The Damned Utd

Day Thirty-nine

Saturday’s come again, with Saturday’s stink again; the sweat and the mud, the liniment and the grease; the steam and the soap, the sewer and the shampoo. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

I know no one wants to play for me. To pull on a shirt for me. To put on their boots for me. To walk down that tunnel. To walk onto that pitch for me –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

Not Harvey or Stewart. Not Reaney or Madeley. Not Cherry or Yorath. Not Hunter or McQueen. Not Jordan or Jones. Not Cooper or Lorimer. Not Bates or the Grays. Not Giles or Bremner. Not Allan Clarke or Duncan McKenzie. Not even John McGovern or John O’Hare. Not these days. This Saturday –

Saturday 7 September 1974.

Under their feet and under their stand, through their doors and round their corners, I stay out of their dressing room, I stay out of their boardroom; down the corridors, I stay locked in my office with my ornamental animals and my pictures of birds, pouring my drinks and lighting my fags, listening for their feet, listening for their voices –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

I pour another drink and I light another fag; another drink, another fag; another drink, another fag. More feet and more voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –

‘Boss,’ calls Jimmy. ‘Boss, the players are waiting for you in the dressing room.’

‘What the hell for?’ I answer. ‘To whisper and mutter behind my bloody back? To ignore and fucking mock me? To plot and to …’

‘They just want to know who’s playing,’ says Jimmy. ‘That’s all, Boss.’

‘Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. McGovern. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. O’Hare. Giles and Madeley,’ I tell him. ‘With Yorath on the bench.’

‘You’re not coming down then?’ he asks. ‘Not even for a word?’

‘Not today,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you out there …’

The sound of Jimmy’s feet retreat and echo down the corridor and round the corner; retreat and echo and hide among the sound of thousands of other pairs of feet, climbing to their seats, taking their places for the showdown, this final exhibition –

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

I finish my drink and put out my fag. I unlock the door and open it. I close and lock it again. I walk down the corridor and round the corner, past the dressing room and down the tunnel. The teams already out on the pitch. I walk into the light and the stadium. Into the silence. I make my way along to the dug-out. To that bench. To that seat. In that silence –

‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’

The 26, 450 Yorkshire zombies inside Elland Road silent today. The 26,450 Yorkshire zombies silent until some big black fucking dog barks, ‘Bugger off, Clough! You’re not the bloody Don and you never fucking will be.’

* * *

Last night Derby County were beaten by Sunderland. Beaten by a Vic Halom hat-trick. Beaten 3–0 and knocked out of the League Cup. Derby did not play particularly badly, Derby did not play particularly well; but the difference between Derby and Sunderland, according to the press, the difference was that Sunderland would do anything their manager asked of them –

Walk on water! Run through fire!

Anything bloody Bob fucking Stokoe asked of them; they hung on his every word, they lived by his every word, just like your team did, just like your boys –

But Derby County would not do what Dave Mackay asked of them. Derby County do not hang on Dave Mackay’s every word. They will not listen to Dave Mackay at all –

Now Derby County will not be at home to Liverpool in the next round –

The press are not impressed. The fans are not impressed –

‘Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie!’

But this morning you are not back in Derby. This morning you and Peter kissed and made up at East Midlands airport. Now you and Peter are down at the Goldstone Ground, Brighton; flown down first thing, met at the airport and driven to the Courtlands Hotel –

The champagne breakfast. The Rolls-Royce to the ground. The red carpet –

Now you are about to become the new manager of Brighton and Hove Albion FC; unveiled and announced. But there is still time, still time –

You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You make some excuses. You walk down a corridor. Round a corner. You find a phone. You call John Shaw –

‘The whole of the bloody nation’s sporting fucking press are here,’ you tell him. ‘Should I sign or not, John? Should I sign or not?’

‘It’s your career,’ he tells you. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, Brian.’

‘But if I can get back,’ you tell him. ‘If I can get back …’

‘We’re doing our best,’ he says. ‘Doing our very best to make that happen.’

‘I know you are,’ you tell him. ‘I know you are.’

‘And if the team keeps getting results like last night, who knows?’

‘You’re right,’ you tell him. ‘Who knows? It could be only a matter of time …’

‘That’s the only problem,’ says John Shaw. ‘Knowing how long it’ll take —’

‘Right then,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll sign, but I’ll be back for the meeting tonight.’

‘See you then, then,’ says John. ‘See you then.’

You put down the phone. You find a mirror. You straighten your collar and tie; you’ve got on your World of Sport tie, a smile on your face, and some quotes ready for the cameras and the microphones, for your audience:

‘This is the greatest thing ever to happen to Brighton,’ Mike Bamber is saying. ‘Now we can really go places …’

‘And let me say this,’ you interrupt. ‘This chairman and his directors did a better job of selling Brighton to me than I did trying to sell Derby County …’

‘You’ve done it before,’ the press tell you. ‘Are you sure you can do it again?’

‘I am anxious to get started,’ you tell them. ‘Because I understand there is quite a bit of work to do and I know it’ll be tougher here than even at Hartlepools; tougher here because they didn’t expect anything at Hartlepools. Tougher here than Derby too because they had the tradition. The history. Now Peter and me have a reputation, now there are expectations, but there are no fairies at the end of Brighton pier …’

‘What is your opinion of the Brighton squad?’ they ask you.

‘There are only sixteen professionals here. Only one goalkeeper, only one trainer, only one secretary, only one groundsman; in fact, only one of everything. So that puts Peter and me in the majority for once, for they’ve got two bloody managers.’

‘What kind of staff and players will you be looking to bring in?’

‘Cheap ones,’ you tell them. ‘With some bloody coal on their faces.’

‘What’s your response to people who say that fetching Clough and Taylor to Brighton is like engaging McAlpine to decorate your roadside café?’

‘What’s wrong with a roadside café?’ you ask them. ‘You lot can stuff your Ritz. You can stuff your Savoy. You get your best bloody food in Britain at a roadside café.’

And you’re still the best bloody manager in Britain, the cameras and the microphones still bloody know it, the cameras and the microphones still bloody love you, still adore and applaud you as you take your bow, make your exit …

Mike Bamber drives you and Peter to meet the Brighton team at a hotel in Lewes. The team are nervous. The team are afraid –

Nervous and afraid of you.

They hide their nerves and their fears behind their jokes and their bravado, their casual jokes, their casual bravado. You hate them. You despise them. Their nerves and their fear, their jokes and their bravado –

You take off your jacket. You stick out your chin –

‘Go on, punch it!’ you tell them. ‘Show me you’ve got some fucking balls!’

* * *

I am not Don Revie and John McGovern is not Billy Bremner. The crowd are baying for my blood and the crowd are baying for John McGovern’s blood –

‘Take the bloody lad off,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s fucking suffered enough.’

‘I wouldn’t take him off if we were losing 5–1,’ I tell him –

But Leeds are not losing 5–1 to Luton. Leeds United are drawing 1–1 with Luton; newly promoted Luton Town; Luton who are two places above Leeds on goal average. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Luton Town. The Leeds players, his players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Cussins, Bolton and the whole of the Leeds board bloody know that and, most of all, I fucking know that –

The whistle blows. The final whistle. The match ends –

The curtain comes down to the jeers and the boos of 26,450 Yorkshire zombies, drowning out the loudspeaker –

The loudspeaker which is playing ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’

I get up off that bench. I leave that dug-out. I make my way along to the tunnel, the dressing-room doors, the corridor and the press; the press, press, press, press, press, press, press –

‘Who’s sorry now, who’s sorry now …’

‘Our performance was just a yard short of a superb performance,’ I tell them –

‘Whose heart is achin’ for breakin’ each vow …’

‘It was a question of confidence and the confidence is down to me —’

‘Who’s sad and blue, who’s cryin’ too …’

‘I instil or destroy it and, as yet, I have not been able to instil it.’

‘Just like I cried over you …’

‘If we’d stayed 1–0 for a time and got another, we would have blossomed.’

‘Right to the end, just like a friend …’

‘I swear to you it was that much away,’ I tell them, indicating half an inch with my finger and thumb. ‘I swear to you, just that much. I swear …’

‘I tried to warn you somehow …’

‘I am not concerned about the overall situation at all.’

‘You had your way, now you must pay …’

‘You are only concerned if you can’t see any way it can improve.’

‘I’m glad that you’re sorry now …’

‘I am glad I am the manager of Leeds instead of Luton.’

‘Right to the end, just like a friend …’

‘I am glad I am the manager.’

‘I tried to warn you somehow …’

‘I am the manager …’

‘You had your way, now you must pay …’

‘Upstairs with you,’ bellows Bolton down the corridor. ‘Now!’

‘I’m glad that you’re sorry now. I’m glad that you’re sorry now. I’m glad …’