The Damned Utd (19 page)

‘So why didn’t you burn the bloody stuff?’ I ask him. ‘Have fucking done?’

‘Be a waste of a good desk,’ he laughs –

In my chair. At my desk. In my office. The tight Scottish bastard
.

From the Baseball Ground to the Midland Hotel, where John and John are waiting. Not waiting in the lobby. John McGovern and John O’Hare are in the bar –

These are my boys and my boys know me
.

‘Champagne,’ I tell Steve the barman. ‘And keep it bloody coming, young man. Because tonight it’s on Leeds United Football Club.’

* * *

Chelsea beat you 2–1 in your first home game of the season; your first home
game in defence of your title, in front of 32,000. You play with frenzy and anxiety,
bookings and dissent; no retention and no penetration, no calmness and no
method. You have lost faith in yourselves; faith in yourself
.

There’s also trouble on the terraces, fighting among the fans for the first time,
police dogs and police sirens up and down the side streets, trouble and fighting
–

Off the pitch and on the pitch; in the boardroom and in the dressing room;
upstairs and downstairs; round every corner, down every corridor
.

You will beat Manchester City and you will climb to twelfth in the league
before the end of August 1972. But before the end of August 1972 the press
already have a new title for Derby County
: Fallen Champions –

Last
year’s
men managed by last
year’s
man
; Farewell Cloughie.

Peter takes you to one side. Peter says, ‘Sell John Robson
.’

‘
What you talking about?’ you ask him. ‘He’s just got a Championship
medal; played in all but one of our games last season, not put a foot wrong this
season
.’

‘
Fuck him,’ says Pete. ‘We’re talking about the European bloody Cup, Brian.
Not resting on our fucking laurels.
Robbo’s
got his medal, now let’s get rid
.’

Pete’s had his ear to the ground, got out his little black book, lips to the
phone; Leicester City have been flashing the cash; buying Frank
Worthington
for
£150,000
and signing Denis Rofe at full-back for
£112
,000
–

‘
Where does this leave David Nish?’ asks Pete
.

‘
On his way to Derby County perhaps?
’

Pete nods. Pete pats you on the back. Pete says, ‘Go do your stuff, Brian
.’

* * *

The press switch on their microphones and pick up their drinks –

‘I could not let down the Leeds supporters in the type of quality players they are used to. We were faced with an absolute crisis for Wednesday night with Allan Clarke, Norman Hunter and Billy Bremner under suspension, Terry Yorath recovering from enteritis, Eddie Gray out of action after breaking down in the reserves with thigh trouble, Mick Jones recovering from a knee operation and Frank Gray going down with influenza.

‘So I am absolutely delighted to get McGovern and O’Hare, for the type of players they are and the type of people they are. They are both players of character and skill and they give me cover at a time when injuries and suspensions are a real problem.’

– the press put down their drinks. The press pick up the telephones.

* * *

You did not make an appointment. You did not telephone. You do not wait in
line and you do not knock. You just walk straight into the Leicester City boardroom
and tell them, ‘I’ve come to buy your full-back
.’

Len Shipman, the chairman of Leicester City and the president of the
Football League, is not impressed. Shipman says, ‘This is a very important
meeting and you can’t just come barging in here, uninvited
.’

‘
Very good,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll wait outside, but you’ll still be skint
.’

You don’t care; don’t give a fuck. You’re going to buy David Nish for
£225
,000 whether Leicester like it or not; whether Derby like it or not
–

‘Derby County – the Biggest Spending Club in the League!’

Derby County do not like it. Sam Longson says, ‘That’s a hell of a lot of
money to spend on a full-back with no caps; a full-back who won’t even be eligible
for the opening European Cup games. A hell of a lot of money to spend
without even asking
.’

‘
There wasn’t the time,’ you lie. ‘There were other clubs knocking
.’

‘
Look, Brian, we’ve always done our best to provide cash for Peter and yourself.
But where is the consultation, where is the conversation? The respect and
the trust?
’

‘
Like I told you, no time
.’

‘
But the board firmly believes we could have got Nish for considerably less
than the
£225
,000 you paid for him, had we been consulted
.’

‘
I telephoned, didn’t I?
’

‘
From the hotel bar,’ says Longson. ‘Drunk as a lord
.’

‘
We were celebrating a job well done
.’

‘
I will bite my tongue,’ he says. ‘And I will swallow my pride as best I can
.’

‘
You do that then,’ you tell him. ‘You do that, Sam
.’

* * *

It is late when I get a taxi from the Midland Hotel back to the house. I make it go past the Baseball Ground on the way, the long way home –

‘Never should have done what they did to you,’ says the driver. ‘Outrageous.’

‘Did it all to ourselves,’ I tell him. ‘It was all bloody self-inflicted, mate.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ says the driver. ‘But it wasn’t right, I do know that.’

‘You’re a good man,’ I tell him.

‘Not right,’ he says again. ‘Everybody knows that. You ask anybody.’

‘Not in Leeds,’ I tell him.

The driver stops the taxi outside the house. He turns round to face me in the back. He asks, ‘What did you go there for, Brian? They don’t deserve you. Not Leeds.’

* * *

Kirkland stops you and Peter in the corridor outside the visitors’ dressing room
at
Carrow
Road; stops you after you’ve just lost to Norwich City on David
Nish’s
début
for Derby County; Derby County, the Champions of England,
now sixteenth in the league; Jack Kirkland stops you and says, ‘That’s your lot
.’

‘
Our bloody what?’ says Peter
.

‘
Big-
money signings like Nish,’ Kirkland says. ‘That’s your lot
.’

‘
The influx of players must never stop,’ says Peter. ‘It’s a
club’s
lifeblood
.’

‘
No more transfusions then,’ Kirkland laughs. ‘That’s your lot
.’

‘
Fuck off,’ shouts Peter. ‘Fuck off!
’

‘
No chance,’ Kirkland winks. ‘Be you two gone before me, I promise you
.’

My car is still at Elland Road, so Jimmy Gordon comes to the house for me at half eight and then we go to pick up McGovern and O’Hare from the Midland.

‘Be able to run a bloody bus service soon,’ laughs Jimmy. ‘The Derby Express.’

‘Fucking hope so,’ I tell him. ‘The sooner the bloody better and all.’

* * *

Four days after losing to bottom-placed West Bromwich Albion, on a day when
you, the Champions of England, are still sixteenth in the league table, despite
having beaten Liverpool but still having lost four out of eight games, winning
just twice and scoring only six goals, on this day you take your European bow.
Not in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup; not in the Cup Winners’ Cup; but in the
Holy Grail itself, the European Cup
.

Only Jock Stein and Celtic, Busby and United have drunk from this cup;
this cup that you dream of, that would make the nightmares cease
–

The doubts and the fears; give what you want above all else
–

Because this is what you want and this is what you’ll get
.

It is 13 September 1972 and you are at home to željezni
č
ar Sarajevo of
Yugoslavia in the preliminary round; two legs, home and away, winner takes all
.

‘
Forget West Bromwich fucking Albion. Forget Everton. Forget Norwich and
forget Chelsea,’ you tell the Derby dressing room. ‘Anybody can play against
West Bromwich Albion. Against Everton, Norwich and bloody Chelsea
–

‘
But this is the European Cup. The European fucking Cup. Only one
English team a year plays for this cup. Tonight we’re that team
–

‘
Not Liverpool. Not Arsenal. Not Manchester United. Not Leeds United
–

‘
Derby fucking County are out there, on that pitch and in the history books
–

‘
So you go out there, onto that pitch, into those history books, and you fucking
enjoy yourselves because, if you don’t, it might never bloody happen to you
again
.’

* * *

Under the stand and through the doors and round the corner, I am walking down and down and down that corridor, past Syd Owen and past Maurice Lindley, when Syd says behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth, he says something that sounds like, ‘The fucking hell did he buy them for?’

I stop in my tracks. I turn back and I ask, ‘You what?’

‘Pair of reserves,’ agrees Maurice. ‘Reserves.’

‘They couldn’t even get a fucking game at Derby bloody County,’ says Syd.

‘They’re internationals,’ I tell them. ‘Both with Championship medals.’

‘Championship medals?’ asks Maurice. ‘When was that then?’

‘Nineteen seventy-bloody-two,’ I tell him. ‘And you fucking know it.’

‘They didn’t really win them then, did they?’ says Syd. ‘Not really.’

‘So what did they bloody do then?’ I ask him. ‘Fucking find them?’

‘Yes, you could say that,’ smiles Maurice.

‘In a way,’ laughs Syd.

‘They’ll show you their medals,’ I tell them.

‘But medals won’t do them much good tomorrow,’ says Maurice.

‘You what?’ I ask him. ‘What you talking about now?’

‘They can’t play,’ says Syd. ‘No chance.’

‘Course they fucking can,’ I tell him. ‘Why the fuck wouldn’t they?’

‘Because they’re not really fit, are they?’ says Maurice. ‘Not really.’

‘They should fucking fit right in here then, shouldn’t they?’ I tell them and turn my back to go, go down that corridor, round that corner.

‘There’s one other thing,’ says Syd behind my back and under his breath, behind his hand and through gritted teeth. ‘Training –’

I stop. I turn. I ask, ‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bit of a shambles,’ says Maurice.

‘How is it a bit of a shambles?’

‘There’s a game tomorrow, you know?’ says Syd. ‘Against QPR –’

‘I have seen the bloody fixture list, Sydney,’ I laugh. ‘Don’t worry.’

‘But we do worry,’ says Maurice. ‘Neither you nor Jimmy Gordon have said or done a single thing about how QPR will play. Not a thing –’

‘Don would’ve had the bloody reserves playing in the Rangers way,’ says Syd. ‘Had the first team playing against them; looking out for this, looking out for that.’

‘Bollocks,’ I tell them. ‘They’re professional fucking footballers; they don’t need all that bullshit. Just stop Bowles, that’s all you fucking need to know about QPR.’

‘That’s madness,’ says Maurice. ‘Madness…’

‘Well, I think you are mad,’ Syd tells me. ‘Fucking crackers. I really do.’

‘Well, while we’re at it then,’ I tell them both, ‘there’s one or two things I want to say to the pair of you. First off, I don’t have to justify myself to either of you. Not how and when I conduct training. Not who I buy or who I pick to play. Second, if you don’t like that, or you don’t like me, think I’m mad, think I’m crackers, then – as far as I’m concerned – you can sling your fucking hooks, pair of you –

‘And bugger off!’ I shout. ‘Now are we clear?’

‘Are we clear?’ I ask them. ‘Are we?’

Syd Owen just looks at me. Syd Owen just stares at me. Then Syd Owen says, ‘You’re right, Mr Clough. You don’t have to justify yourself or your actions to Maurice or me. Not to us, you don’t. But, come tomorrow night, there’ll be 40,000 folk here, 40,000 folk whom you will have to justify yourself to. Make no mistake.’

‘Not forgetting the eleven men you send out on that park,’ adds Maurice Lindley. ‘Not forgetting them.’

* * *

You beat željezni
č
ar Sarajevo 2–0 in the first leg at the Baseball Ground,
under your new, pylon-mounted floodlights; not only did you beat them, you
tore their morale to shreds, such was your dominance, the magnificence of your
display, of Hennessey and of McGovern. Fucking shame only 27,000 turned
up to watch it
–

Fucking shame you then went to Old Trafford and were beaten 3–0 by the
worst Manchester United team in years. Fucking shame you only trained with
the team for thirty minutes that week. Fucking shame you spent most of that
week on the motorway or on the train, up and down to London Weekend
Television. Fucking shame no one is speaking, speaking to each other, listening
to each other
:

‘My terms are simple. If someone wants to employ me, they take me as I am. If, after five years, they can’t take me as I am, then the whole world has gone berserk.’

There are 60,000 here tonight in the
Kosevo
Stadium for the return leg
among the trees and the hills of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the mosques and the
minarets;60
,000 sons of Tito with their hooters and their sirens
–

‘
Europe is an adventure,’ you tell the team. ‘Like a bonus, a holiday. So let’s
make bloody sure we fucking enjoy it, enjoy it and bloody win it!
’

Within quarter of an hour, Hinton and O’Hare have made it 2–0, 4–0 on
aggregate, the game as good as over. But
ž
eljezni
č
ar Sarajevo do not go gracefully
into the Balkan night; they trip and they kick, on that rough, rough pitch,
in that heavy, heavy Yugoslavian mud; they are worse than Leeds United,
worse than the sons of Don Revie
–

The sons of Tito burn their newspapers, the sons of Tito light their rockets
–

But you win and their press say, ‘See you in Belgrade next May
.’

Belgrade. Next May. The 1973 European Cup final
.

* * *

Bremner doesn’t knock. Bremner opens the door and says, ‘You want ed to see me?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Have a seat, Billy. Pull up a pew, mate.’

Bremner doesn’t speak. Bremner sits down in the chair and he waits.

‘You’re out for the next three games,’ I tell him. ‘Possibly longer?’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner just sits in the chair and waits.

‘Now I don’t know what your thoughts are about this,’ I ask him, ‘but as team captain and a natural leader, it would be a bloody shame to lose your presence in the dressing room, as well as on the pitch, for these three games.’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner still just sits in his chair and waits.

‘I’d like you to be here for the home games at least,’ I tell him. ‘I’d also value your input in the team talks; over lunch, in the dressing room, and on the bench with me.’

Bremner stands up. Bremner says, ‘Is that all?’

* * *

Europe gives you hopes. Europe gives you dreams
–

You start to win domestic games; beating Birmingham and Tottenham,
drawing with Chelsea in the League Cup. You are set to play Benfica in the
next round of the European Cup; Benfica and Eusebio, five-time finalists,
twice winners of the cup; your hopes and your dreams made real
–

But there is always doubt. There is always fear. Always trouble
–

The childish vendettas and the mischief, the back-biting and the politics
–

The directors are in the
chairman’s
ear, asking about Peter; what does he do,
how does he do it, how much do we pay him for it, and do we really need him?

Then the chairman is in your ear about Peter; what exactly does he do, how
exactly does he do it, how much exactly do we pay him, do we really, really
need him, and how about a bit of extra money for you in your new contract,
the extra money and the new contract that could be yours
–

If there was no Peter Taylor
.

Then the club secretary whispers in Pete’s ear about you; about how you
don’t support Peter in the boardroom, about how you murder him and plot to
dispose of him, about how you’re never there but always on the box and in the
papers, about the bit of extra money in the new contract that could be coming
your way if there was no Peter, or the bit of extra money and new contract that
could be for Peter
–

If there was no Brian Clough
.

There is always doubt and always fear. There is always trouble, always tension.
Tension and trouble; fear and doubt; war, war, war and then, right on cue
–

As if by magick, here come Leeds, Leeds, Leeds
.

* * *

Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. There is a half-eaten cheese sandwich on the desk, my address book open beside it –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout
…

‘Take your bloody pick,’ I tell them down the telephone –

Forest. Leicester. Birmingham. Everton. Stoke and even Carlisle
…

‘Harvey. Cooper. Cherry. Giles. Hunter,’ I tell anyone who’ll listen –

Ipswich. Norwich. Luton. Burnley. Wednesday and bloody Hull
…

‘Take your fucking pick,’ I tell them, beg and plead with them –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout
.

The half-eaten cheese sandwich, my address book and an empty, drained glass. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands –

‘
Where’s my fucking watch?
’

* * *

Longson has been summoned to a meeting of the Football League Management
Committee, another bloody meeting of the Management Committee, another
fucking meeting to discuss you. The Football League Management Committee
tell Longson that Derby County Football Club will face severe disciplinary
action and severe fines, even more severe disciplinary action and even more severe
fines, if their manager does not modify his criticisms on the television and in the
papers, his criticisms on the box and in his columns, his criticisms of the Football
League and the Football Association
–

Longson shits his fucking pants. Longson goes into hospital
.

The birds and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the
demons, the wolves and the vultures, they circle and gather with the black
clouds and the winter storms as your new, pylon-mounted floodlights creak and
groan over the Baseball Ground in the wind and the weather, creak and groan
and threaten to collapse, to fall
.

The football then comes as a relief; a relief from the childish vendettas and
the mischief, the back-biting and the politics; comes as a relief even if it’s at
Leeds, Leeds, Leeds
–

It is 7 October 1972 and you are on the Derby coach to Elland Road, Leeds
.

You are the Champions of England, not Leeds United; Derby County finished
first, Leeds United finished second; you won and they lost;
Daylight Robbery
, say Don Revie and Leeds, Leeds, Leeds United, again and again
and again
–

Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery. Daylight Robbery.

There is a point to prove for both sides today, a point and a lot of bloody
needle. But when you stand up at the front of that coach, when you stand up
to count the hearts on board today, you can sense the doubt and smell the fear,
the trouble and the tension
–

There is no John McGovern today. No Terry Hennessey
–

In their place you’ll play Peter Daniel in midfield; an experiment. But, in
your heart of hearts, you know Elland Road is no place for experiments, no
place at all
–

On that field of loss and field of hate, that field of blood and field of war
.

The Derby coach pulls into Elland Road, to fists banged on its side, to
scarves up against its glass, and the players whiten, their hearts sink and you’re
a goal down
–

A goal bloody down before you’ve even got off the fucking coach
.