The Damned Utd

Day Thirty-six

You are still in your house. Your door locked and your curtains still pulled. In the dark. You spend half your time in bed, half your time on the settee. Up and down the stairs. Ignoring the phone, answering the phone. In and out of bed. The radio on. The radio off. Up and down the stairs again. On and off the settee. The television on. The television off. Because Dave Mackay is the manager of Derby County FC now. Not you –

Because today is Dave Mackay’s first day in the job. Your job –

Wednesday 24 October 1973.

There were angry scenes in Nottingham last night, the Nottingham Forest fans accusing Mackay of betrayal, of leaving a job half done. There have been angry words in the newspapers this morning, the Derby County players saying they won’t play for Dave Mackay, they won’t train for Dave Mackay. They won’t work for Dave Mackay –

The Derby players, your players, saying they’ll go on strike:

‘To Bring Back Cloughie!’

Now there are angry scenes at the Baseball Ground, angry scenes as Dave Mackay arrives for his first day in the job, your job, greeted by banners and protesters –

‘B.B.C.! B.B.C.!’ they chant. ‘Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie!’

Behind the door, behind the curtains, you turn the television up, the radio up:

‘Fuck off, Mackay,’ they shout. ‘You’re not welcome here!’

But Dave Mackay has guts. Dave Mackay has balls –

‘Who was that?’ Dave Mackay shouts back. ‘Tell him to come in for a trial. I think we could use him on the wing.’

The press and the television lap it up. The cameras and the lights. The fans. The autograph books and the pens. Even the protesters laugh.

‘This job is my destiny,’ Dave Mackay tells the cameras and the lights, the banners and the protesters. ‘I have a lot to prove, but I’m not afraid. You either see the glass as half full or half empty. I see it as half full and I fancy a drink.’

You switch off the television. You switch off the radio –

You sweep the papers off the bed onto the floor –

You pull the covers over your head.

* * *

I am first out of bed this morning, down the stairs and into my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz. I am first through the doors this morning, round the corner and down the corridor, shouting, ‘William! William!’

But Billy Bremner doesn’t stop. Billy Bremner doesn’t put down his kit bag or turn around.

Down the corridor, I shout again, ‘Billy!’

Bremner stops now. Bremner puts down his kit bag and turns around.

I walk down the corridor towards him. I ask him, ‘You coming tonight?’

‘Where?’ asks Bremner.

‘Here,’ I tell him. ‘For the reserve game against Blackburn.’

‘Why?’ asks Bremner.

‘I told you,’ I tell him again. ‘I’d value your input on the bench.’

‘I have to come then?’ asks Bremner. ‘You’re ordering me?’

‘Course I’m not ordering you,’ I tell him. ‘I’m asking you, because I think …’

But Bremner is shaking his head, saying, ‘Only a Game tonight.’

‘What?’

‘On the telly tonight,’ says Billy Bremner. ‘Only a Game; Scotland vs Brazil. Having some friends round, a few drinks. You don’t expect me to miss that, do you?’

I turn my back on him. I walk round the corner and down the corridor to the office. I pour a drink and I light a fag. I get out my address book. I pick up the phone and I make some calls. Lots of fucking calls. Then I put down the phone. I put away my address book. I put out my fag. I finish my drink and I get changed. I put on my old green Leeds United goalkeeping jersey. I open the desk drawer. I take out a whistle. I lock the office door. I double check it’s locked. I go down the corridor. Round the corner. Through reception and out into the car park. I jog through the potholes and the puddles. Past the huts on stilts. Up the banking. Onto the training ground –

Bastards. Bastards. Bastards.

I blow the whistle. I shout, ‘Jordan, Madeley, Cooper, Bates, Yorath and young Gray, you’ll all be playing in the reserve game tonight. See you there.’

I turn my back on them and there’s Syd Owen and Maurice Lindley stood there, stood there waiting, heads together, whispering and muttering, whispering and muttering. Maurice has a large envelope between his fingers. He hands it to me. ‘There you go.’

‘What the hell’s all this?’ I ask him.

‘The dossier on FC Zurich,’ he says. ‘The works.’

‘Just tell me if they bloody won or not.’

‘They did,’ he says.‘3–0 away.’

‘And are they any fucking good?’

‘They are,’ he says.

‘Ta,’ I tell him and hand him back his envelope. ‘That’s all I needed to know.’

I jog off down the banking. Past the huts. Through the potholes and the puddles. Across the car park and into reception. Sam Bolton is stood there, stood there waiting –

‘How’s your car?’ he asks me.

‘It’s very nice,’ I tell him. ‘Thank you.’

‘That’s good,’ he says. ‘Now get yourself changed and up them stairs.’

* * *

You are still in bed, still under the covers. Downstairs, the telephone is ringing and ringing and ringing. You don’t get out of bed. You don’t answer it. Your wife does –

‘Brian!’ she shouts up the stairs. ‘It’s a Mike Bamber. From Brighton.’

You put your head above the covers. You get out of bed. You go down the stairs. You put the telephone to your ear –

‘Mr Clough, my name is Mike Bamber,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘And I’m the chairman of Brighton and Hove Albion Football Club. I was wondering if we might have a chat about a vacancy I have here.’

‘Brighton?’ you ask him. ‘They’re in the Third Division, aren’t they?’

‘Unfortunately,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘But I believe you’re the very man who might well be able to do something about that …’

‘I might consider it,’ you tell him. ‘And, if I do, I’ll be in touch.’

You put down the telephone. You look up at your wife –

‘A job’s a job,’ she says.

‘In the Third Division?’ you ask her. ‘On the south coast?’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers.’

* * *

Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are taking legal action against Leeds United. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion have issued writs against me and Leeds United. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are claiming damages against me for breach of contract. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion are claiming damages against Leeds United for inducing me to breach my contract. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion claim Leeds United promised to pay them £75,000 in compensation for me. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion also claim Leeds United promised to play a friendly match against them at their Goldstone Ground. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion want their friendly match. Mike Bamber and Brighton and Hove Albion want their money –

‘They’re getting nowt,’ shouts Sam Bolton. ‘Bloody nowt. Same as all these other chairmen and directors who have been calling us all morning, asking us about Joe Jordan, asking us about Paul Madeley, asking us about Terry Cooper, asking us about Mick Bates, asking us about Terry Yorath, and asking us about Frankie Gray –

‘They’re getting nowt,’ says Bolton, ‘because we’re giving them bloody nowt.’

* * *

You meet the Derby players again, your players again, for lunch at the Midland Hotel. Just you and Peter and the Derby players, your players.

The Derby board still won’t meet the players. The players are thunderstruck. The players are bitter. The players are hurt. These players are young. These players are emotional. These players are loyal. You understand this –

‘I played centre-forward for Derby County every week,’ you tell them –

They understand this. They know this. They tell you, ‘We’re not going to train. We’re not going to play. Not until we get you back, Boss.’

You thank them countless times. You order countless bottles. You tell them, ‘Next time we meet, it’ll be up at my house to celebrate my reinstatement …’

But tonight the Derby players, your players, have to meet Dave Mackay –

‘That’s not going to resolve anything, is it?’ says Red Roy McFarland.

‘But he’s your manager now,’ says Pete. ‘Not us, Roy. It’s Dave.’

You turn to Peter. You look at Taylor. You shout, ‘What? You bloody what?’

‘Fucking face it, Brian,’ he says. ‘It’s time to move on. It’s over.’

‘Is it fuck,’ you tell him. ‘What about the Protest Movement?’

‘Brian, Brian, Brian …’

‘Go on then,’ you tell him. ‘You fucking quit if you want to, like you always do. But I’m not giving up, not giving up on this lot. Not after all they’ve bloody done for us, all they’ve fucking risked for us. Never …’

‘Exactly,’ says Peter. ‘And that’s why we shouldn’t ask them to risk any more. All this talk of not training, not playing. All this talk of sit-ins, of strikes. They’ll be in bloody breach of their fucking contracts. They’ll be out of the club and out of a job; banned from playing anywhere else. They’ll be out of work, just like us.’

‘Fuck off,’ you tell him. ‘You’re a coward. You’re yellow.’

But Taylor just shrugs his shoulders. Puts out his fag and stands up. Then Peter shakes each player by their hand, each Derby player –

‘Thanks for everything,’ he says. ‘And best of luck on Saturday, I mean it.’

* * *

There are only fifteen minutes before the start of the Central League fixture against Blackburn and Elland Road is still empty. Empty but for directors, managers and scouts –

Freddie Goodwin from Birmingham City is here. Alan Brown from Forest too. From Leicester. From Everton. From Stoke. From Villa. From Ipswich. From Norwich. From Luton. From Burnley. From Coventry. From Wednesday. From bloody Hull and even Carlisle, they’ve all come to this shop window; come for this fucking fire sale –

‘Take your bloody pick,’ I told them all. ‘Everything must go!’

Through the doors. Up the stairs. Round the corner and down the corridor, I walk towards the Yorkshire boardroom doors. Towards the Yorkshire boardroom and chaos:

A man is lying on the floor of the corridor, outside the boardroom –

The man is Harry Reynolds, a former chairman of Leeds United –

People are loosening his collar, people loosening his tie –

People calling for a doctor, for an ambulance –

But Harry Reynolds is already dead.

* * *

The taxi drops you back at your house. Roy McFarland and Henry Newton help you to the door. Your wife lies you down on the settee –

‘Don’t listen to Peter,’ you tell Roy and Henry. ‘He’s just scared. Yellow.’

Your wife waits until Roy and Henry have gone. Until you’ve had a little sleep. A nice cup of tea. Then your wife tells you Stuart Dryden phoned from Nottingham Forest. Now Stuart Dryden might only be a committee member at Nottingham Forest, says your wife. But Stuart Dryden has a vision. Stuart Dryden has a dream –

That Nottingham Forest can win promotion from Division Two to Division One; that Nottingham Forest can win the First Division Championship; that Nottingham Forest can win the European Cup; not once, not twice, but time and time again –

Stuart Dryden believes you are the man to realize this dream –

‘That you’re the only man who can make that dream real,’ Stuart Dryden tells you in the middle of the night. In a Nottingham office. In secret.

‘Are you offering us the job?’ you ask Stuart Dryden.

‘I’d bloody love to,’ he says. ‘But I’ve only been on the committee for a week.’

‘Well, I’m interested,’ you tell him. ‘And so is Peter. But we’re not applying.’

‘But you’ve got to do something to help me get you there,’ says Dryden.

‘Like what?’ you ask him.

‘Like phoning the club at 11 o’clock tomorrow morning and making a discreet enquiry about the vacancy. I’ll make sure I’m there to take the call.’

‘I’ll not bloody beg,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll not fucking beg.’

‘It’s not begging,’ he says. ‘It’s a discreet enquiry.’

‘But who’s to say I won’t be back at Derby this time tomorrow?’ you ask him.

‘But they’ve already appointed Dave Mackay,’ says Stuart Dryden. ‘They’ve already appointed our bloody manager in your place.’

‘You never know. They might just un-appoint him,’ you tell him. ‘Then Derby would get me back and you’d get Mackay back and we’d all be happy.’

‘But we don’t want Mackay back,’ says Stuart Dryden. ‘We want you.’

* * *

The reserve game goes ahead and Leeds beat Blackburn Rovers 3–0, but it doesn’t matter. Not now. Now Harry Reynolds is dead. Not now Don Revie has arrived, as if by magick:

‘Harry Reynolds was the man who gave me my chance,’ says Don Revie. ‘Without him there would have been nothing. No man could have done more for a football club than Mr Reynolds. Without his intervention, I would probably have gone to Bournemouth all those years ago. I owe a debt to him that I cannot express in words. I am deeply saddened by his loss and anything I have achieved in my managerial career I owe to him. When I think of the dedication and effort he put into his career as chairman in the early years of my management, his trips with me all over the country to sign players and talk promising youngsters into a career at Leeds, I realize that he was unique …’

I have locked the office door. The chair up against it. My fingers in my ears, my fingers in my ears, my fingers in my ears –

The other directors, the managers and their scouts have all gone –

But not Don Revie. Don is still out there. Under the stand. Round the corner. Pacing the corridors, knocking on doors –

‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?’

* * *

You are lying in bed next to your wife. The clock by the bed ticking. You close your eyes but you do not sleep. You do not want to be the manager of Nottingham bloody Forest. You do not want to be the manager of Brighton and fucking Hove Albion. You do not even want to be the manager of England –

You want to be the manager of Derby County. That’s the job you want –

The Derby job, that’s the only job you want. Your old job –

Your old job back, that’s what you want, all you want –

All you ever wanted and all you want now –

Now you have no job, now it’s too late –

The clock ticking and ticking –

Now you’re unemployed –

Unemployed, again.