing it in empty grounds and all. There are over 35,000 folk here to see you, bloody paid to see you, good money, hard-earned fucking money; you think they’ll be back next week? Will they bloody hell. Now get out there and show all them 35,000 folk and that team of old men and so-called superstars what you’re bloody made of, how you earn your big wages, and if you’re still losing at that final fucking whistle don’t bother coming back into work on Monday morning because you’ll not have a bloody job to come to. Be the real world for the lot of you –

‘Now fuck off, out of my sight!’

Five minutes later, Hinton floats a ball into their box; Wignall charges in and goes up with Stepney for it; the ball runs loose and Hector stabs it in. Ten minutes after that, Hennessey robs Georgie bleeding Best and passes the ball out to Hinton, who sends in another centre for O’Hare to head against the crossbar and Wignall to then bury. That’s how it ends,2–2.

‘Carry on playing like that and they’ll get me the sack,’ you tell the world.

Times change, faces change but the doubt remains. The fear remains –

Round every corner. Down every corridor –

Every match, every day, the doubt and then the fear.

* * *

I hate injured players. I don’t want to hear their bloody names. I don’t want to see their fucking faces. I stay out of the treatment rooms. I stay out of the bloody hospitals. I can’t stand the fucking sight of them –

‘I’m not taking you to Stoke,’ I tell Eddie Gray, and then I watch his face fall; this face that has taken so much pain; worked through it; smiled through it all; the initial breaks and the many operations; the verdicts and the second opinions; the frustration and the depression; the rehabilitation and the therapy; the training and the cortisone –

I watch it fall to the floor and crawl across the carpet to the door.

* * *

Here is where League Championships are won and lost; here at Leeds Road, Huddersfield. Not White Hart Lane. Not Anfield or Highbury. Not Old Trafford in front of 50,000 crowds and the television millions –

Here, in this filthy Yorkshire town on a filthy Saturday in November in front of 15,000 filthy Yorkshire folk calling you every filthy fucking name they can bloody think of; here is where Championships are won, won and lost –

And Derby have just lost. 2-bloody-1. You look around this filthy fucking dressing room, these filthy fucking players, soaked to their bloody skins and covered in filthy fucking Yorkshire mud –

And you ask Colin Boulton, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you fucking will because you’re a useless cunt of a keeper.’

You ask Ronnie Webster, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you fucking will because you’re utter fucking shite. Bloody rubbish.’

You ask John Robson, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you will because you’re the worst fucking defender I’ve ever seen.’

You ask Colin Todd, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well, the amount of bloody money I fucking paid for you, I must have been bloody pissed out of my fucking skull. You can’t even bloody keep on your fuck ing feet.’

You ask McFarland, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, Roy?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘No, what?’

‘No, Boss. I don’t want to get you the sack.’

‘Well, I don’t fucking believe you,’ you tell him and then turn to Terry Hennessey, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack and all, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘So where the bloody hell were you this afternoon? You might as well have fucking stopped at home, use you were to me out there.’

You ask John McGovern, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, John?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you remember that open goal, that open bloody goal you should have stuck that fucking ball in?’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Well, that looked like a deliberate miss to me, to get your manager the sack.’

‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Fuck off,’ you tell him and turn to Archie Gemmill. ‘You want to get me the fucking sack and all, do you, Scotsman?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Come on, admit it,’ you tell him. ‘You liked it better back in the Third Division, didn’t you? Come on, admit it.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he says.

You shake your head and turn to John O’Hare and ask him the same ques tion: ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

You point at Hinton and ask O’Hare, ‘You know how many centres he sent in?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says.

‘No, you’re not,’ you tell him. ‘Or you’d be out there now fucking practising.’

You ask Kevin Hector, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Really?’ you ask him. ‘Didn’t bloody look like that to me. Not when they took the lead and you had that chance — not chance — that fucking sitter when you landed flat on your bloody arse. They’ll be laughing about that in Huddersfield all fucking season.’

You turn to Alan Hinton. You tell him, ‘You played well, Alan. Thank you.’

You leave them to Peter; for Peter to kiss them all better. You step out into the corridor and light a fag; there’s Sam Longson, your chairman –

‘Did you hear all that?’ you ask Uncle Sam.

‘You can’t talk to people like that,’ says Longson.

‘Can’t I?’ you ask him. ‘You just bloody watch me.’

* * *

‘Jones injured. Gray injured. Bates injured. Yorath injured. Clarke suspended. Hunter suspended. The odds are already stacked against us,’ I tell them as I pour the drinks –

For Harry from the Yorkshire Post. For Ron from the Evening Post –

‘I’d have liked to have had a full squad available against Stoke because it is essential for us to start the season well. But being under strength does not mean I will abandon my open-play policy —’

Another round –

‘Attack is my only policy —’

And another –

‘This Saturday, every Saturday —’

And, go on then, twist my arm then, one last one for the road then –

‘I cannot play the game any other way.’

* * *

The day after Boxing Day 1971 and you lose to Leeds. Again –

Again, just when you were beginning to believe; after losing at Huddersfield, you’d beaten Manchester City at home, then lost at Anfield but beaten Everton at home. You were beginning to believe again; to banish the doubt and the fear, slowly –

But then you come to Elland Road. Again. The doubt and the fear. Again –

You saw the doubt and the fear in the eyes and the hearts of your players, saw the doubt and the fear when Gemmill was downed early on, saw their eyes and their hearts go down with him. But today you don’t swear; today you don’t shout or strip the walls of the visitors’ dressing room. Today you will buy them steak and pints on the way back to Derby. You will sit next to them on the coach, put your arms around them and tell them that they are the best players in the country, the very best –

Because your team, your boys, do not pull shirts, do not nudge people in the box, do not protest every decision, feigning innocence and then outrage –

Because your boys do not lie and your boys do not cheat.

But tonight you will still not sleep; tonight you’ll still sit in your rocking chair and stare at that league table and those fixtures to come. Tonight you will still not close your eyes because tonight you’ll see this game again, again and again and again, over and over and over. But you still will not see the way Leeds outwitted you on the flanks, still will not see your lack of any decent tackles, of any physical presence, will not see the licence you gave to Lorimer and Gray –

Tonight you will still see your team lose, but still lose only to cheats.

You still will not see Gray beat Hennessey; you still will not see his one-two with Bremner; you still will not see Gray’s low shot into the goal. Nor will you see Gray’s crossfield pass to Bremner; Bremner’s centre for Lorimer to score. You still will not see Gray beat Webster and his pass to Lorimer; you still will not see Lorimer change feet to shoot and score the third:

‘Leeds have a nasty habit of reminding Derby how far they have yet to go.’

You will still not sleep. You’ll still sit and you’ll stare at that league table and those fixtures to come, again and again and again, but all you will see is the look on Revie’s face as that whistle went and the teams left that field, over and over and over –

The look on that face, the handshake and the smile, and that field –

That field of loss. That field of hate. That field of blood –

You will still not sleep, but you still will dream –

Of that field of war.

* * *

‘Brian here,’ I tell Lillian. ‘Is Pete there?’

‘Brian, it’s two o’clock in the morning,’ she says. ‘He’s asleep.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I tell her. ‘I haven’t got a watch.’

‘Go to bed, Brian,’ she says. ‘I’ll get him to call you first thing.’

‘But I really need to speak to him now.’

‘Has something happened, love?’ she asks. ‘Are you all right?’

‘No, I’m not.’

‘Where are you?’ she asks.

‘I’m in the sodding Dragonara Hotel in Leeds.’

‘What are you doing there?’ she asks. ‘Get yourself back home.’

‘I can’t; I’ve got to take Billy bloody Bremner down to London in the morning.’

‘But you’ll be able to go straight home after that, won’t you?’

‘No,’ I tell her. ‘We’re travelling to Stoke tomorrow night.’

‘But you’ll be home on Sunday, won’t you?’ she says. ‘It’s not long.’

‘Six nights a week I used to be round your house,’ I tell her. ‘Remember that? And you two just married; you must have been sick of the sight of me.’

‘No, Brian,’ she says. ‘We never were.’

‘Pete and I’d always be going off somewhere to scout some game in the Northern League and then we’d bring back fish and chips. Do you remember?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says. ‘I remember.’

‘Rea’s Ice-cream Parlour?’ I ask her. ‘Remember that place?’

‘Yes, Brian,’ she says again. ‘I remember.’

‘All gone now,’ I tell her. ‘The ice-cream parlours and the coffee bars.’

‘I know, love.’

‘Do you remember when me, you and Pete went to see Saturday Night, Sunday Morning at the pictures? That was a good night, wasn’t it?’

‘You liked that film, didn’t you?’

‘I bloody loved it,’ you tell her. ‘Don’t let the bastards grind you down.’

‘You used to say that all the time.’

‘And what about that time we went to hear Harold Wilson speak? Remember that? One of the clubs in Middlesbrough, it was. Barely fifty bloody folk to hear him and all; the future Prime Minister of Great Britain. Pete’s idea. You remember that?’

‘I remember you going,’ she says. ‘But that was just you and Peter, love.’

‘You know I’d give my right arm for it to be like that again. Just me and him. This bloody lot here, they wouldn’t stand a chance if it was me and him, the two of us. There’d be no more ganging up, no more whispering, no more conspiring behind my back. Me and Pete, we’d bloody sort them out, show them who was fucking boss.’

‘I’ll go and wake him for you,’ she says. ‘You need to talk to him —’

‘Don’t,’ I tell her. ‘Not now. It’s too late.’

‘If you’re sure?’ she says. ‘But you get yourself off to bed then.’

‘But how are you?’ I ask her. ‘How’s Brighton? The children?’

‘We’re all well,’ she says. ‘Peter’s very busy, of course, but the new flat’s nice. Lovely view. Wendy likes her job too, settled in very well. But you don’t want to hear about all that. You get yourself to bed and Peter will call you tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be here.’

‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘He’s coming downstairs now. I’ll put him on.’

‘Brian?’ says Peter. ‘What’s wrong? It’s half two in the morning.’

‘Name your price,’ I tell him. ‘You can have whatever you want, but just come. We’ll be able to sort this place out together. We’ll be able to clean it up, to turn it around. We’ll be able to put them in their fucking place. Stop all their whispering and conspiring, their plotting and scheming, their lying and cheating. Me and you, just like before —’

‘Brian —’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Brian —’

‘It’s too much for me,’ I tell him. ‘I need you up here, Pete.’

‘There’s no point kidding you,’ he says. ‘I’ll not come to Leeds.’

‘Then that’s me and you finished,’ I tell him and I hang up.

* * *

The Leeds defeat was a turning point. Again. You have now beaten Chelsea, Southampton, Coventry and Forest. You have beaten Notts County 6–0 in the FA Cup. You have given away tickets to striking miners. You are Cloughie. You can do what you want –

Football manager one week, prime minister the next.

Manchester United are in Nottingham. Frank O’Farrell is there to sign Ian Storey-Moore. Storey-Moore is a left-winger; fast, direct and twenty-eight years old. Nottingham Forest have accepted a £200,000 bid from United. O’Farrell and the Forest secretary have gone up to Edwalton Hall to finalize the deal with Ian Storey-Moore. Then Pete hears the deal is breaking down over Storey-Moore’s personal terms –

Pete says, ‘This one’s ours, Brian.’

You pick up the phone. You dial Edwalton Hall. You catch Ian Storey-Moore –

‘Cloughie here,’ you tell him. ‘Stay where you are, I’m coming over.’

You and Pete drive over to Nottingham. You make him an offer he can’t refuse; Ian Storey-Moore will play for Derby. Not United –

Ian Storey-Moore signs blank forms –

The only thing missing is the signature of the Forest secretary.

Longson calls you. Longson asks you, ‘Are you sure you’re in order?’

‘He wants to play for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘So I’ve bought him.’

You take Ian Storey-Moore to the Midland Hotel, Derby. You introduce him to his new teammates. Before the home game against Wolves, you parade him around the Baseball Ground in a Derby County shirt as your new player. Your new player waves to the crowd. Your new player sits up in the directors’ box to watch Derby beat Wolves 2–1.

Then you drive him back to the Midland Hotel after the game –

You lock him in a room with his wife, a nice room –

You cross your fingers. You hope for the best –

But Forest won’t sign the transfer forms:

‘I am absolutely staggered and distressed at the performance of Nottingham Forest Football Club this morning. They are depriving the game of the dignity it deserves, and I will not have Derby County brought into any disrepute by anyone in football.’

Sir Matt Busby buys Mrs Ian Storey-Moore a bouquet of flowers –

Ian Storey-Moore joins Manchester United.

You are outraged. You send a four-page telegram in protest to Alan Hardaker and the Football League Management Committee. Your chairman sends a second telegram disassociating himself from you and your protest –

You are outraged, fucking outraged –

Outraged and out for revenge, again.