The Damned Utd

Day Thirty-seven

I still can’t sleep so I open my eyes again; I am still in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room, with an old-fashioned hangover and an old-fashioned headache, my modern luxury phone ringing and ringing and ringing –

‘Love? Is that you, love?’ I ask. ‘What time is it?’

‘I’m not your wife or your bloody fancy piece,’ laughs the voice on the other end. ‘And it’s time you were at fucking work, you lazy sod. I know I bleeding am —’

Alan Brown, manager of Nottingham Forest. Alan Brown, friend of Peter –

‘Alan?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for?’

‘Well, I didn’t get that much of a chance to speak to you last night,’ says Alan. ‘Not with your directors dropping like flies, but I liked what I saw on the pitch.’

‘Who did you like?’

‘Terry Cooper,’ says Alan. ‘He would do very nicely for us, assuming …’

‘Assuming bloody what?’

‘Assuming his leg’s fully mended and the price is right, that’s what.’

‘Don’t you worry about his bloody leg,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t you worry about that fucking price either.’

‘Right then,’ says Alan. ‘I’ll be hearing from you later then, will I?’

‘I’ll talk to the board,’ I tell him. ‘Then phone you back with the numbers.’

‘Look forward to hearing them, Brian,’ he says. ‘Look forward to hearing them.’

I hang up my modern luxury telephone. I get out of my modern luxury bed. I go into my modern luxury bathroom and I turn on the modern luxury taps of my modern luxury bath just as my modern luxury bloody phone starts ringing and ringing and ringing again. So I wrap one of them modern luxury towels around myself and pad back across the modern luxury carpet to pick up that modern luxury phone again –

‘Don’t tell us they’ve fucking sacked you already?’

Freddie Goodwin, manager of Birmingham and fellow struggler –

‘Freddie?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for this fine Yorkshire morning?’

‘You can sell us Joe Jordan,’ he says. ‘That’s what you can do for me.’

‘Consider it done.’ I tell him. ‘Consider it done.’

I leave that modern luxury phone off the hook and walk back to the modern luxury bathroom to soak in my freezing cold modern luxury fucking bath –

Thirteen days before the first round of the European Cup –

Leeds United fourth from the foot of Division One.

* * *

You and Peter are watching Derby County play West Ham United. Not from the bench. Not from the dug-out. Not from the directors’ box. You and Peter are not even in Upton bloody Park. You and Peter are watching Derby play West Ham from the studios of London Weekend fucking Television.

It’s almost half-time and Derby have given a positive performance, have made most of the running against a very fallible-looking West Ham defence. Roger Davies has had a lot of room in which to collect and distribute the ball, and, from one of his headers, a little nod on from a Boulton punt, Hector is away with only Mervyn Day to beat, but the shot’s stopped and the ball bobs away past a post and you and Peter are back down in your seats. Back at your desks. Not at Upton Park. Not in the dug-out. Not on the bench.

You look down at the team sheet: Boulton, Webster, Nish, Newton, McFarland, Todd, McGovern, Gemmill, Davies, Hector, Hinton. Sub.: O’Hare. Manager: Mackay –

You’re not at Upton Park. You’re not in the dug-out. Not on the bench –

You are here in the studios of London Weekend Television.

You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You still can’t breathe. You get up from your desk. You tell them you are off for a pee. You go out of the studio. You go down a corridor. Round a corner. Down some stairs. Out through a door to find a phone box –

‘Listen, Mike,’ you tell Mike Keeling. ‘Can you track down Mike Bamber for us. The Brighton chairman. Not a bloody clue where he is, but I need to speak to him …’

* * *

Leeds United is in mourning. Their suits dark, their ties black, their flag at half mast. The board too busy grieving to see me. Their doors shut, their lips sealed –

But not the Irishman. The Irishman winks. The Irishman asks, ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Like a hole in the top of my skull.’

The Irishman smiles. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Clough.’

‘Take it as a reference if you want.’

The Irishman laughs. ‘I’ll be sure to pass it on to the Spurs.’

‘They still want you then, do they?’

The Irishman shrugs. ‘Early days yet, Mr Clough. Still early days.’

‘But you want the fucking job, don’t you?’

The Irishman shrugs again. The Irishman asks, ‘Who’s to say?’

‘There’s nothing for you here. You know that?’

The Irishman gets to his feet. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mr Clough …’

* * *

Mike Keeling tracks down Mike Bamber. Bamber is in the directors’ box at Hereford. He is watching Hereford United beat Brighton and Hove Albion 3–0. Mike Bamber leaves the directors’ box. Runs from the box. Bamber takes the call from Keeling –

‘Brian told me to tell you to get the team coach to come through London on your way back to Brighton. Brian says he’ll meet you at the Waldorf.’

So Mike Bamber and the Brighton team take a twenty-mile detour to the Waldorf; the Waldorf where you’re staying courtesy of LWT –

‘What have you done with the team?’ you ask Bamber in the bar.

‘They’re waiting outside in the coach,’ he says. ‘So it’ll have to be brief.’

‘Well, I’ve decided to consider your offer,’ you tell him.

‘That’s fantastic,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Why don’t you come down to Brighton, to my own hotel, either right now or first thing tomorrow? We’ll have lunch —’

‘I can’t come to Brighton,’ you tell him. ‘Not tonight. Not tomorrow.’

‘Well then,’ says Bamber. ‘How about Monday?’

‘Not Monday either,’ you tell him. ‘But why don’t you come up to Derby?’

‘Fine,’ he says. ‘Just name the time and the place.’

‘Tuesday lunchtime,’ you tell him. ‘The Midland Hotel, Derby.’

Mike Bamber sticks out his hand. Bamber says, ‘See you then.’

* * *

There are just thirteen days before the first round of the European Cup and Leeds United are fourth from the foot of Division One. FC Zurich have got off to a better start; the Swiss Champions are unbeaten; they are not third from the foot of their division –

The press have got their doubts. The press have got their fears:

‘You’ve got injuries, you’ve got suspensions,’ they say –

I tell them, ‘I know I’ve got injuries, I know I’ve got suspensions.’

‘So why are you trying to sell Jordan to Birmingham?’ they ask –

I tell them, ‘Look, Freddie Goodwin came up to watch the Central League game last night and after the game Freddie asked me if any of the players were available, and he got the same answer I have given everyone else: no one’s bloody going yet!’

‘Yet? What about Johnny Giles?’ they ask –

I tell them, ‘Listen, the ball is in Spurs’ court. As far as we’re concerned, we can only wait for developments. Giles has not applied for the job and so the next move has got to come from Spurs. If they do want him as manager, I presume they will contact me and we’ll take it from there. If in fact they really do want him as manager …’

‘But what about Joe Jordan? What about Terry Cooper and Forest? Terry Yorath and Everton? Will Jordan and Cooper still play on Saturday? Will Yorath?’ they ask –

I tell them again, ‘We’ve got injuries and we’ve got suspensions and the transfer deadline for the European Cup has already passed. There are only thirteen days to go now. So I’m telling you all, everyone will still be here thirteen days from now.’

‘Everyone?’ they ask. ‘You think you’ll still be here in thirteen days?’

* * *

Derby ended up drawing 0–0 at West Ham in Dave Mackay’s first game as manager of Derby County. Longson was back on the box –

‘I could manage this lot,’ Longson told Match of the Day.

You are watching him from your bed at the Waldorf Hotel, lying on that bed in your television suit and your television tie, drinking dry your private bar –

But you’re not really watching Longson, watching Match of the Day; you’re thinking about the whispers and the rumours, the whispers and the rumours that the FA are going to throw the book at you again, throw the book at you again for all the things you said and wrote, all the things you said and wrote about Leeds United and Don Revie last summer; the whispers and the rumours that the Disciplinary Committee will finish you in football, ban you for life or suspend you for seasons; the whispers and rumours that Forest have been warned away, that no club will touch you now, no club …

Pete puts out his fag. Pete gets up from his chair. Pete switches off the TV –

‘I was fucking watching that,’ you tell him. ‘Switch it back on.’

‘After we’ve had a little chat,’ he says.

‘Here we go,’ you tell him. ‘What have I done now, Mother?’

‘I want to know if you’re serious about the Brighton job.’

‘Like the wife says, beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘We’re not beggars,’ says Pete. ‘Not yet.’

‘I will be,’ you tell him. ‘This disrepute charge could finish me.’

‘Have you spoken to Bamber about it?’ asks Pete.

You shake your head. You drain your drink. You light another fag.

‘You’ll have to tell him,’ says Pete. ‘Tell him soon and all.’

‘Why?’ you ask. ‘So he can run for the bloody hills with the rest of them?’

‘Come on, Brian. Not telling him is not right and you know it.’

You pour another drink and finish that. Light another fag and finish that –

‘I’ve got a wife, three kids and no fucking job,’ you tell him. ‘I’m scared, Pete.’

‘And you call me a fucking coward?’ laughs Pete. ‘You’re yellow through and through, and you know what? I’ve always fucking known it.’

‘It’s miles away,’ you tell him. ‘Bloody Brighton.’

‘Coward.’

‘You seen where they bloody are?’ you ask him. ‘Bottom of the fucking Third.’

‘You’re a football manager,’ says Pete. ‘It’s your job to get them out of there.’

‘With average gates of 6,000?’ you ask him. ‘It can’t be done.’

‘So what you going to do then?’ asks Pete. ‘Drive a taxi? Buy a pub?’

‘Fuck off!’

‘All mouth and no trousers,’ says Pete. ‘That’s the real Cloughie!’

‘Fuck off!’ you shout and throw a pillow at him –

‘All mouth and no fucking trousers,’ he laughs. ‘No fucking balls!’

‘All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll take the fucking job, if it shuts you up.’

‘If they’ll bloody have you,’ he says. ‘If you’re not fucking suspended.’

* * *

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corner and down the corridor, there are tears in Terry Cooper’s eyes; Terry Cooper who has been with Leeds United for fourteen years, who has played for them 300-odd times; Terry Cooper who has won umpteen medals and nineteen caps, umpteen medals and seventeen more caps than me; Terry Cooper who fights back those tears and asks me again,‘£75,000?’

I finish my drink. I pour another. I light a fag and I nod.

‘That’s all you think I’m worth? £75,000?’

I finish that drink. I finish that fag and I nod again.

‘What about my testimonial?’ asks Terry Cooper. ‘What about that?’

‘What about it?’

‘I’ve been here fourteen years. I’ve played 327 times for this club,’ says Terry Cooper. ‘I scored the winning goal against Arsenal at Wembley, the winning goal that brought the League Cup here in 1968. First thing we’d ever won.’

‘That was then,’ I tell him. ‘This is 1974.’