The Damned Utd

Day Forty-two

Derby County draw with Arsenal. Derby County beat Newcastle. Derby County beat Tottenham. Dave Mackay has started winning. Dave Mackay keeps winning. Leeds United keep winning too. Don Revie keeps winning. But Brian Clough keeps losing.

The only good result you get is from the FA Disciplinary Committee; the FA find you not guilty of bringing the game into disrepute for all the things you said and wrote about Leeds United, for all the things you said and wrote about Don Revie –

The things you said and wrote, over and over, again and again.

This result will open doors, you think; open better doors. Because another good result comes in another defeat for England under Alf Ramsey, England losing 1–0 to Italy; the pressure mounting now on Alf Ramsey and the FA –

These results will open other doors, you think. These will open better doors.

* * *

Things are never the way they say they are. Things are never the way you want them to be. Things just get worse and worse, day by day, hour by hour. Then things fall apart. Things just collapse –

I get out of bed. In silence. I eat breakfast. In silence. I leave the house. In silence. I drive to work. In silence. I park. In silence. I walk across the car park. In silence. Up the banking. In silence. To the training ground. In silence –

No smiles. No laughter. No banter. No jokes. No conversations. No chat. Not here.

I stand at the edge of the training ground and watch them practise and practise. Jimmy comes over. Jimmy says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head now, Boss?’

‘Fine,’ I tell him and then I ask, ‘What were they practising just then?’

Jimmy smiles. Jimmy says, ‘Dummies, Boss.’

‘They could have used me for once then,’ I tell him and then I traipse back down the banking. Past Syd and Maurice. In silence. Past the huts and across the car park. The puddles and the potholes. In silence. Into reception –

‘Players’lounge,’ says Bolton. ‘Ten minutes.’

* * *

You put down the phone. You know it’s over now. No chance of going back –

Derby County Football Club have held their Annual General Meeting for 1973. Mike Keeling presented a petition of 7,000 signatures demanding your reinstatement. The board presented a counterpetition of 22,000 signatures.

There were still chants against Jack Kirkland. Still chants against Sam Longson; the meeting dissolving into catcalls and chaos as Longson held a microphone to his ear and stared into space, the stewards picking up Keeling and throwing him down the stairs.

But it’s over now and you know it. No going back. Not now.

* * *

The players’ lounge, Elland Road. Deep in the West Stand, off the main corridor. Two doors locked and an empty bar. Low ceiling and sticky carpet. Mirrors, mirrors on the walls. Fresh from their baths in their black mourning suits, the players file in; the players and directors heading straight to the funeral of Harry Reynolds, straight after this; this players’ court, this charade, this first funeral, mine –

‘I say, I say, I say,’ Manny Cussins begins. ‘We held a board meeting last night because we feel there is some unrest in the camp, that things aren’t quite right …’

‘Never mind that crap,’ says Bolton. ‘We want to know what’s going on here.’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is silence from the players.

I turn my chair around and sit down. I rest my arms on its back and ask them, ‘Listen, lads, how about we start all over again and try to improve things?’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is still only silence.

‘Perhaps if Mr Clough were to step outside,’ says John Giles, ‘then perhaps we would all feel a little more like speaking our minds.’

I look at the Irishman. The Irishman smiles. The Irishman winks –

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Fucking bastards. The bloody lot of them …

I don’t wait. I stand up. I turn my back. I leave –

‘We’re not happy with the handling of the team …’

I leave them to it. Under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, I walk –

‘We never see him and when we do he tells us nothing …’

I walk back down that corridor to the office. Back to find Jimmy by that door –

‘We’re not allowed to mention Mr Revie’s name …’

‘That’s it,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘There’s no way I can continue to manage this club.’

‘What I want to know is why, after all the things he’d said about us, did you appoint him in the first place, Mr Cussins?’

‘What you going to do, Boss?’ asks Jimmy.

‘It wasn’t just me who appointed him, boys …’

‘I’m resigning,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll make sure your job’s safe.’

‘So what are you saying, lads?’

‘I’m not bloody staying here without you,’ says Jimmy. ‘No fucking way.’

‘What the lads are trying to say, Mr Bolton, is that he’s just not good enough …’

‘Right then,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to go home tonight and work out how much bloody brass you’re going to need …’

‘Not good enough for Leeds United.’

‘… because I know that’s what I’m going to fucking do.’

* * *

You are not at work. You are up in the air. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On your way to see Ali — Frazier II at Madison Square Garden. All expenses paid. Thanks to the Daily Mail; the Daily Mail who will introduce you to Ali:

Ali vs Clough — the Meeting of the Mouths — Ego vs Ego.

You don’t care. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York City. On a charter flight in the company of the Victoria Sporting Club. The Victoria Sporting Club who sweep every miniature from the drinks trolley and then toss them over to you –

‘Help yourself to whatever you bloody like, Brian,’ they shout. ‘You just take as many as you fucking like, old son.’

Up in the air, drunk and scared. You pull out the paper, the Daily Mail:

‘Clay and I want each other bad,’ says Frazier. ‘I still call him Clay; his mother named him Clay. If you’ve been around this guy long enough, you can have a lot of hate in your heart when the bell rings, but otherwise you kind of look at him and you laugh. There’s something wrong with the guy. I’m aware now that the guy’s got a couple of loosescrews someplace.’

Up in the air, drunk and scared, this is how 1974 begins for Cloughie –

Drunk and scared, up in the air, nineteen hundred and seventy-four.

* * *

I watch them climb down the steps and off the team bus still in their black suits and their black ties, with their paperback books and their packs of cards, but I don’t bother to count the hearts, not this night –

This night has 30,000 eyes but no hearts. Thirty thousand eyes plus two: Don in the crowd. Don in the stands. Don in his black suit. His black tie. His funeral suit. His mourning suit. Here for my final game, same as my first game:

Huddersfield Town vs Leeds United –

This time it’s no friendly. This time it’s the Football League Cup, second round.

Huddersfield Town in their royal blue and white vertical-striped shirts, white shorts and white stockings: Poole. Hutt. Garner. Pugh. Saunders. Dolan. Hoy. McGinley. Gowling. Chapman and Smith –

Versus –

Leeds United in their yellow shirts, yellow shorts and yellow stockings: Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. Bates. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. Jordan. Giles and Madeley. No McKenzie. No McGovern. No O’Hare –

They are Leeds United, the Champions of England. But they are not my team. Not mine. They win a penalty and Lorimer scores. The referee demands it be retaken and Lorimer misses. They go a goal behind with only eleven minutes left, a goal behind to a Third Division team, a goal behind before Lorimer crashes a volley into the back of the net with only one minute left. There will have to be a replay now at Elland Road in two weeks’ time. But I will not be there. I will not be their manager –

Because they are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be –

In their dirty yellow shirts, dirty yellow shorts and dirty yellow stockings …

They are his team. His Leeds. His dirty, fucking Leeds and they always will be –

In his black suit. His black tie. In his funeral suit. His mourning suit …

Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –

They are not Derby County and I am not Donald Revie.

* * *

Derby keep winning. Leeds keep winning. Brighton keep losing. But you are never there; Sunday through Thursday, you’re never, never there –

You are shaking hands with Muhammad Ali, shaking hands with Frank Sinatra. You are not on the back pages of the papers, you’re on the front.

You’re also back on the streets of Derby, on the stump for Phillip Whitehead; Phillip Whitehead, the Labour MP for Derby North; Phillip Whitehead who stood by you at Derby; Phillip Whitehead, your friend, who you want to help, and help full-time:

‘But how can you do that when you’re the manager at Brighton?’

‘No bloody problem,’ you tell him. ‘I only go there on Fridays and then I’m back home here in Derby by Saturday night …’

In the sleet and in the drizzle. On the estates and on the streets. On the stump:

‘I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell the voters of Derby, shout through your loud-hailer. ‘And I think you should all come out and vote for the Labour Party.’

In the sleet. In the drizzle. On the estates. On the streets. You are a Pied Piper:

‘I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell them. ‘And I want you all to get down to the polling station now and vote for Phillip Whitehead, your Labour candidate.’

In the sleet and in the drizzle, on the estates and on the streets, you love all this; the canvassing on the doorsteps, the speeches to the packed halls –

‘A slice of bloody cake for all!’ you tell them. ‘That’s what Brian Clough says.’

‘When you coming back to Derby, Cloughie?’ shouts someone during one of the question times as the whole hall applauds and stamps its feet –

‘Let’s get Phillip elected first,’ you tell the hall. ‘Then let’s see what happens.’

In the February 1974 General Election, Phillip Whitehead retains his seat with a majority of twelve hundred, against all the predictions. All the odds –

That’s what happens in Derby. In February 1974. Just that.

* * *

The five-mile coach journey from Leeds Road, Huddersfield, back to Elland Road, Leeds, is a long one; the longest bloody one of my whole fucking life. No paperback books tonight. No packs of cards. No bloody hearts tonight. No one laughs. No one jokes. No one speaks at all. Not one single word until Manny Cussins says –

‘Can I have a word with you, Brian?’

‘A word?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbles. ‘A word and a drink? Back at my flat.’

* * *

You are up in the air again. You are up in the air and on your way to Iran at the personal invitation of the Shah; the Shah of Iran who wants you to manage his national team –

You and Bill and Vince from the Sunday Mirror. First Class all the way.

The Shah offers you £500 a week to manage the Iranian team, twice your Brighton salary, with a palatial apartment and your own private swimming pool, luxury cars and chauffeurs at your beck and call, with flights back home at your every whim and fancy, the American School for your three children –

You feed apples and oranges to the Shah’s horses and shake your head; it’s not for you, not this country, not this national team.

But the phone keeps ringing and ringing, and the offers keep coming and coming. Aston Villa. Queen’s Park Rangers. But not England. Not for you. Not England. Not yet.

The trips keep coming too, the concerts and the photo opportunities –

The variety and the television shows, the newspaper columns –

But it’s not enough; not, not nearly bloody enough –

Derby keep winning. Leeds keep winning –

But not Brighton. Not you. Not yet.

* * *

Manny Cussins pours the drinks. Manny Cussins lights the cigars –

Manny Cussins says those five words, ‘It’s not working, is it?’

‘What’s not working?’ I ask him. ‘I haven’t been here five fucking minutes, so how can anything be bloody working yet?’

‘The players are unhappy with you,’ he says. ‘The players and the fans.’

‘So what do you want to do about it?’

‘If it’s not working,’ he mumbles, ‘then we’ll have to part company.’

* * *

This time last year you were trying to reach the final of the European Cup. Now you’re trying to keep Brighton in the Third Division; trying and failing –

‘We’ve bloody shot it,’ says Taylor.

‘No,’ you tell him. ‘You have.’

‘Fuck off!’

‘You’re never here,’ you tell him. ‘You’re always away watching so-and-so.’

‘I’m never fucking here? What about you?’ asks Taylor.

‘What about me?’

‘The players never fucking see you —’

‘They see me on Fridays and Saturdays —’

‘Aye,’ says Taylor. ‘When you dash down from the fucking television studios just in time to frighten them out of their bloody wits and then dash straight back to those studios to have a bloody go at them in public on the fucking box.’

‘Fridays and Saturdays,’ you tell him.

‘It’s not enough, Brian,’ says Taylor. ‘It’s not enough.’

‘You’re right,’ you tell him. ‘It’s not enough; not enough to be struggling down here at the bottom of the Third Division, not after what we’ve tasted —’

‘It’s gone, Brian,’ whispers Taylor. ‘It’s gone and you’ve got to let it go. We’ve got to start again, start again here. That’s how we’ll get back, that’s the only way. But first you’ve got to let go of the past, Brian. You’ve got to let it go, Bri.’

‘I can’t,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t, Pete.’