The Damned Utd

Day Six

Derby County say they have a tradition. But it’s not much of one; of entertainment, not success, bar the 1946 FA Cup-winning side of Jack Nicholas, Raich Carter and Peter Doherty. Derby County say they have a history. But not much of one; relegated from the First Division in 1953; relegated from the Second in 1955. Back now in the Second Division. But only just. Derby County also say they have a curse. But not much of one; just the old belief that the club was cursed by the gypsies who were turned off the site of the Baseball Ground, them and every other club –

Curses. History. Tradition –

Derby County don’t know the meaning of the bloody words, not in the fucking Midlands. Middlesbrough, Sunderland and Newcastle, these are the places where curses, tradition and history mean something; in the north-east. You already think you might have made a mistake leaving home, leaving home and coming here.

Your very first game as manager of Derby County is on the 1967 pre-season tour of West Germany. Derby County are rubbish. Bloody rubbish. Utter fucking rubbish –

Now you know you have made a mistake, now you know you should have stayed at Hartlepools, should have stayed at home.

Sam Longson is stood beside you and Peter on the touchline –

‘What do you expect me to do with this bloody lot, Mr Chairman?’

Sam Longson lights another cigar. Sam Longson says, ‘It’s in your hands.’

‘Good,’ you tell him. ‘In that case, I’ll sack the fucking lot of them.’

* * *

I can’t get out of bed. Not with this head. This job. I can hear the wife and the kids downstairs. The dog barking at the radio. But I can’t get out of bed. I reach for my watch, but it’s not there. Sod it. I get out of bed, get washed and get dressed. I go downstairs –

‘What time did you get in last night?’ asks the wife.

‘Too late,’ I tell her.

She rolls her eyes and asks us, ‘Do you want any breakfast?’

I shake my head. I tell her, ‘I best be off.’

‘Drive carefully,’ she says. ‘And call if you’re going to be late.’

I nod and turn to the boys. ‘Who wants to go to work with their dad today?’

The boys look down at their hands. Their fingers and their nails.

My wife comes up behind me. My wife kisses me on the cheek. My wife says, ‘Don’t force them, love. Not if they don’t want to.’

‘And what if I don’t want to?’

She looks at me. She shakes her head. She starts to speak –

‘Just kidding,’ I tell her and open the front door. ‘Just kidding.’

* * *

A manager is always at his strongest in his first three months at a club. Get all the unpleasant stuff out of the way then, because you’re never stronger than in your first three months. Things like that are hard work to other managers but they are not hard work to you. Things like discipline, coaching and training. You have got your mind set on football and you know just how to approach it. Doesn’t matter if it’s Manchester United or Liverpool. Leeds United or Derby County –

You tell the players that they have three weeks to make an impression on you or they’re out. Three weeks later, you sack sixteen of the playing staff, the chief scout, four groundsmen, the secretary, the assistant secretary, a couple of clerks and the tea ladies. You take down the photographs of Jack Nicholas, Raich Carter and Peter Doherty –

No more tradition. No more history. No more curses –

You want a bloody revolution. You want a future. You want it now.

You stand up before the Rotary Club of Derby and you tell them, and the newspapers, and the television cameras, ‘Derby County under me will never finish as low as they did last season –

‘I promise you they will always finish higher than seventeenth.’

* * *

The manager’s office on a Monday morning and it all starts again. Building, building, building. To Saturday. Like Taylor used to say, if you’re wrong on a Monday then you’re wrong on a Saturday. But Taylor isn’t here. Not today. Today there’s just a pile of shit on my brand-new desk. A pile of shit and no secretary. A pile of shit that includes hate mail, death threats and the promise of legal action from Don Revie –

For the things I said, the many public things I said –

‘On that show you did last Friday?’ asks Jimmy Gordon.

‘Aye,’ I tell him. ‘Didn’t think they could get Calendar down at Lancaster Gate.’

‘Don’s house is only round the corner,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s back all the time.’

‘Why do you think I’m getting the fucking locks changed,’ I tell him.

* * *

‘I’ve seen one,’ Peter tells you and off you set, no questions asked, because this is how it works, you and Peter, this is the chemistry, the magic –

Observe. Expose. Replace –

This is Peter’s talent; spotting players. This is Peter’s hard work, how he earns his brass; travelling down to Devon on a Saturday in August to watch Torquay United vs Tranmere Rovers; to watch a centre-forward vs a centre-half; to watch Jim Fryatt vs Roy McFarland; to sneak out of the ground to find a phone box to ring you up — at the club, in a pub, at your home — and say, ‘I’ve found one.’

Because that’s all it takes, three little words, and off you set –

Derby to Liverpool. Liverpool to Tranmere.

The directors’ box at Prenton Park is overflowing with managers and scouts. They all ask you, ‘Who you after then, Brian?’

The Tranmere manager knows the moment he sees you both. Dave Russell says, ‘Don’t beat around the bush now, lads, it’s my young centre-half that’s brought you all the way up here, isn’t it, lads?’

You both nod. You say, ‘You can’t kid a kidder.’

‘Well then, you’ll both be happy to know that he’s available for the right price. How much you got to spend, lads?’

You cough. You take out your handkerchief. You tell him,‘£9,000.’

‘Fuck off,’ he laughs –

This is how it begins. How it always begins –

When you get to £20,000 you ask Dave Russell if you can use his phone, ‘Because this is getting so bloody high that I’ll need sanction from the chairman.’

You go over to his desk. You pick up the phone. You dial an empty office. You plead down the line to the ringing bell, ‘Please, Mr Longson.£24,000. That’s what they’re asking …’

‘They might want more … That’s your limit, I understand … I’ll tell him then. £24,000 and not a penny more…’

You hang up on the ringing phone. You look over at Dave Russell –

You know Dave wants more. You know you could go as high as £50,000 –

But he doesn’t and he never will.

You tell Dave, ‘You heard the chairman; £24,000. Not a penny more.’

Dave Russell sighs. Dave Russell shrugs his shoulders –

You shake hands with Dave. But then Dave says –

‘If he wants to go to Derby, that is.’

‘Course he bloody will,’ you tell him. ‘Don’t you fucking worry about that.’

It’s gone midnight as you drive through the Mersey Tunnel. You park outside a small terraced house and bang on its door. But Roy’s not here. His father tells you to try such-and-such a club where he sometimes goes. Roy’s not there either. You drive back to the small terraced house and bang on its door again. Roy’s here now but Roy’s in his bed. You get his father to bring him downstairs in his red-and-white striped pyjamas.

‘These gentlemen are from Derby County,’ Dave Russell tells young sleepyhead. ‘I have agreed a fee with them, Roy. So, if you want to go — and you don’t have to — but, if you want to go, you can become a Derby County player.’

But he doesn’t want to play for Derby. He wants to play for Liverpool –

For Bill Shankly.

Roy has spent his childhood on the Kop; his adolescence waiting for the call –

But Bill’s not called. Peter Taylor and Brian Howard Clough have.

‘I don’t care how long you take or how many questions you want to ask. We are going to create one of the best teams in England and I’m not going anywhere until you decide you want to be a part of that team.’

Roy’s father remembers you; remembers one of the goals you scored –

‘It was a beauty,’ he tells his son. ‘Even the Kop chanted his name and, if Brian Clough wants you for Derby County this much, I think you should go.’

You take out a contract. You take out a pen. You put it in Roy’s hand –

Peter has the eyes and the ears, but you have the stomach and the balls –

Not Peter and not Bill Shankly –

Brian Howard Clough.

You get back home with the dawn. You ring the Evening Telegraph –

You get the home phone number of the Sports Editor. You get him out of bed –

‘I’ve got a scoop for you,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just signed Roy McFarland.’

‘Who the fuck is Roy McFarland?’ he asks. ‘And what bloody time is it?’

* * *

No one says good morning. No one says hello. I stand at the edge of the training pitch and watch Jimmy put them through their paces –

Running. Running. Running.

I call Frank Gray over. I tell him, ‘Need to have a chat about your contract.’

‘Been nice knowing you,’ shouts one of them –

Running. Running. Running.

But no one laughs. No one says another word.

* * *

You have bought Roy McFarland and you have bought John O’Hare from Sunderland. You have got rid of some of the deadwood and you win the opening game of the 1967–68 season against a Charlton side managed by Bob Stokoe –

‘Come on,’ Stokoe once laughed at you, laughed at you in the mud, in the mud and on your knees, on your knees that were shattered and shot, fucked and finished for ever –

Bob Stokoe who told the referee, ‘He’s fucking codding is Clough.’

You win that game but lose the next. Win the next and then the next –

Lose the one after that but win the next and the next again –

This is how it goes, this life of yours –

Win one, lose one. Win the next –

The performances improve and the attendances increase, but if the performances deteriorate then the gates go with them –

Then you’ll be next, you know that –

You’ll be next, fucked and finished for ever.

* * *

I don’t knock and they don’t offer me a drink, so I help myself. Then I sit down, spark up and tell them, ‘I’ve seen one.’

‘One what?’

‘Player, name of Duncan McKenzie,’ I tell them. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to buy him from Nottingham Forest for £250,000.’

‘Now just one bloody minute,’ says Bolton.

‘We haven’t got one,’ I tell them.

‘One what?’

‘One minute or, for that matter, one centre-forward.’

‘Now just a —’

‘Allan Clarke is bloody suspended and Jones is fucking injured,’ I tell them all. ‘So I don’t know who you think is going to score you the goals you’ll need to retain the league or win you the European Cup.’

‘There’ll have to be a discussion,’ says Bolton. ‘We know nothing about this Duncan McKenzie and you’re asking us to part with a quarter of a million bloody quid.’

‘Twenty-eight goals last season,’ I tell him. ‘What more do you need to know?’

‘I’d like to know who else you’re planning to buy?’ asks Percy Woodward.

‘A goalkeeper and a centre-half,’ I tell him. ‘This team needs rebuilding from the back. This team needs a new spine.’

‘And who would this new spine be then?’

‘Peter Shilton and Colin Todd.’

‘And what about Harvey and Hunter?’ asks Bolton. ‘They are both full internationals.’

‘So are Shilton and Todd.’

‘But are they for sale?’ asks Cussins.

I laugh. I tell him, ‘Everyone’s for sale, Mr Cussins. Surely you know that?’

‘Quite a long list you’ve got there,’ says Bolton. ‘Papers also say you’re interested in Derby’s John McGovern.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ I tell them. ‘But he’s a good player. Known him since he was a lad.’

‘We have Billy Bremner,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t need John McGovern.’

‘You might be right,’ I tell him. ‘You might be wrong. But you pay me to be right every Saturday and I’m telling you, you need new players because some of the lot you’ve got have bloody shot it.’

‘They’re the League Champions,’ says Woodward.

‘Last season,’ I tell him. ‘Last season.’

‘Look,’ says Cussins. ‘The first priority is the contracts of the players we have. The ones we want to hang on to. There are still eight to be signed.’

‘These contracts?’ I ask them. ‘Why weren’t they done before I got here?’

‘It was difficult,’ says Cussins. ‘What with the World Cup and the close season.’

‘Rubbish,’ laughs Percy Woodward. ‘Bloody rubbish. Revie was too scared. Didn’t want to break up the family.’

‘Not a very happy family now,’ I tell them. ‘Some very worried men out there.’

‘What about our friend John Giles?’

‘Not my friend,’ I tell them.

‘But have you …’

‘Have I done your dirty work?’ I laugh. ‘Is that what you want to know?’

‘Brian, Brian,’ says Cussins. ‘It’s not like that. John Giles has been a loyal servant for this club and an important part of our success. But …’

‘But you’d like me to help you get shot of him?’

They don’t say yes. They don’t say no –

They dare not.

Twenty years ago, this lot would have been selecting the side then sacking the manager when they lost. Things haven’t changed; they never blame themselves for anything bad and they never say thank you for anything good –

Directors.

* * *

Peter shuts his little black book. Peter puts out his fag. Peter says, ‘I know just the player. Just the club.’

This time you and Peter go and do your shopping at Nottingham Forest –

Pete spends half his bloody life here. Never out the fucking place. Hometown boy; even played twice as an amateur for Forest’s first team against Notts County, a hometown derby in a wartime league.

Pete has two names at the top of his Nottingham shopping list:

Alan Hinton and Terry Hennessey.

Forest won’t sell Hennessey. Not yet. But Forest don’t seem too sorry to see the back of Hinton; dropped by England, over the hill, say the press, he’s being given the bird by his own supporters, week in, week out –

Gladys, they shout. Where’s your fucking handbag?

You couldn’t give a shit; Peter says he’s got pace and a left foot that can shoot and cross with equal accuracy, and that he can do both under pressure –

That’s all you need to know, all you need to hear.

You tell Hinton to come to the Baseball Ground for a chat and then you walk him round and round and round the cinder track as night comes down and the lights go on –

‘You’re destined to play for us,’ you tell him. ‘So don’t miss your chance.’

It’s well after midnight when you track down the Forest chairman to the Bridgford Hotel. He wants £30,000 for Hinton. You lie and tell him Hinton wants a grand for himself. The Forest chairman agrees to £29,000 and you’re laughing as you hang up; it’s the principle of the thing –

Never give the bastards what they want.

You pay £29,000 and Forest boast to your directors about how they’ve done you, how they’ve off-loaded a passenger –

What colour’s your fucking handbag, Gladys?

You couldn’t give a fuck; four years from now, then you’ll see who’s laughing.

But three months later you’re still winning and then losing, winning and then losing, and you’re still receiving hate mail –

Sidney Bradley, the vice-chairman, summons you and Peter to the carpet of his office. Sidney Bradley says, ‘I’m not happy with the way you two are operating.’

You’ve only been in the place five bloody minutes and already they want fucking rid. Shot of you both. You go to Sam Longson and you tell him, ‘You are the only chairman I can work with. You are the saviour of Derby County.’

Uncle Sam pulls you close. Tight. Uncle Sam puts his wings around you –

Then Uncle Sam kisses you better. Now Uncle Sam will protect you –

The son he never had.

* * *

The Monday press conference. The post-mortem. The long rope –

‘I don’t have any disputes on my hands and I don’t think there will be any problems because I’ve never had any trouble over players’ contracts in the past, but I still feel that they should be signed, sealed and delivered long before a new manager takes over and certainly before 5 August. The last thing I wanted to do when I arrived here was to start by having to talk contracts with men I’d never met.’

‘What about reports that Mr Revie is taking legal advice over the remarks you made on last Friday’s Calendar programme?’

‘Listen to me,’ I tell him. ‘Did you see that programme?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘And?’

The gentleman stammers. The man stutters and shits himself.

‘Anyone who saw that programme,’ I tell him and the whole fucking lot of them, ‘can make up their own minds and, as far as I’m concerned, Revie can have fifty transcripts of the broadcast if he wants them. Did you get all that down?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘Rest of you lot?’

The rest of the gentlemen of the press nod too.

‘You don’t want me to say it again. Bit more slowly?’

The gentlemen of the press shake their heads now.

‘Good work,’ I tell them. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife’s got my tea on.’

* * *

You’ve gone from fifth to thirteenth and seen all hope of promotion slide away with you. The only good news is your cup form. You beat your old club Hartlepools, then Birmingham City, Lincoln City and Darlington to reach the semi-finals of the League Cup, where you’ll face Leeds United, home and away. Leeds United who, coincidentally, you’ve also been drawn against in the third round of the FA Cup. So, between 17 January and 7 February 1968, you’ll be playing Leeds United three times –

Leeds United and Don Revie, an inspiration to you and Peter –

Leeds United and Don Revie who went from the Second to the First Division as Champions in 1964 to become runners-up in the First Division and the FA Cup in 1965, First Division runners-up again in 1966 and runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup final of 1967 –

United and County, sleeping giants in one-club towns; Leeds steeped in rugby and Derby steeped in cricket; sleeping giants awoken by men who were among the finest, most skilful and most neglected players of their day –

Don Revie was also born in Middlesbrough. Just like you –

Peas in a pod, you and Don. Peas in a pod –

Born just seven years and some streets apart.

The club and the whole town is excited at the prospect of these games –

Just like you. Unable to sleep. Unable to eat. Back at the ground at the crack of dawn to sweep the corridors, to clean the baths and polish the pegs –

You’re first at the door when the Leeds team bus arrives at the Baseball Ground, the players filing off, Don in his huddle with Les Cocker, Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen.

‘Welcome to Derby, Don,’ you say. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I’m Brian Clough.’

But Don doesn’t acknowledge you, introduce himself or even say hello –

Don stays away from the boardroom, out of the bar. Don heads straight down the corridor, down to the dressing room, the visitors’ dressing room –

To stare into the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, combing his hair and saying his prayers, combing his hair and saying his prayers, combing his hair and saying his prayers –

Don doesn’t see you in the tunnel. Don doesn’t see you on your bench –

Don rocking back and forth on the visitors’ bench in the visitors’ dug-out, rocking back and forth in his lucky blue suit and his old car coat –

From the very first whistle of the game to the very last one –

Rocking back and forth as his team niggle at your heels and pull at your shirts, clipping ankles and catching thighs, all elbows and knees to your fingers and thumbs –

Fingers and thumbs and a needless handball from Bobby Saxton to give away the penalty that Johnny Giles blasts into the back of your net –

Bobby Saxtonwill not play for Derby County again. Not play for you again. Never, never, never play again.

But at the very final whistle you stick out your own hand and you tell Don Revie, ‘Well done, Don. See you next week.’

And this time Don Revie takes that outstretched hand but he looks right through you as he shakes it, shakes it, shakes it, looks right through you to the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips –

That he will win and you will lose. He will win and you will lose –

The rituals observed, the superstitions followed, all Don’s prayers are answered.

You travel up to Elland Road twice in two weeks and twice in two weeks you are well beaten and you travel back down to Derby with nothing –

Nothing but ambitions fuelled; hearts hardened and lessons learnt –

Losing 2–0 in the FA Cup to goals from Lorimer and Charlton, then losing 3–2 in the second leg of the semi-final of the League Cup –

Two Derby goals that you know, in your hardened heart of hearts, flatter you and flatter Derby County in front of Elland Road –

In front of Leeds United, in front of Don Revie –

‘Bit lucky there,’ says Don. ‘Thought God might be smiling on you.’

‘I don’t believe in luck,’ you tell Don. ‘And I don’t believe in God.’

‘So what do you believe in then?’ asks Don Revie.

‘Me,’ you tell him. ‘Brian Howard Clough.’

* * *

Just the three of us now; me, his shadow and his echo –

In the empty stadium, beneath the empty stand, off the empty corridor, the three of us in his old bloody office in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk on his old fucking phone –

The spit from his lips. His tongue. The breath from his mouth. His stomach –

My brandy. My cigarette. My call –

Bill Nicholson ranting down the line about Martin Chivers; about modern footballers; about Mammon and greed –

‘John Giles could be just the man you need,’ I tell him. ‘Be able to groom him. Mould him. Done a fine job with the Republic. Just what the Spurs need …’

Bill Nick’s not keen, but Bill agrees to meet Giles. To talk to him.

I hang up, pour another brandy and light another cig, in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk in his empty old office, off his empty old corridor, beneath his empty old stand in his empty old stadium –

Just the three of us: me, his shadow and his echo –

I walk out into the corridor. Round the corner –

Down the tunnel and out onto that pitch –

My brandy in one hand, my cigarette in the other, I stand in the centre circle again and look up into the dark, empty Yorkshire night –

Don’t take it out on this world –

This night has a thousand eyes but just one song.

* * *

‘It’s easy to be a good manager,’ Harry Storer always used to say. ‘All you have to do is sign good players.’

Harry Storer was right. Harry Storer was always bloody right –

It’s players that lose you games. Players that win you games –

Not theories. Not tactics. Not luck. Not superstition. Not God. Players –

You pick them, but they play. They win, they lose or they draw –

Not you. Not the manager. Them. The players –

You have kept the likes of Kevin Hector and Alan Durban. You have brought in the likes of John O’Hare, Roy McFarland and Alan Hinton –

You have tasted Elland Road. You have tasted the Big Time. But now it’s back to the Second Division. Back to Portsmouth, Millwall, Huddersfield and Carlisle.

Derby County win a few games. Derby County lose a few –

Peaks and ruts. The hate mail comes. Ruts and peaks. The hate mail goes –

But there are still men like Fred Wallace; there are always men like Fred Wallace, standing on the terraces, behind the dug-out, outside the dressing room, in the corridors, in the boardrooms and at the bars –

‘Dropped another place,’ he tells you. ‘Fifth from bottom now.’

Men who want you to fail. Men who want you to lose. Men who wish you dead. Men like Fred Wallace. There are always men like Fred and there are always doubts –

There are doubts in 1968 and there’ll be doubts in 1978 –

Doubts and broken promises:

Derby County fail to win any of their last six games. Derby County lose their very last match at home to Blackpool. You have lost nineteen games in the 1967–68 season, scored seventy-one goals but conceded seventy-eight, and you have finished the season eighteenth in Division Two; one place lower than last season, last season when Derby sacked Tim Ward; two places lower than you promised the Rotary Club of Derby –

Promised the newspapers and the television, the town and the fans –

Broken promises and broken hearts –

Meanwhile, Hartlepools United have been promoted to Division Three –

Broken hearts and salted wounds –

Your glass breaks against his lounge wall, you are drunk and crying, shouting: ‘Least we’d have fucking won something.’

‘But we’d still be in the bloody Third Division,’ says Peter.

You shake your head: ‘This rate, we’ll fucking pass them on our way down.’

‘Brian, listen to me,’ he says. ‘Hartlepools was just a bloody stepping stone, always was and always will be. This time next year we’ll be promoted as fucking Champions. And that’ll just be the start of it. You wait and you see.’

You look up. You dry your eyes. You ask him, ‘Do you promise me, Pete?’

‘Cross my heart,’ he nods. ‘Cross my heart, Brian.’

‘If you promise,’ you tell him, ‘then I believe you —’

Promises made and hearts healed –

Peter puts his arms around you, and your wives pick up the pieces.