The Damned Utd

Day Thirty-two

England have drawn. England are out of the World Cup. The press and the television want Ramsey out. The press and the television want you in. But all you want this morning is company. Not to be on your Jack Jones in a posh London hotel. Not today; Thursday 18 October 1973.

You leave the capital. You drive back to Derby. There is a man on your doorstep. Man you’ve never met before. He says, ‘I want to help you get your job back, Brian.’

His name is John. John writes plays. Plays about the Yom Kippur War.

‘Come on in then,’ you tell him. ‘Have a seat and have a drink.’

You hand him a large scotch and water. The doorbell rings –

‘Brian,’ whispers your wife. ‘It’s the police, love.’

You put down your whisky with no water. You go to your front door:

‘Hello, George. Are you coming in?’ you ask Detective Inspector George Stewart.

‘Not today, Brian,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to mark your card.’

‘And why’s that then, George?’ you ask him.

George nods at the Mercedes. ‘You do know you’re not insured, don’t you?’

‘Like hell I’m not,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just driven back from bloody London!’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Kirkland has cancelled your insurance.’

‘He’s done bloody what?’ you ask him. ‘The fucking cunt!’

‘Aye,’ says George. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to run into one of our lot who doesn’t know who you are, or who doesn’t give a shit who you are, or who just wants to make a bloody name for themselves, or just plain doesn’t like you very fucking much.’

‘Point taken, George,’ you tell him and shut the door in his face.

‘That’s bloody outrageous,’ says John. ‘Fucking diabolical.’

‘Fucking inconvenient and all,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve got to drive to Birmingham.’

‘About a job?’ asks John.

‘I bloody wish,’ you tell him. ‘I’m down to play in a charity match tonight.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ says John. ‘I’d be happy to.’

‘In that case I’ll have another drink,’ you tell John as your wife leaves the room to pick up the kids –

To make them their tea. To give them their baths. To put them to bed –

To try to lead a normal bloody life.

Later, much later that night, John is driving you back home from Birmingham, from the charity match and the nightclub: the Talk of the Midlands, where you shared a stage with Mike bloody Yarwood and appealed to the people of Derby for their support –

The people of Derby who gave you a standing fucking ovation –

John is driving you back home when he asks, ‘Are you going to the game?’

You open your eyes. You ask him, ‘Which one?’

‘The bloody Derby — Leicester one,’ he laughs. ‘On Saturday.’

You shake your head. You tell him, ‘I daren’t.’

‘You what?’ he says. ‘Cloughie scared?’

You nod your head. ‘That’s right.’

‘Listen to me,’ he tells you now. ‘If you were to walk around that running track on Saturday afternoon, you’d get an ecstatic reception. The television will be there. Be on all the news programmes. Think of the visual impact. The impact on the public.’

‘I can’t do it,’ you tell him. ‘They might throw me out.’

‘They won’t throw you out,’ he laughs. ‘You created that team. You’re a hero.’

‘Well, I’ve not got a bloody ticket either.’

‘You leave that to me,’ says John. ‘You leave everything to me.’

* * *

Saturday comes again, welcome or not, it comes again like it always does, welcome or not, wanted or not, another judgement day –

The chance to be saved, the chance to be damned.

I sit alone at the front of the coach on the motorway to Manchester and I already know today’s result before we’ve even arrived –

No mystery. Not today. Not there. Not at Maine Road.

I’ve not been to a game yet when I haven’t already known the result before my team has got changed, before one whistle has been blown or one ball has been kicked; I know the result, know the answer –

Because I look into their eyes, I look into their hearts –

No mystery. Not today. Not any day. Not there –

Not in their eyes. Not in their hearts –

No mystery there. Just answers –

In the eyes. In the hearts –

Because in our eyes and in our hearts we have already lost, we are already damned.

* * *

It is Saturday lunchtime. You are at the Kedleston Hall Hotel, your new headquarters, having a long lunch with John, his mate Bill Holmes, your mate Dave Cox and Peter –

Peter who looks like he’s died twice in the last two days.

You’re all smoking and drinking more than you’re eating; knocking back the booze; knocking back the Dutch courage –

Laughing and joking more than you’re talking.

Then John looks at his watch. Then John says, ‘It’s time, Brian.’

You finish your drink. You pat Pete on his knee. You both stand up. You leave the restaurant of the Kedleston Hall Hotel. You go out into the car park. You get into the Rolls-Royce. The front seat of the golden Rolls-Royce. You turn the key. You start the engine and off you set through the streets of Derby. Pete on the back seat, you at the wheel. Through the deserted streets of barricaded houses and police reinforcements, deserted but for the police and the demonstrators and their banners. The demonstrators who have boycotted the match, their banners demanding, ‘BRING BACK CLOUGHIE!’

Through the deserted, barricaded streets to the Baseball Ground.

It is five minutes to three o’clock when you park the Rolls and the policeman asks, ‘How long do you intend staying, Brian?’

‘Five minutes, no longer,’ you tell him.

‘So you’re not stopping to watch the match?’

‘Believe it or not,’ you tell him, ‘I’m just nipping in to say cheerio.’

The policeman lets you park the Rolls, lets you leave Pete on the back seat, so you can nip through the demonstrators, through the cameras and the lights, past the bewildered steward and through the turnstiles, into the ground on your borrowed Derby County season ticket, where you then head off towards the players’ entrance, but here the commissionaire blocks your way and thwarts your plans to appear on the running track, so you run instead out beneath the main stand and then up, up, up the steps you go and along the row to your borrowed seat, just along from the directors’ box –

And there you stand, risen, your arms outstretched –

Immaculate in your new grey suit –

Your arms outstretched –

Immaculate and back.

The players stop their warm-up, the Derby County players and the Leicester City players, as the Derby crowd applaud their hero –

Applaud, adore and love their hero.

Just along from you, Longson now gets to his feet as his fellow directors and the season-ticket holders behind the directors’ box applaud him –

But it’s too little and too late. Much too late –

The real applause, the real adoration, the real love is for you –

‘Cloughie! Cloughie! Cloughie!’

Then the referee blows his whistle and you’re gone, gone again, down the stairs. Through the turnstiles. Past the same steward –

Across the deserted street. Into your golden Rolls-Royce and away –

Down to London. To the Parkinson show. To television –

No looking back. No turning back –

Saturday 20 October 1973.