The Damned Utd (32 page)

I have locked the office door. The chair up against it. My fingers in my ears, my fingers in my ears, my fingers in my ears –

The other directors, the managers and their scouts have all gone –

But not Don Revie. Don is still out there. Under the stand. Round the corner. Pacing the corridors, knocking on doors –

‘
Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?
’

* * *

You are lying in bed next to your wife. The clock by the bed ticking. You close
your eyes but you do not sleep. You do not want to be the manager of
Nottingham bloody Forest. You do not want to be the manager of Brighton and
fucking Hove Albion. You do not even want to be the manager of England
–

You want to be the manager of Derby County. That’s the job you want
–

The Derby job, that’s the only job you want. Your old job
–

Your old job back, that’s what you want, all you want
–

All you ever wanted and all you want now
–

Now you have no job, now it’s too late
–

The clock ticking and ticking
–

Now you’re unemployed
–

Unemployed, again
.

I still can’t sleep so I open my eyes again; I am still in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room, with an old-fashioned hangover and an old-fashioned headache, my modern luxury phone ringing and ringing and ringing –

‘Love? Is that you, love?’ I ask. ‘What time is it?’

‘I’m not your wife or your bloody fancy piece,’ laughs the voice on the other end. ‘And it’s time you were at fucking work, you lazy sod. I know I bleeding am –’

Alan Brown, manager of Nottingham Forest. Alan Brown, friend of Peter
–

‘Alan?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for?’

‘Well, I didn’t get that much of a chance to speak to you last night,’ says Alan. ‘Not with your directors dropping like flies, but I liked what I saw on the pitch.’

‘Who did you like?’

‘Terry Cooper,’ says Alan. ‘He would do very nicely for us, assuming …’

‘Assuming bloody what?’

‘Assuming his leg’s fully mended and the price is right, that’s what.’

‘Don’t you worry about his bloody leg,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t you worry about that fucking price either.’

‘Right then,’ says Alan. ‘I’ll be hearing from you later then, will I?’

‘I’ll talk to the board,’ I tell him. ‘Then phone you back with the numbers.’

‘Look forward to hearing them, Brian,’ he says. ‘Look forward to hearing them.’

I hang up my modern luxury telephone. I get out of my modern luxury bed. I go into my modern luxury bathroom and I turn on the modern luxury taps of my modern luxury bath just as my modern luxury bloody phone starts ringing and ringing and ringing again.
So I wrap one of them modern luxury towels around myself and pad back across the modern luxury carpet to pick up that modern luxury phone again –

‘Don’t tell us they’ve fucking sacked you already?’

Freddie Goodwin, manager of Birmingham and fellow struggler
–

‘Freddie?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for this fine Yorkshire morning?’

‘You can sell us Joe Jordan,’ he says. ‘That’s what you can do for me.’

‘Consider it done.’ I tell him. ‘Consider it done.’

I leave that modern luxury phone off the hook and walk back to the modern luxury bathroom to soak in my freezing cold modern luxury fucking bath –

Thirteen days before the first round of the European Cup –

Leeds United fourth from the foot of Division One.

* * *

You and Peter are watching Derby County play West Ham United. Not from
the bench. Not from the dug-out. Not from the directors’ box. You and Peter are
not even in Upton bloody Park. You and Peter are watching Derby play West
Ham from the studios of London Weekend fucking Television
.

It’s almost half-time and Derby have given a positive performance, have
made most of the running against a very fallible-looking West Ham defence.
Roger Davies has had a lot of room in which to collect and distribute the ball,
and, from one of his headers, a little nod on from a Boulton punt, Hector is
away with only Mervyn Day to beat, but the shot’s stopped and the ball bobs
away past a post and you and Peter are back down in your seats. Back at your
desks. Not at Upton Park. Not in the dug-out. Not on the bench
.

You look down at the team sheet: Boulton, Webster, Nish, Newton,
McFarland, Todd, McGovern, Gemmill, Davies, Hector, Hinton. Sub.:
O’Hare. Manager: Mackay
–

You’re not at Upton Park. You’re not in the dug-out. Not on the bench
–

You are here in the studios of London Weekend Television
.

You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You still can’t breathe. You get up
from your desk. You tell them you are off for a pee. You go out of the studio. You
go down a corridor. Round a corner. Down some stairs. Out through a door to
find a phone box
–

‘
Listen, Mike,’ you tell Mike Keeling. ‘Can you track down Mike Bamber
for us. The Brighton chairman. Not a bloody clue where he is, but I need to
speak to him
…’

* * *

Leeds United is in mourning. Their suits dark, their ties black, their flag at half mast. The board too busy grieving to see me. Their doors shut, their lips sealed –

But not the Irishman. The Irishman winks. The Irishman asks, ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Like a hole in the top of my skull.’

The Irishman smiles. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Clough.’

‘Take it as a reference if you want.’

The Irishman laughs. ‘I’ll be sure to pass it on to the Spurs.’

‘They still want you then, do they?’

The Irishman shrugs. ‘Early days yet, Mr Clough. Still early days.’

‘But you want the fucking job, don’t you?’

The Irishman shrugs again. The Irishman asks, ‘Who’s to say?’

‘There’s nothing for you here. You know that?’

The Irishman gets to his feet. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mr Clough …’

* * *

Mike Keeling tracks down Mike Bamber. Bamber is in the directors’ box at
Hereford. He is watching Hereford United beat Brighton and Hove Albion
3–0. Mike Bamber leaves the directors’ box. Runs from the box. Bamber takes
the call from Keeling
–

‘
Brian told me to tell you to get the team coach to come through London on
your way back to Brighton. Brian says he’ll meet you at the Waldorf
.’

So Mike Bamber and the Brighton team take a twenty-mile detour to the
Waldorf; the Waldorf where you’re staying courtesy of LWT
–

‘
What have you done with the team?’ you ask Bamber in the bar
.

‘
They’re waiting outside in the coach,’ he says. ‘So it’ll have to be brief
.’

‘
Well, I’ve decided to consider your offer,’ you tell him
.

‘
That’s fantastic,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Why don’t you come down to Brighton,
to my own hotel, either right now or first thing tomorrow? We’ll have lunch
–’

‘
I can’t come to Brighton,’ you tell him. ‘Not tonight. Not tomorrow
.’

‘
Well then,’ says Bamber. ‘How about Monday?
’

‘
Not Monday either,’ you tell him. ‘But why don’t you come up to Derby?
’

‘
Fine,’ he says. ‘Just name the time and the place
.’

‘
Tuesday lunchtime,’ you tell him. ‘The Midland Hotel, Derby
.’

Mike Bamber sticks out his hand. Bamber says, ‘See you then
.’

* * *

There are just thirteen days before the first round of the European Cup and Leeds United are fourth from the foot of Division One. FC Zurich have got off to a better start; the Swiss Champions are unbeaten; they are not third from the foot of their division –

The press have got their doubts. The press have got their fears:

‘You’ve got injuries, you’ve got suspensions,’ they say –

I tell them, ‘I know I’ve got injuries, I know I’ve got suspensions.’

‘So why are you trying to sell Jordan to Birmingham?’ they ask –

I tell them, ‘Look, Freddie Goodwin came up to watch the Central League game last night and after the game Freddie asked me if any of the players were available, and he got the same answer I have given everyone else: no one’s bloody going yet!’

‘Yet? What about Johnny Giles?’ they ask –

I tell them, ‘Listen, the ball is in Spurs’ court. As far as we’re concerned, we can only wait for developments. Giles has not applied for the job and so the next move has got to come from Spurs. If they do want him as manager, I presume they will contact me and we’ll take it from there. If in fact they really do want him as manager …’

‘But what about Joe Jordan? What about Terry Cooper and Forest? Terry Yorath and Everton? Will Jordan and Cooper still play on Saturday? Will Yorath?’ they ask –

I tell them again, ‘We’ve got injuries and we’ve got suspensions and
the transfer deadline for the European Cup has already passed. There are only thirteen days to go now. So I’m telling you all, everyone will still be here thirteen days from now.’

‘Everyone?’ they ask. ‘You think
you’ll
still be here in thirteen days?’

* * *

Derby ended up drawing 0–0 at West Ham in Dave Mackay’s first game as
manager of Derby County. Longson was back on the box
–

‘
I could manage this lot,’ Longson told
Match of the Day.

You are watching him from your bed at the Waldorf Hotel, lying on that bed
in your television suit and your television tie, drinking dry your private bar
–

But you’re not really watching Longson, watching
Match of the Day;
you’re thinking about the whispers and the rumours, the whispers and the
rumours that the FA are going to throw the book at you again, throw the book
at you again for all the things you said and wrote, all the things you said and
wrote about Leeds United and Don Revie last summer; the whispers and the
rumours that the Disciplinary Committee will finish you in football, ban you
for life or suspend you for seasons; the whispers and rumours that Forest have
been warned away, that no club will touch you now, no club
…

Pete puts out his fag. Pete gets up from his chair. Pete switches off the TV
–

‘
I was fucking watching that,’ you tell him. ‘Switch it back on
.’

‘
After we’ve had a little chat,’ he says
.

‘
Here we go,’ you tell him. ‘What have I done now, Mother?
’

‘
I want to know if you’re serious about the Brighton job
.’

‘
Like the wife says, beggars can’t be choosers
.’

‘
We’re not beggars,’ says Pete. ‘Not yet
.’

‘
I will be,’ you tell him. ‘This disrepute charge could finish me
.’

‘
Have you spoken to Bamber about it?’ asks Pete
.

You shake your head. You drain your drink. You light another fag
.

‘
You’ll have to tell him,’ says Pete. ‘Tell him soon and all
.’

‘
Why?’ you ask. ‘So he can run for the bloody hills with the rest of them?
’

‘
Come on, Brian. Not telling him is not right and you know it
.’

You pour another drink and finish that. Light another fag and finish that
–

‘
I’ve got a wife, three kids and no fucking job,’ you tell him. ‘I’m scared, Pete
.’

‘
And you call me a fucking coward?’ laughs Pete. ‘You’re yellow through
and through, and you know what? I’ve always fucking known it
.’

‘
It’s miles away,’ you tell him. ‘Bloody Brighton
.’

‘
Coward
.’

‘
You seen where they bloody are?’ you ask him. ‘Bottom of the fucking Third
.’

‘
You’re a football manager,’ says Pete. ‘It’s your job to get them out of there
.’

‘
With average gates of 6,000?’ you ask him. ‘It can’t be done
.’

‘
So what you going to do then?’ asks Pete. ‘Drive a taxi? Buy a pub?
’

‘
Fuck off!
’

‘
All mouth and no trousers,’ says Pete. ‘That’s the real Cloughie!
’

‘
Fuck off!’ you shout and throw a pillow at him
–

‘
All mouth and no fucking trousers,’ he laughs. ‘No fucking balls!
’

‘
All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll take the fucking job, if it shuts you up
.’

‘
If they’ll bloody have you,’ he says. ‘If you’re not fucking suspended
.’

* * *

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corner and down the corridor, there are tears in Terry Cooper’s eyes; Terry Cooper who has been with Leeds United for fourteen years, who has played for them 300-odd times; Terry Cooper who has won umpteen medals and nineteen caps, umpteen medals and seventeen more caps than me; Terry Cooper who fights back those tears and asks me again,‘
£
75,000?’

I finish my drink. I pour another. I light a fag and I nod.

‘That’s all you think I’m worth?
£
75,000?’

I finish that drink. I finish that fag and I nod again.

‘What about my testimonial?’ asks Terry Cooper. ‘What about that?’

‘What about it?’

‘I’ve been here fourteen years. I’ve played 327 times for this club,’ says Terry Cooper. ‘I scored the winning goal against Arsenal at Wembley, the winning goal that brought the League Cup here in 1968. First thing we’d ever won.’

‘That was then,’ I tell him. ‘This is 1974.’

You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because no one wants to train for him.
No one wants to play for him. They’ve told you that, a hundred times. To your
face and down the phone. No one wants to play for him
–

They want to play for you. They want to work for you
–

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson
–

They want you
–

Cloughie
.

Today Derby County are travelling up to Roker Park for tonight’s League
Cup replay against Sunderland. But no one wants to travel with him. No one
wants to play for him. They’ve told you that, a thousand times
. –

If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows
…

No one wants to play for him. No one wants to work for him
–

They want to play for you. They want to work for you
–

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson
–

They want you
–

Cloughie.

So if Derby County lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who
knows? Who knows what tomorrow might bring?

Cloughie, risen and immaculate
–

Cloughie, back again?

* * *

I am last out of bed this morning, down the stairs and into that new blue Mercedes-Benz. Last through the doors and to work, round the corner and down that corridor, the training finished but the players still here; the players still here and wanting a word; wanting a word because John Giles has been busy this morning –

The Irishman has told the rest of the team why he wants to go to Tottenham; why he wants to leave Leeds. Joe Jordan has been busy too. The Scotsman has told the rest of the team what he thinks about playing in the reserves; what he thinks about being sold to Birmingham City. Terry Yorath has also been busy. The Welshman has told the rest of the team what he thinks about moving to Everton. But Terry Cooper has been busiest of all. The Englishman has told the lot of them that he’s being sold to Forest; told them his testimonial is in doubt. The lot of them worried now. The lot of them scared. The lot of them angry. The lot of them wanting a word –

‘
Are you there, Brian? Are you still there? Are you in there or what?
’

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corner and down the corridor, I have locked that bloody door and put the fucking chair against it –

Doubt and fear. Doubt and fear. Doubt and fear
.

I pour a drink. I light another fag. I cancel the Friday lunchtime press conference. I tell Harry, Ron and Mike that I’ll speak to them by phone:

‘You’re eighteen places below first place …’

‘I know that.’

‘You’re averaging a goal a game …’

‘I know that.’

‘But you’re still playing Jordan and McKenzie in the reserves …’

‘I know that.’

‘Playing O’Hare up front when he’s not even eligible for Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Twelve days before Europe …’

‘I know that.’

‘Talking of selling Terry Cooper and Joe Jordan, of Giles going to Tottenham, talking of bringing in other ineligible players …’

‘I know that.’

‘So what are you going to do?’ they ask. ‘What are you going to do, Brian?’

‘I’m going to sweat it out,’ I tell them.

‘What do you think Don Revie would have …’

‘I try not to think about Don Revie,’ I tell them. ‘But it’d have been the same.’

‘But he wouldn’t have bought McKenzie,’ they say. ‘He wouldn’t have bought McGovern or O’Hare. He wouldn’t be trying to sell Cooper, Giles and Jordan …’

‘Don’s gone,’ I tell them. ‘And it’s only winning that can change things now.’

‘And if you don’t win?’ they ask. ‘What changes then? Who changes?’

‘Nothing changes,’ I tell them.

‘Something must,’ they say. ‘Somebody must …’

‘No one changes,’ I insist. ‘Like I say, I’ll sweat it out –’

Out. Out. Out
.

* * *

Mike Bamber and Harry Bloom, the Brighton vice-chairman, drive up to
Derby. To the Midland Hotel. To meet you and Pete
–

But you are not there. Just Pete
–

Bill Wainwright, the manager of the Midland, calls you at home, in bed
–

‘
Give them some beer and sandwiches,’ you tell him, ‘and I’ll be right there
.’

But you’re not. You are still two hours late. In your scruffy blue tracksuit
–

Peter is furious. Fucking furious. Bamber and Bloom too
–

‘
You’re well out of order,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Making us travel all the way
up here and then making us wait around for two hours
.’

‘
Something came up,’ you tell them
–

They are still furious, Bamber and Bloom, but they are also still desperate
–

‘
And I didn’t come all the way up here to fall out with you either,’ says
Bamber. ‘So here’s the deal
…’

Mike Bamber offers you and Pete £7,000 each just to sign for Brighton,
then offers you and Pete an annual salary which is more than you were earning
at Derby
–

Pete’s already smiling. Peter’s already done his sums. Taylor’s already agreed
.

‘
But these are First Division wages,’ you tell Bamber
–

‘
You’re First Division managers,’ says Bamber
.

‘
But are you sure you can afford it?
’

‘
Are you sure you’re worth it?
’

‘
I’m sure,’ you tell him
–

‘
Then so am I,’ says Mike Bamber. ‘Then so am I
.’

* * *

Under the stands, the weight on my back. Through the doors, the weight on my back. Round the corner, the weight on my back. Up the stairs, the weight on my back. Down the corridor, that weight on my back. That weight on my back as I push open the doors to the club dining room. The soup is oxtail again. The meat lamb. The vegetables soft and the wine cheap. Their suits are dark and their ties still black –

‘Of course he doesn’t want to bloody go,’ states Bolton. ‘This is Leeds United!’

‘But I need players who are thinking about winning cups and medals,’ I tell him. ‘He’s more bothered about his bloody testimonial than Leeds United.’

‘He’s played here fourteen years,’ says Cussins. ‘He deserves his testimonial.’

‘I never said he didn’t,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘I played the game, you didn’t; none of you, not one of you. I got injured; you didn’t. I was finished, washed up, and we’d have bloody starved without my testimonial money. I’m just saying that half your fucking team are on testimonials this season –’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s hardly half the team.’

‘Cooper, Giles, Paul Madeley, Paul Reaney, Norman Hunter and Peter Lorimer,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s six bloody first-team players on fucking testimonials this season and that makes it very, very difficult to sell any of them.’

‘So stop trying to bloody sell buggers then!’ shouts Bolton. ‘They’re Champions for Chrissakes, man. League bloody Champions.’

‘Not this bloody season, they’re not,’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘They’re old men.’

‘That’s bloody rubbish,’ says Woodward. ‘Absolute bloody rubbish.’

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all. ‘You fucking watching them play, are you?’

‘Some might say it’s not the players,’ says Bolton.

‘Is that right?’ I ask him, ask them all again. ‘So who might some say it is then?’

‘Some might say it’s their manager,’ states Bolton. ‘Some might say it’s thee.’

* * *

You should be letting go. You should be walking away. But you can’t let go. You
can’t walk away. You should be thinking about Brighton, thinking about the
future. But you just can’t stop thinking about Derby, about the past
–

You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them:

Derby County only drew with Sunderland. Back from a penalty. Back from
a goal down. Back to draw 1–1. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against
Sunderland. The Derby players, your players, know that. The fans and the
press know that. Longson and the board know that and, most of all, Dave
Mackay knows that
–

Mackay then lost the bloody toss. The Derby players, your players, are furious,
fucking furious about that too. Now Derby must play Sunderland at
Roker Park again tomorrow night; the winner of that match will then be at
home to Liverpool in the next round of the League Cup. But, but, but
…

If Derby County lose tomorrow night. If Derby County fail to reach the next
round of the League Cup. If Derby County are not at home to Liverpool
…

If Derby lose this game, if Mackay loses this game, then who knows?

The players don’t want to play for him. The players don’t want to work for
him. They want to play for you, your players. They want to work for you
–

Not Dave Mackay. Not Sam Longson
–

They want you, your players
–

They want Cloughie; risen, immaculate and back
.

So there’s no way you can let go yet. No way you can walk away now. No
way you can stop thinking and thinking and thinking about it, about them.
But, but, but
…

You’ve done the deal with Brighton. You’ve shaken hands with Bamber
.
Tomorrow morning you’ll be flying from East Midlands airport down to
Sussex
–

But you hate bloody flying. You really hate fucking flying. Now you’ve found
your excuse and got your cold feet; your address book out and your phone in
your hands
–

You call Phillip Whitehead, your MP. You ask him what you should do
–

‘
Everyone wants you back,’ he tells you. ‘But it’s your career
.’

You call Brian Moore. You ask him what you should do
–

‘
Everyone at ITV wants you here full-time,’ he tells you. ‘The offer’s always
open and you know that. But, in your heart of hearts, you’re a football manager.
I know that, you know that. So I can’t tell you what to do, Brian, except
to follow your heart
.’

You call Mike Keeling. You ask him what you should do
–

‘
No one wants you to go,’ he tells you. ‘But, at the end of day, it’s up to you
.’

You call John Shaw. You ask him what to bloody do
–

‘
The people of Derby want you to stay,’ he tells you. ‘The people of Derby,
the supporters of Derby County Football Club, they all want you to stay and
they’ll fight until you are back where you belong, and you know that I and
everyone else involved in the Protest Movement will do everything we can to
make that happen. Everything we can. But, in the meantime, you’ve also got
a wife and three kids to feed
…’

You can’t let go. You can’t walk away. Because you can’t stop thinking about
it. You just can’t stop thinking and thinking and thinking about them
–

You put down the phone. You ask your wife what you should do
–

‘
Talk to Peter,’ she tells you. ‘Tell him your doubts. See what he says
.’

You have a drink. Then another. Then you call Peter; Pete busy packing his
case, whistling, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside
…’

‘
I can’t go through with it,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t, Pete
.’

‘
We’ve got a great deal,’ says Peter. ‘A better deal than the one we were on
.’

‘
It’s not about the money,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t go through with it
.’

‘
Then we’re finished,’ he shouts, he screams, he rants and he raves
–

‘
That’s you and me fucking finished!
’