The Damned Utd

Day Seven

Impeachment, impeachment, impeachment and the return of George bleeding Best. Bestie. Turning out for Dunstable Town and beating Manchester United 3–2. I’ve got a smile on my face and the radio on as I drive; a smile on my face until I see him, see Bestie by the side of the road, larger than life, any life –

His head full of demons; his own throat cut …

To sell them Brylcreem. Double Diamond beer and pork sausages.

They hate flair round here. Hate and fucking loathe it. Drag it out into the street and kick it in its guts, kill it and hang it from the posts for all to mock and see, from the motorway and the railway, from the factories and the fields, the houses and the hills –

Elland Road, Leeds, Leeds, Leeds –

Yorkshire. Nineteen seventy-four –

His own throat cut –

There is always a war coming, and England is always asleep.

* * *

You are bloody lucky not to have been sacked. Fucking lucky. Except you don’t believe in luck. Talent and hard work. That’s what you believe in. Ability and application. Discipline and determination. That’s what got you from Clairville Common to Great Broughton. From a fitter and turner at ICI to centre-forward at Middlesbrough Football Club and then captain of Sunderland. That’s what got you your 251 league goals in 274 games, got you your eighteen hat-tricks, your five four-goal hauls, and that’s what’s going to save you and Derby County –

That’s what’s going to get you what you want –

Ability and application. Discipline and determination –

No such thing as luck. No such thing as God. Just you, you and the players –

Peter reads out the pre-season team sheet; names like McFarland, O’Hare, Hector and Hinton. Peter puts down the team sheet. Pete says, ‘Just two things missing now: a good bloody keeper and a bit of fucking experience.’

‘And where are we going to find them?’ you ask him. ‘Not round here.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ says Peter. ‘I know just the keeper and just the man with the experience we need.’

* * *

There’s another friendly tomorrow, another away game, my second game in charge. I stand at the far edge of the training pitch and watch them practising their set pieces, their corners and their free kicks –

Like clockwork.

Jimmy Gordon comes over. He says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head, if that’s all right with you, Boss?’

I look at my watch. It’s not there.

‘Half eleven,’ says Jimmy. ‘Anything you want to say to them before we finish?’

I shake my head. I tell him, ‘What’s to say?’

Jimmy shrugs his shoulders. He starts to walk back towards the team.

‘Jimmy,’ I call after him. ‘Ask Eddie Gray to come over here, will you?’

Eddie’s played in just one of the last forty-five Leeds games. He’s in his purple tracksuit with his name on the back, sweating and out of breath. He says, ‘Mr Clough?’

‘Boss to you,’ I tell him and then I ask him, ‘You fit?’

‘I think so,’ he says.

‘Think’s no good to me,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to know so.’

‘Well then, I know so,’ he laughs. ‘I know so, Boss.’

‘Good lad,’ I tell him. ‘We’ll give you a run-out tomorrow night then.’

Eddie sprints back over to his mates as someone shouts, ‘You off and all then?’

* * *

‘Me go and sign Dave Mackay? You must be bloody joking, or fucking drunk?’ you told Peter.

‘You’ve pulled off bigger things than this,’ he lied. ‘Just go and try.’

‘He’s off into management,’ you told him. ‘Hanging up his boots.’

‘It’s only 99 per cent certain,’ Peter lied again.

And so off you set. Just you. Not Pete –

You in your car to sign Dave Mackay –

Dave Mackay, the legendary Scottish wing-half with Tottenham Hotspur –

Tottenham Hotspur, the legendary 1960–61 double-winning Spurs –

The double-winning Spurs of the legendary Bill Nicholson.

So here you are at White Hart Lane, London. Been here since half seven this morning. You want to speak to Bill Nicholson, but no one knows who you are. Never heard of you. No one gives you the time of day. So you sit in your car in their car park with the radio and the cricket on and you wait; wait and wait and wait, in the car park in your Sunday best, wait and wait and wait until you see Bill Nicholson –

Bill Nick, manager of Tottenham Hotspur, an inspiration and an idol to you.

‘I’ve come to sign Dave Mackay,’ you tell him.

‘As far as I know,’ says Bill Nick, ‘Dave’s off back to Edinburgh tomorrow. He’s off home to Hearts to become assistant manager.’

‘Can I have a word with him?’

The phone is ringing in Bill Nick’s office. Bill turns and, as he leaves me, he says, ‘Mackay’s training, but you’re welcome to wait.’

So you wait again, wait and wait and wait, in the passageway outside the office, you wait and wait and wait until you hear the studs and then the voices.

Dave Mackay is older than you and he looks it. He marches straight up to you. Hand out. Grip firm –

‘Dave Mackay,’ he says. ‘And who the bloody hell are you?’

‘My name’s Brian Clough and I once had the pleasure of playing for England against you in an Under-23 match,’ you tell him.

‘I do remember you now,’ laughs Dave Mackay. ‘You had a beautiful black eye, a right bloody shiner.’

‘Well, I’m the manager of Derby County now and I’m building a team there that will be promoted this season and be First Division Champions in three years.’

‘Congratulations,’ laughs Dave Mackay again. ‘Now what can I do for you?’

‘You can sign for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘That’s what.’

‘No chance,’ he says. ‘I’m off home to Hearts tomorrow as assistant manager.’

‘Tell you what then,’ you smile. ‘You go off and get yourself a nice hot bath and then we’ll have a nice little chat about it. Never know your luck.’

But luck’s got nothing to do with it. No such thing as luck –

Dave Mackay has his bath and then Dave Mackay takes you into the players’ lounge at White Hart Lane, London. It is immaculate. Ladies in aprons bring you tea and sandwiches in china cups and on china plates. Then Dave Mackay takes you out onto the pitch at White Hart Lane and sits you down on the turf by the corner flag –

The stands and the seats immaculate. The sun shining on the pitch –

It is a beautiful place. It is a beautiful day.

‘Derby is a sleeping giant,’ you tell Dave Mackay. ‘But since I arrived at the place, the crowds have already jumped to 20,000. The town backs me, the fans back me and, more importantly, the board back me 100 per cent. There’s money for class and for skill and the wages to pay players with both; players like you and players like Roy McFarland.’

‘Roy who?’ asks Dave Mackay.

‘McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the next England centre-half, I’m telling you. Forget Jack Charlton. Forget Norman Hunter. Their days are numbered, mark my words. Alan Hinton, he’s another of mine. Great winger and, now he’s with us, he’ll be back in that England side, Ramsey or no bloody Ramsey. And Kevin Hector? You must have heard of Kevin Hector?’

‘Vaguely,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Didn’t he play for Bradford Park Avenue?’

‘He did that,’ you tell him. ‘But now he’s with us and you just can’t stop the lad scoring goals. Not for love nor money.’

‘Where did you finish last season?’ asks Dave Mackay.

‘Eighteenth.’

‘Eighteenth?’ he laughs. ‘I’m very sorry, Brian. But I just wouldn’t come to you. Not for ten thousand quid. Sorry.’

‘I’ll give you ten thousand quid, here and now, in cash.’

‘No chance,’ he laughs again. ‘I’m off to Hearts tomorrow. That’s that.’

‘What would you come for then?’ you ask him. ‘If not ten grand?’

‘I’d consider fifteen.’

‘I can’t get fifteen.’

‘Then you’re wasting your time,’ he says. ‘You might as well get off home.’

You look at Dave Mackay sat in the sunshine on the pitch at White Hart Lane, with its players’ lounge and its china cups and its china plates; Dave Mackay, the greatest wing-half of his day; Dave Mackay, about to hang up his boots for a seat on the bench and a manager’s suit –

You look at Dave Mackay and you tell him, ‘I can get you fourteen thousand and, better than that, I can keep you playing.’

Dave Mackay looks down at the grass on the pitch at White Hart Lane, then up at the stands and the seats, and then Dave Mackay sticks out his hand and says, ‘Done.’

* * *

In his corridors, in his shadows, they are waiting again; Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen –

Behind my back. Under their breath. Behind their hands. Through gritted teeth, they whisper –

‘He’s never really going to buy this lad McKenzie, is he?’

‘Turn this place into a bloody circus,’ they murmur –

‘A bleeding pantomime,’ they hiss.

I slam his door, I turn my key. In his office, at my desk –

I pick up his phone, I dial –

‘Is that Duncan McKenzie?’

‘Yes, this is he.’

‘This is Brian Clough speaking,’ I tell him. ‘Now listen to me, you go get your coat and your skates on because you’re coming to meet me at the Victoria Hotel in Sheffield. Half an hour and you’d better not be bloody late. And Duncan?’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘Bring a bloody pen because you’re fucking signing for Leeds United today.’

* * *

You leave London behind. Thank Christ. You drive straight back to the Baseball Ground. Home sweet home. You sing and shout all the way –

Nailed it. Nailed it. Nailed it.

Peter is waiting. Pete is wondering, ‘Any luck?’

‘Fuck luck,’ you tell him. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow to put his pen to our paper.’

‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ shouts Peter. ‘Never thought you had a prayer.’

‘Fuck your prayers and all,’ you tell him. ‘Just believe in me. Brian Clough.’

‘I do,’ says Pete. ‘You know I do.’

* * *

Duncan McKenzie is waiting for us in the posh lobby of the Victoria Hotel, Sheffield. He’s looking at his watch, biting his nails and chain-smoking. I walk across that lobby and tell him, ‘Forget Derby County. Forget the Spurs. You’re coming to Leeds for £200 a week.’

Before he can reply or light another fag, I take him by his hand and waltz him into the bar. Duncan doesn’t drink, but he will do today –

Champagne –

‘Congratulations,’ I tell him. ‘You’re my first signing for the new Leeds United. My Leeds United; honest and sincere, playing with flair and with humour, winning with style but winning the “right” way and winning the admiration of Liverpool fans, Arsenal fans and Derby fans, Tottenham and Birmingham fans –

‘Because of THE WAY WE PLAY,’ I tell him once, twice, three times.

Duncan McKenzie lights another cigarette and says, ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘There’ll be no more codding referees. No more haranguing referees. No more threatening referees. No more bloody bribing referees either,’ I tell him.

Another cigarette, another ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘No more dirty fucking Leeds!’

‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘And Duncan …’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘You call me Boss from now on.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

I order another bottle of champagne. I go for a pee. I come back and change seats. I move round the table and sit down next to Duncan. I put my arm round him. I tell him, ‘You’re going to be my eyes and ears in that dressing room.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘My eyes and ears.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘They hate me,’ I tell him. ‘Despise me. And they’ll hate you too. Despise you. But we’ll be here long after they’ve all gone.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know why they hate me?’ I ask him. ‘Why they’ll hate you?’

‘No, Boss. Why?’

‘Because we’re not like them,’ I tell him. ‘Because we don’t fucking cheat like them. Because we play fair and we win fair.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know how many bloody goals I scored when I was playing?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Two hundred and fifty-one,’ I tell him.

‘That’s great, Boss.’

‘You know how many fucking games that took me? League games?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Have a guess.’

‘But I’m sorry, Boss, I —’

‘Go on, have a bleeding guess.’

‘Three hundred.’

‘Two hundred and seventy-four,’ I tell him. ‘Just 274. Now what do you fucking think about that then?’

‘Is that a record, Boss?’

‘Course it bloody is,’ I tell him. ‘You know anyone else who’s scored 251 goals in 274 league games, do you? Bobby bloody Charlton? Jimmy fucking Greaves? They score that many bloody goals in so few fucking games, did they? Did they bloody hell. So course it’s a fucking record and it’ll always be a fucking record because there’ll never be another one like me. Never. Ever. Not you. Not no one. Now drink up because we’re off to meet the press —’

‘But I’m not drinking, Boss —’

I put the champagne glass back in his hand and tell him, ‘You fucking are now.’

* * *

‘Dave,’ Peter says to Mackay, ‘the gaffer’s got a wee bit of a shock for you.’

Mackay is sat in your office with his accountant and his solicitor –

The signed contract is in your drawer. The pen back in his pocket –

There is a smile on your face. A smile on his face –

£250 a week, plus promotion bonuses –

Dave Mackay is on £16,000 a year –

More than George Best and Denis Law. More than Bobby Moore –

You have the most expensive player in the entire Football League –

Now you’re going to turn him into the best.

Peter locks the door. Takes the phone off the hook –

Dave Mackay stops smiling. Dave Mackay asks, ‘What kind of shock?’

‘He wants you to play a different role here,’ says Peter.

‘What kind of role?’

‘The boss wants to play you as a sweeper.’

Dave Mackay looks across the desk at you. Dave says, ‘I can’t do it.’

‘Listen to me. We’ve got this young lad here called Roy McFarland,’ you tell him. ‘He’s the best centre-half in the league. He’s that quick that your pace won’t be needed. So I want you to drop off him. Then you’ll be able to see everything —’

‘Use your loaf and your tongue,’ says Pete. ‘Let the young lads do the running.’

‘They need a captain; someone with experience; someone to tell them when to hold it and when to pass it. That’s you, Dave.’

Dave Mackay is full of doubts. Fears. Dave Mackay is shaking his head.

‘You’ll control the game,’ you tell him. ‘We’ll win the league. We promise you.’

‘Look,’ he says, ‘I cover every blade of grass.’

‘You’re a stone overweight,’ you tell him. ‘And a year older than me.’

‘Every blade of grass,’ says Dave Mackay again. ‘That’s my game.’

‘That was then,’ you tell him. ‘This is now.’

* * *

‘Apart from Leeds United,’ Duncan McKenzie is telling the press in the Victoria Hotel, ‘I also spoke to Spurs and Birmingham City. But when Mr Clough here, whom I had not met before, when he came to see me, I was very flattered and so naturally I chose Leeds United. I think the move will also improve my chances of playing for England.’

‘What do you feel about Leeds paying £250,000 for you?’

‘It’s a rather inflated market in football these days and you just have to live with these high fees. But it’s not a problem for me.’

‘What do you feel about your rivals for a first-team place? The likes of Allan Clarke, Mick Jones and Joe Jordan?’

‘I know I will have to fight hard for my place at Leeds United. I do not expect anything gift-wrapped or on a plate for me. I never have.’

‘Brian?’ they ask me. ‘Anything you want to add?’

‘Duncan is a superb acquisition to the Leeds squad. He is a highly intelligent young man and among the things that have appealed to me about him were his approach to the game and his desire to score goals. I am delighted that he has joined Leeds but, of course, I have known about him for some time. After all, I lived next door to him, as it were, when I was manager at Derby.’

‘Were there any problems?’ they ask. ‘Any problems signing him?’

‘None,’ I tell them. ‘Because when anyone gets the chance to join Leeds United and Brian Clough there are never any problems.’

‘Will he be in the squad for the Villa game tomorrow night?’

‘I doubt that,’ I tell them. ‘He’ll meet the rest of the players tomorrow morning.’

‘Duncan?’ they ask again. ‘How do you feel about meeting the rest of the team and joining the League Champions? Are you nervous?’

‘They have proved themselves to be Britain’s top side for the last five or six years.’

I give him a nudge to his ribs. A wink and tell him, ‘Apart from when I was at Derby County, that is.’

Duncan blinks. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Apart from Derby County, yes.’

The press take their notes. The press take their photos –

The press finish their drinks and I order some more –

I look at my watch. It’s not there –

‘What time is it, lad?’ I ask McKenzie.

‘Half past eight, Boss,’ he says.

‘Fucking hell,’ I tell him and the bar of the Victoria Hotel. ‘The meal!’

‘What meal, Boss?’ asks McKenzie.

‘None of your bloody business,’ I tell him. ‘You get yourself off home to bed. I’ll see you at half eight tomorrow morning at Elland Road. And Duncan?’

‘Yes, Boss?’

‘You’d better not be fucking late.’

* * *

You take Dave Mackay on a tour of the Baseball Ground. The dressing rooms and the training pitch, off the ring road, with its old railway carriage where the players change for the practice matches. Dave Mackay is thinking about White Hart Lane, about the china cups and the china plates, about the cups he’s won and the medals he owns –

Dave Mackay is full of doubts again. Fears. Dave is shaking his head again –

‘You’ll win the league?’ he asks. ‘You promise me, do you?’

‘Cross our hearts,’ you tell him. ‘Cross our hearts.’

* * *

‘You’re fucking well late,’ hisses Sam Bolton as I take my seat at the table. The top table. The Harewood Rooms. The Queen’s Hotel –

The directors, the players, the coaching staff, the office staff, even the bleeding tea ladies; the entire Leeds United family and their wives and their husbands on their Big Night Out.

‘I’ve lost my watch,’ I tell him. ‘Or someone’s nicked it.’

‘Food’s finished,’ says Sam Bolton. ‘Folk are just waiting for you.’

I stand up. I straighten the cuffs of my shirt and I tell them, ‘I feel like a bloody intruder at a party you have all worked for over the past year. It is a great pity that Don Revie and Les Cocker are not here to enjoy it because they are the men who won the Championship with you. Not me. But it will be my turn next year. Mark my words.’

I sit back down. I light another fag. I pour myself another drink –

I listen for the sound of a pin drop, drop, dropping.