The Damned Utd (18 page)

I wake up on Sunday morning at the Dragonara with another bloody hangover, of booze and dreams, thinking how fucking ungracious they are; never ever been gracious in defeat have Leeds United; always had their excuses have Leeds; always the poor tale –

Runners-up in the league and the cup in 1964–65; runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup, 1965–66; two disallowed goals in the FA Cup semi-final against Chelsea and runners-up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup again in 1966–67; finally winners of the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup and also of the Football League Cup in 1967–68, but lose the semi-final of the FA Cup through a Gary ‘Careless Hands’ Sprake howler; finally League Champions in 1968–69 but go out of the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup in the quarter-finals; 1969–70, they finish second in the league, runners-up in the FA Cup final and are knocked out of the European Cup in the semi-finals by Celtic, blaming ‘fixture congestion’, ‘injuries’ and Gary Sprake; 1970–71, they go out of the cup to Fourth Division Colchester and claim only to have lost the league thanks to a referee called Ray Tinkler, who allowed an offside West Brom goal to stand, though they manage to pull themselves together to win the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup for a second time; then, in 1971–72, they are made to play their first four home games away from Elland Road – because of the pitch invasion following the West Brom game and because of the comments made by Revie and his chairman, Woodward – and that season they do win the cup but lose their very last game of the season at Wolverhampton Wanderers, Derby County winning the league –

Derby County and Brian Clough
.

‘There were no congratulations from Revie,’ I tell the Turkish waiter over a very, very late breakfast. ‘It was always Leeds had lost the title, never Derby had won it.’

No congratulations. No well done. No nice one. No good for you, Brian
…

‘I tell you, it still makes me seethe; the things they wrote in the papers, the things they said on the telly; that Derby had won the title by default. Default? Fucking idiots. How can you win a league fucking title by default? You tell me that, Mehmet?’

The waiter shakes his head and says, ‘You can’t, Mr Clough.’

‘Bloody right you can’t,’ I tell him. ‘You know that and I know that; you can’t win a title by default, not over forty-two fucking games, you can’t. We had a fine team who had achieved the best results over a season of forty-two games and so we were the Champions. Not Leeds. Not Liverpool. Not Manchester City –

‘Derby bloody County and Brian bloody Clough, that’s who.’

Just hard feelings. Ill will. Hostility and enmity
–

And a police investigation.

‘Nothing was ever proved mind,’ I tell the waiter. ‘But where there’s smoke there’s fire, and old Don certainly knows how to light a fire.’

The waiter smiles and says, ‘Fires are dangerous things, Mr Clough.’

‘Exactly, Mehmet,’ I tell him. ‘But you’ve got to remember that Revie and Leeds only needed a point; just one single fucking point and that title was theirs. The league and cup double. They’d just won the cup, don’t forget that. Beaten Arsenal only forty-eight hours before. The bookies still had Leeds as 10–11 favourites for the title, Derby right out at 6–1. And don’t forget Liverpool; Shanks and Liverpool were still in the race. The atmosphere was white hot, apparently. The atmosphere at Molineux before the Wolves game. There were allegations of bribery, you know?’

The waiter looks confused. He asks, ‘That the bookies bribed the Wolves?’

‘No, no, no,’ I tell him. ‘It was in the
Sunday People
; Sprake, their own former fucking keeper, putting it about that former Leeds United players had been in the Wolverhampton dressing room, having a word or two, asking Wolves to go easy and throw the match for
£
1,000; having a word or two with the referee and all, offering cash in an envelope for a penalty in the Wolves box, and – this is the fucking irony of it all – Leeds actually had a decent penalty appeal turned
down, apparently. Handball, clear handball. Bernard Shaw was the player’s name, I think. Blatant penalty, from what I hear. But you know what I think? I think all Don’s chickens came home to roost that night because of all the rumours and what-have-you, the rumours of a fix, they probably made the referee think twice before giving Leeds anything. Referee doesn’t want people saying that he turned a blind eye or gave a penalty for an envelope under the table, does he? But then, and this is what really got to me, then while the FA and the CID are sniffing around, the Director of Public fucking Prosecutions and all, while they’re all sniffing around, Don’s on the bloody box and in the fucking papers crying the bloody poor tale again; fixture congestion, injuries, suspension, bad refereeing and bad bloody luck –

‘Anything and anybody but themselves –’

‘
It’s just too much. We should have had at least three penalties. When you
get decisions like that going against you, what can you do?
’

The waiter still looks confused. The waiter repeats, ‘Bad luck?’

‘Bad luck? Bad luck my fucking arse. There’s no such bloody thing as bad luck, bad luck or good, not over forty-two games. If Leeds United had been better than Derby County then Leeds United would have won that title and not Derby County. But Leeds lost nine games and we lost eight, so Leeds finished second and we finished first –

‘Champions! End of bloody story.’

Mehmet the waiter picks up my empty coffee cup and nods his head.

‘Last two seasons haven’t been much better for them, have they?’ I tell Mehmet. ‘In 1972–73 they lost to bloody Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final and then to AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. They might have won the league last year but, since Revie took them over, they’ve lost three FA Cup finals and two semi-finals; three European finals and two semi-finals; and they’ve “just” missed out on the league eight bloody times, runners-up five fucking times. What do you say about that, Mehmet?’

Mehmet shrugs his shoulders and says again, ‘Bad luck?’

‘Bad fucking luck my arse,’ I tell the man again. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, shall I? It’s because they’ve been so fucking hated, so absolutely
despised by everybody outside this bloody city. Everybody! Do you know what I mean?’

Mehmet shrugs his shoulders again, then nods again and says, ‘Everybody.’

‘Just think about it,’ I tell him. ‘All those bloody times Leeds “just” missed out on a league title or “just” lost a cup final, you know why? I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because every team they met, in every bloody match they ever played, they hated Leeds, they despised them. That Monday night at Molineux, that night in front of fifty-odd-thousand of their own supporters, there was no way Wolves were going to go easy on Leeds, no way they were going to throw the match; no way because they hated Leeds United, they despised Leeds United. Their keeper Parkes, players like Munro and Dougan, these players had the game of their lives and I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because there’s not a team in the country, not a team in Europe, who does not want to beat Don Revie and Leeds United. Not one. That’s all they dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United and beating Don Revie and Leeds United. That’s all I dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United, beating Don Revie and Leeds United –

‘You’d be the bloody same, Mehmet, if you were me.’

Mehmet the waiter looks confused. Mehmet the waiter shakes his head and says, ‘But you’re the manager of Leeds United now, aren’t you, Mr Clough?’

You have won the 1971–72 League Championship; you have beaten Shanks
and Liverpool; you have beaten Revie and Leeds
–

You are the Champions of England
.

The summer months see the builders back to the Baseball Ground, now
you’re in the European Cup; there has been work on the
Osmaston
End and
on the Normanton Stand; new, pylon-mounted floodlights are also erected, now
your games will be shown in colour at home and abroad
–

Now you are the Champions
.

But all your dreams are nightmares and all your hopes are hells, the birds
and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the demons, the wolves
and the vultures, all circling around you, the clouds and the storms gathering
above you, above the new pylon-mounted floodlights, your pockets filled with
lists, your walls defaced with threats, your cigarettes won’t stay lit, your drinks
won’t stay down
.

The parties and the banquets, the civic receptions and the open-top bus
tours, the parades and the photographs; the Championship dinner that no other
club dare attend; the Charity Shield you’ll never defend
–

Every one a pantomime, every one a lie
–

You can’t stand the directors and the directors can’t stand you
:

‘The threat to me comes from the faceless, nameless men in long coats with long knives who operate behind closed doors.’

There is a war coming; a civil bloody war
.

* * *

No need for nightmares. Not today
…

Every day I wake up and wonder if I’ll ever win again; Hartlepools, Derby and Brighton, every day I wondered if I’d ever win again. But
today I wake up and for the first time wonder if I’ll ever bloody want to win again; if I’ll ever give a fuck again –

Monday 19 August 1974
.

I have a shit. I have a shave. I get washed and I get dressed. I go downstairs. The boys are already out in the garden with their mates, having a kick about in the dew. My daughter’s at the table, colouring in. My wife puts my breakfast down in front of me and moves the newspaper away, out of my sight. I reach over and I bring it back –

No need for nightmares
, that’s what I told the press on Saturday and that’s their headline for today, and that’s what I’ll tell them again; today and every fucking day –

‘But what’ll you tell yourself?’ asks my wife. ‘Tell my husband?’

* * *

There’s been trouble all your life, everywhere you’ve ever been, one crisis after
another; one war after another. This time, this trouble, this war starts like this
:

‘
I’m not bloody going then,’ you tell the Derby board. ‘Simple as that
.’

‘
It’s the pre-season tour,’ says Sam Longson. ‘Holland and West Germany;
your own suggestion. The reason you won’t let Derby compete in the Charity
Shield
.’

‘
You’re still going on about that, are you?
’

‘
I’m not going on about it,’ says Longson. ‘But you’re not making any sense
.’

‘
Listen,’ you tell him. ‘The tour was arranged long before we won the title
.’

‘
When you were saying we couldn’t win it,’ says Jack Kirkland
–

The Big Noise from
Belper
, that’s what Pete calls Jack Kirkland; made his
pile in plant hire but thinks he knows his football; plans to turn the Baseball
Ground into a sports complex; plans that need big gates and your transfer
money, the money you’ve put in their coffers with those 33,000 gates you’ve
brought them, money you need to spend to bring them more big gates or you’ll
get the sack
–

But Jack Kirkland doesn’t give a fuck about that; Jack Kirkland is the
brother of Bob Kirkland; Bob Kirkland who you and Pete forced to resign
–

Now Jack Kirkland, the Big Noise from
Belper
, is out for a seat on the
board; a seat on the board and your head and Pete’s on a pole
–

Jack Kirkland is out for revenge
.

‘
No bloody pleasing you, is there?’ you ask him. ‘One minute I’m arrogant
and conceited, next minute you’re throwing my humility and honesty back in
my face
.’

‘
If you can’t stand the heat,’ begins Kirkland
–

‘
The point is –’ interrupts Longson
…

But two can play at that game and so you tell him, ‘The point is either my
family comes on this bloody trip or I don’t fucking go
.’

This is how it goes, round and round, until Longson has had enough
:

‘
This is a working trip, not a holiday,’ he shouts. ‘And I am ordering you in
no circumstances to take your wife and kids with the team to Holland or West
Germany
.’

‘
You’re ordering me? Ordering me?’ you ask him, repeatedly. ‘Ordering me?
Who the fucking hell do you think you are?
’

‘
The chairman of Derby County,’ he says. ‘Chairman before you came here
.’

‘
That’s right,’ you tell him. ‘You were chairman of Derby County before I
came here, I remember that; when Derby County were at the fucking foot of
the Second Division, when nobody had heard of them for twenty years and
nobody had heard of Sam bloody Longson ever. Full stop. I remember that. And
that’s where you’d still fucking be if it wasn’t for me; at the foot of the bloody
Second Division, where nobody remembered you and nobody had heard of
you. Just remember, there would be no Derby County without me, no league
title, no Champions of England; not without Brian Clough
–

‘
Just you remember that, Mr bloody Chairman
.’

Longson sighs and says again, ‘You’re not taking your family on a working
trip
.’

‘
Then I’m not fucking going,’ you tell him
–

And you don’t. And that’s how it starts; this trouble, this war, this time
.

* * *

Ten minutes after that final whistle on Saturday I’d taken the call from Elland Road; Eddie Gray had pulled up during the Central League reserve match, limped off –

‘
If you’d been a bloody racehorse, you’d have been fucking shot
.’

Injuries and suspensions, bad decisions and bad bloody luck –

The Curse of Leeds United
.

Through the doors. Under the stand. Round the corner. Down the corridor. I’m sat at that bloody desk in that fucking office, wondering what the fuck I’m going to do on Wednesday against Queen’s Park bloody Rangers, who the fuck I should play, who the fuck I should not, who the fuck I’m going to be
able
to play, when Jimmy Gordon puts his head around the door and his thumb up –

‘You’re fucking joking?’ I ask him.

‘No joke,’ says Jimmy. ‘Sale of the century time.’

* * *

Peter is on the pre-season tour of Holland and Germany with the team and
the directors. You are at home in Derby with the wife and the kids
–

It is August 1972
.

This is when the Football League Management Committee make their
report, their report into your conduct in the Ian Storey-Moore transfer fiasco
:

‘
The Committee considered evidence both verbally and in writing from
Nottingham Forest, Derby County, the player and from the League Secretary.
It transpired that, although the player had signed the transfer form for Derby
County, this form was never signed by Nottingham Forest and the player could
not remember having signed a contract for Derby County. It was admitted that
the League Secretary had informed the club secretary of Derby County that,
until the transfer form was completed by Nottingham Forest, the player was not
registered with Derby County. The Committee was satisfied, therefore, that by
taking the player to Derby and announcing publicly that he was their player,
while he was still registered with Nottingham Forest, Derby County had committed
a breach of Football League Regulation 52(a)
.’

The Football League Management Committee fine Derby £5,000
–

Because it’s Derby County. Because it’s Brian bloody Clough
–

Because of the things you’ve said. The things you’ve done
–

Because you won’t play in their Charity Shield
–

Because you won’t keep it bloody shut
.

This is how the 1972–73 season starts for the Champions of England
:

Not with the Charity Shield, not with the Championship dinner, but with
Peter, the team and the directors in Holland playing ADO of the Hague, while
you, the wife and the kids are at home in Derby with your reprimands and
with your fines
–

The whole bloody world at war with you; you at war with the whole bloody
world
.

* * *

‘Now just you wait one bloody minute, Clough,’ says Sam Bolton.

‘There isn’t a bloody minute,’ I tell him and I stand up.

‘Sit down,’ he says and he means it. ‘Enough bloody stunts. It’s not your brass you’re spending, so you’ll bloody well sit down and shut up until this meeting is over and we tell you whether or not we’ve accepted or refused your request for transfer funds.’

I roll my eyes and tell him, ‘There’s a match on Wednesday night.’

‘I know that,’ says Bolton.

‘Well then, do you know how many players you have available to play?’

‘That’s your job, Clough,’ he says. ‘Not mine.’

‘Exactly,’ I tell him. ‘Now you’re talking some bloody sense, Mr Bolton. So if it’s my job to know how many players are available, then it’s my job to go out and bloody buy some more if we’ve got three players suspended, two with long-term injuries and countless bloody others with short-term ones. Isn’t it now?’

‘I don’t think anybody doubts your motives,’ says Cussins, the peacemaker.

‘Oh really?’ I ask him. ‘It doesn’t bloody sound like that to me.’

‘I just think,’ he says, ‘that perhaps the Derby County way of doing things and the Leeds United way of doing things are probably quite different.’

‘I would bloody well hope they are,’ laughs Bolton.

‘What do you mean by that?’ I ask him.

‘Come on, Clough,’ says Bolton. ‘World and his wife knows how you treated Sam Longson and rest of them mugs on Derby board. You
had them all round your little bloody finger, eating out of palm of your hand, didn’t you now?’

‘So what?’ I ask him. ‘I won the title for them, didn’t I? Took them to the semi-finals of the European Cup. They were forgotten when I took them over, were Derby. Yesterday’s men they were. Now look at them; household name now Derby County.’

‘I know
you
are,’ smiles Bolton.

I look at my watch but I’ve not got one, so I just ask them outright, there and then, ‘I want John McGovern and I want John O’Hare. Derby want
£
130,000 for them –

‘Yes or no?’

* * *

You are the Champions of England and this is how you start the defence of
your title on the opening day of the 1972–73 season
:

Down at the Dell, you draw 1–1 with Southampton in front of the lowest
gate of the day; the lowest gate of the day to see the Champions of England,
see the Champions of England miss chance after chance. The only good thing
you take back to Derby is the performance of John Robson in the back four.
Three days later, you draw again at
Selhurst
Park. In another disappointing
game, your best player is again John Robson
.

This is how you start the defence of your title, as Champions of England,
with draws against Southampton and Crystal Palace. But it doesn’t worry
you, not much
–

Not with all the other things on your plate and on your mind; on your mind
and on the box; on the box with your new contract from London Weekend
Television for
On the Ball, On the Ball
and in the papers; in the papers and
in your columns; your columns for the
Sunday Express:

The FA Cup should be suspended for a year to give England the best possible chance in the World Cup. I feel I am the best manager to handle George Best; he’s a footballing genius and I’m a footballing genius, so we should be able to get along well enough. I’ll actually be leaving football shortly. I fancy a job outside the
game; one which would give me more time with my family. I’m thinking of telephoning Sir Alf and offering to swap jobs for a year. Unfortunately the chairman has refused to give me time off to accompany England on their winter tour of the West Indies. I think I would like the supreme job of dictating football. I would halt league football in March to give the national side three months’ preparation for the World Cup finals.

* * *

Just one call, that’s all it takes. Jimmy to Dave. Just one call and I’m on my way. From Elland Road to the Baseball Ground.

I get Archer, the club secretary, to drive while I sit in the back with Ron from the
Evening
Post
; bit of an exclusive for Ron this, put a few noses out of joint, but Ron and the
Post
have been good to me; kept me company at the Dragonara; kept me from my bed, my modern luxury hotel bed; never one to say no to a drink is our Ron from the Post.

Teatime and I’m sat down with Dave Mackay in
my
old office; Dave in
my
old chair at
my
old desk, pouring the drinks into
my
old glasses.

‘You weren’t ever tempted to burn that bloody desk, were you, Dave?’

‘Oh, aye,’ he tells me. ‘The way the fucking players went on about you, on and on about you. Fucking Cloughie this, fucking Cloughie that. Like you’d never left the fucking building, felt like you were fucking haunting the place.’