The Damned Utd

Day Twenty-one

My car is still at Elland Road, so Jimmy Gordon comes to the house for me at half eight and then we go to pick up McGovern and O’Hare from the Midland.

‘Be able to run a bloody bus service soon,’ laughs Jimmy. ‘The Derby Express.’

‘Fucking hope so,’ I tell him. ‘The sooner the bloody better and all.’

* * *

Four days after losing to bottom-placed West Bromwich Albion, on a day when you, the Champions of England, are still sixteenth in the league table, despite having beaten Liverpool but still having lost four out of eight games, winning just twice and scoring only six goals, on this day you take your European bow. Not in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup; not in the Cup Winners’ Cup; but in the Holy Grail itself, the European Cup.

Only Jock Stein and Celtic, Busby and United have drunk from this cup; this cup that you dream of, that would make the nightmares cease –

The doubts and the fears; give what you want above all else –

Because this is what you want and this is what you’ll get.

It is 13 September 1972 and you are at home to željezničar Sarajevo of Yugoslavia in the preliminary round; two legs, home and away, winner takes all.

‘Forget West Bromwich fucking Albion. Forget Everton. Forget Norwich and forget Chelsea,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Anybody can play against West Bromwich Albion. Against Everton, Norwich and bloody Chelsea –

‘But this is the European Cup. The European fucking Cup. Only one English team a year plays for this cup. Tonight we’re that team –

‘Not Liverpool. Not Arsenal. Not Manchester United. Not Leeds United –

‘Derby fucking County are out there, on that pitch and in the history books –

‘So you go out there, onto that pitch, into those history books, and you fucking enjoy yourselves because, if you don’t, it might never bloody happen to you again.’

* * *

Under the stand and through the doors and round the corner, I am walking down and down and down that corridor, past Syd Owen and past Maurice Lindley, when Syd says behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth, he says something that sounds like, ‘The fucking hell did he buy them for?’

I stop in my tracks. I turn back and I ask, ‘You what?’

‘Pair of reserves,’ agrees Maurice. ‘Reserves.’

‘They couldn’t even get a fucking game at Derby bloody County,’ says Syd.

‘They’re internationals,’ I tell them. ‘Both with Championship medals.’

‘Championship medals?’ asks Maurice. ‘When was that then?’

‘Nineteen seventy-bloody-two,’ I tell him. ‘And you fucking know it.’

‘They didn’t really win them then, did they?’ says Syd. ‘Not really.’

‘So what did they bloody do then?’ I ask him. ‘Fucking find them?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ smiles Maurice.

‘In a way,’ laughs Syd.

‘They’ll show you their medals,’ I tell them.

‘But medals won’t do them much good tomorrow,’ says Maurice.

‘You what?’ I ask him. ‘What you talking about now?’

‘They can’t play,’ says Syd. ‘No chance.’

‘Course they fucking can,’ I tell him. ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t they?’

‘Because they’re not really fit, are they?’ says Maurice. ‘Not really.’

‘They should fucking fit right in here then, shouldn’t they?’ I tell them and turn my back to go, go down that corridor, round that corner.

‘There’s one other thing,’ says Syd behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth. ‘Training —’

I stop. I turn. I ask, ‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bit of a shambles,’ says Maurice.

‘How is it a bit of a shambles?’

‘There’s a game tomorrow, you know?’ says Syd. ‘Against QPR —’

‘I have seen the bloody fixture list, Sydney,’ I laugh. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘But we do worry,’ says Maurice. ‘Neither you nor Jimmy Gordon have said or done a single thing about how QPR will play. Not a thing —’

‘Don would’ve had the bloody reserves playing in the Rangers way,’ says Syd. ‘Had the first team playing against them; looking out for this, looking out for that.’

‘Bollocks,’ I tell them. ‘They’re professional fucking footballers; they don’t need all that bullshit. Just stop Bowles, that’s all you fucking need to know about QPR.’

‘That’s madness,’ says Maurice. ‘Madness…’

‘Well, I think you are mad,’ Syd tells me. ‘Fucking crackers. I really do.’

‘Well, while we’re at it then,’ I tell them both, ‘there’s one or two things I want to say to the pair of you. First off, I don’t have to justify myself to either of you. Not how and when I conduct training. Not who I buy or who I pick to play. Second, if you don’t like that, or you don’t like me, think I’m mad, think I’m crackers, then — as far as I’m concerned — you can sling your fucking hooks, pair of you –

‘And bugger off!’ I shout. ‘Now are we clear?’

‘Are we clear?’ I ask them. ‘Are we?’

Syd Owen just looks at me. Syd Owen just stares at me. Then Syd Owen says, ‘You’re right, Mr Clough. You don’t have to justify yourself or your actions to Maurice or me. Not to us, you don’t. But, come tomorrow night, there’ll be 40,000 folk here, 40,000 folk whom you will have to justify yourself to. Make no mistake.’

‘Not forgetting the eleven men you send out on that park,’ adds Maurice Lindley. ‘Not forgetting them.’

* * *

You beat željezničar Sarajevo 2–0 in the first leg at the Baseball Ground, under your new, pylon-mounted floodlights; not only did you beat them, you tore their morale to shreds, such was your dominance, the magnificence of your display, of Hennessey and of McGovern. Fucking shame only 27,000 turned up to watch it –

Fucking shame you then went to Old Trafford and were beaten 3–0 by the worst Manchester United team in years. Fucking shame you only trained with the team for thirty minutes that week. Fucking shame you spent most of that week on the motorway or on the train, up and down to London Weekend Television. Fucking shame no one is speaking, speaking to each other, listening to each other:

‘My terms are simple. If someone wants to employ me, they take me as I am. If, after five years, they can’t take me as I am, then the whole world has gone berserk.’

There are 60,000 here tonight in the Kosevo Stadium for the return leg among the trees and the hills of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the mosques and the minarets;60,000 sons of Tito with their hooters and their sirens –

‘Europe is an adventure,’ you tell the team. ‘Like a bonus, a holiday. So let’s make bloody sure we fucking enjoy it, enjoy it and bloody win it!’

Within quarter of an hour, Hinton and O’Hare have made it 2–0, 4–0 on aggregate, the game as good as over. But željezničar Sarajevo do not go gracefully into the Balkan night; they trip and they kick, on that rough, rough pitch, in that heavy, heavy Yugoslavian mud; they are worse than Leeds United, worse than the sons of Don Revie –

The sons of Tito burn their newspapers, the sons of Tito light their rockets –

But you win and their press say, ‘See you in Belgrade next May.’

Belgrade. Next May. The 1973 European Cup final.

* * *

Bremner doesn’t knock. Bremner opens the door and says, ‘You want ed to see me?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Have a seat, Billy. Pull up a pew, mate.’

Bremner doesn’t speak. Bremner sits down in the chair and he waits.

‘You’re out for the next three games,’ I tell him. ‘Possibly longer?’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner just sits in the chair and waits.

‘Now I don’t know what your thoughts are about this,’ I ask him, ‘but as team captain and a natural leader, it would be a bloody shame to lose your presence in the dressing room, as well as on the pitch, for these three games.’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner still just sits in his chair and waits.

‘I’d like you to be here for the home games at least,’ I tell him. ‘I’d also value your input in the team talks; over lunch, in the dressing room, and on the bench with me.’

Bremner stands up. Bremner says, ‘Is that all?’

* * *

Europe gives you hopes. Europe gives you dreams –

You start to win domestic games; beating Birmingham and Tottenham, drawing with Chelsea in the League Cup. You are set to play Benfica in the next round of the European Cup; Benfica and Eusebio, five-time finalists, twice winners of the cup; your hopes and your dreams made real –

But there is always doubt. There is always fear. Always trouble –

The childish vendettas and the mischief, the back-biting and the politics –

The directors are in the chairman’s ear, asking about Peter; what does he do, how does he do it, how much do we pay him for it, and do we really need him?

Then the chairman is in your ear about Peter; what exactly does he do, how exactly does he do it, how much exactly do we pay him, do we really, really need him, and how about a bit of extra money for you in your new contract, the extra money and the new contract that could be yours –

If there was no Peter Taylor.

Then the club secretary whispers in Pete’s ear about you; about how you don’t support Peter in the boardroom, about how you murder him and plot to dispose of him, about how you’re never there but always on the box and in the papers, about the bit of extra money in the new contract that could be coming your way if there was no Peter, or the bit of extra money and new contract that could be for Peter –

If there was no Brian Clough.

There is always doubt and always fear. There is always trouble, always tension. Tension and trouble; fear and doubt; war, war, war and then, right on cue –

As if by magick, here come Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.

* * *

Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. There is a half-eaten cheese sandwich on the desk, my address book open beside it –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout …

‘Take your bloody pick,’ I tell them down the telephone –

Forest. Leicester. Birmingham. Everton. Stoke and even Carlisle …

‘Harvey. Cooper. Cherry. Giles. Hunter,’ I tell anyone who’ll listen –

Ipswich. Norwich. Luton. Burnley. Wednesday and bloody Hull …

‘Take your fucking pick,’ I tell them, beg and plead with them –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout.

The half-eaten cheese sandwich, my address book and an empty, drained glass. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands –

‘Where’s my fucking watch?’

* * *

Longson has been summoned to a meeting of the Football League Management Committee, another bloody meeting of the Management Committee, another fucking meeting to discuss you. The Football League Management Committee tell Longson that Derby County Football Club will face severe disciplinary action and severe fines, even more severe disciplinary action and even more severe fines, if their manager does not modify his criticisms on the television and in the papers, his criticisms on the box and in his columns, his criticisms of the Football League and the Football Association –

Longson shits his fucking pants. Longson goes into hospital.

The birds and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the demons, the wolves and the vultures, they circle and gather with the black clouds and the winter storms as your new, pylon-mounted floodlights creak and groan over the Baseball Ground in the wind and the weather, creak and groan and threaten to collapse, to fall.

The football then comes as a relief; a relief from the childish vendettas and the mischief, the back-biting and the politics; comes as a relief even if it’s at Leeds, Leeds, Leeds –

It is 7 October 1972 and you are on the Derby coach to Elland Road, Leeds.

You are the Champions of England, not Leeds United; Derby County finished first, Leeds United finished second; you won and they lost; Daylight Robbery, say Don Revie and Leeds, Leeds, Leeds United, again and again and again –

Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery.

There is a point to prove for both sides today, a point and a lot of bloody needle. But when you stand up at the front of that coach, when you stand up to count the hearts on board today, you can sense the doubt and smell the fear, the trouble and the tension –

There is no John McGovern today. No Terry Hennessey –

In their place you’ll play Peter Daniel in midfield; an experiment. But, in your heart of hearts, you know Elland Road is no place for experiments, no place at all –

On that field of loss and field of hate, that field of blood and field of war.

The Derby coach pulls into Elland Road, to fists banged on its side, to scarves up against its glass, and the players whiten, their hearts sink and you’re a goal down –

A goal bloody down before you’ve even got off the fucking coach.

Two long halves and ninety minutes later, Derby County have lost 5–0 thanks to two from Giles and one each from Bremner, Clarke and Lorimer –

‘They didn’t even play that fucking well,’ says Pete. ‘They’re not that good.’

But you’re not listening; you’ve had enough of him, the team, the game –

These fields of loss and fields of hate, these fields of blood and fields of war.

* * *

The long rope. The sharp knife. The loaded gun. The press here, here to watch me parade McGovern and O’Hare, here to listen to me parade my lies and my deceits:

‘I stick by what I said a fortnight ago, that nobody will be leaving Leeds for a long, long time. Invariably when people talk about unloading they mean the very players you would least want to let go. I can honestly say that unloading any of these players has never come into my mind. The two new signings were out of necessity. I am very conscious of the fact that Leeds United are the Champions and that I cannot afford to bring any ragtag and bobtail players here. They have to be the right type of man as well as good players, and I am sure McGovern and O’Hare are tailor-made for this club.’

A question from the front: ‘Any news about Eddie Gray?’

‘It could be another lengthy spell out,’ I tell them. ‘And obviously there’s a question mark over the lad’s fitness.’

A question from the back: ‘There have been reports of behind-the-scenes rows between yourself and Syd Owen; have you any comment to make on these reports?’

‘These reports are disgraceful,’ I tell them. ‘Utterly disgraceful. I have never had differences with anyone at the club staff-wise, none whatsoever. Syd has worked like a slave for me since the day I took over. He is totally honest, he is dedicated and exactly the type of man to get on with me.’

A question from the side: ‘So absolutely no one at all is leaving Elland Road?’

‘There’s a job for everyone here,’ I tell them. ‘Even me.’

* * *

You go to Portugal to watch Benfica. To spy. You don’t take Peter. You take your wife and kids instead. You are glad to go. To get away. You’ve had enough of England. Had enough of Derby fucking County too; their bloody directors and their fans; their ungrateful directors and their ungrateful fans:

‘They only start chanting at the end, when we’re a goal up,’ you tell the papers. ‘I want to hear them when we’re losing. They are a disgraceful lot.’

Benfica are shit too and are lucky to draw –

You have no doubts. Have no fears –

Not about the Eagles of Lisbon –

You know you can win –

Know you will win.

* * *

I never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will. Back in the bar at the Dragonara when I should be back at home in Derby with my wife and my kids. Here in the bar with Harry, Ron and Mike; blokes I’d never met two weeks ago, never even bloody heard of, now my new best mates and pals for life –

‘A drink for all my friends,’ I shout. ‘Another fucking drink, barman.’

On the chairs and on the sofas of the Dragonara Bar –

‘Play “Glad to Be Unhappy”,’ I shout at Bert the pianist.‘“Only the Lonely”.’

On the tables and on the floors –

‘“In the Wee Small Hours of the Morning”.’

On the chairs and on the sofas. On the tables and on the floors. In the lift and in the corridor. In my modern luxury hotel room, in my modern luxury hotel toilet –

Because I never learn; never bloody learn; never did and never fucking will; why I failed my eleven-plus and haven’t got a certificate to my name, not a bloody one; why I scored 251 goals in 274 games but won only two England caps and not any fucking more –

Why I won the Second Division and the league titles; why I reached the semi-finals of the European Cup and why one day very soon I’ll win the bloody cup itself –

Because I never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will –

Because I’m Brian bloody Clough. Face fucking down on the floor tonight –

The future bloody manager of England, face fucking down on the floor.