The Damned Utd (35 page)

It is Saturday 24 November 1973
.

Today Brighton are at home to Walton & Hersham, an amateur side, in the
FA Cup. But you’re not thinking about the cup, not thinking about Walton &
Hersham. Today you are distracted. Today you are diverted. Today you’re only
thinking about Derby County, thinking about Leeds United. You know this is
the big test, the big test for Dave Mackay. You know he is only one defeat away
from the sack; the sack that could bring you back. Distracted and diverted, your
thoughts at the Baseball Ground while here at the Goldstone Ground
Brighton are losing
–

Losing 1–0, losing 2–0, 3–0 and then 4–0
–

Brighton have lost 4–0 at home to an amateur side in the FA Cup
.

You stand in that beaten dressing room. You stare at that beaten team; your
beaten Brighton team who dare not even look you in the eye
–

Who cannot pull on their shirts, who cannot lace up their boots
–

Cannot pull on their bloody shirts or lace up their fucking boots without you
–

That beaten bloody Brighton team who are scared fucking shitless of you
–

Tears down their cheeks. Tears down their shirts. Tears down yours
–

Derby County have drawn 0–0 with Leeds United
.

* * *

The sharp knife and loaded gun. The long rope. The post-mortem. The press conference:

‘All we’ve got to do is get out there and bloody win on the field,’ I tell them. ‘That solves everything, a win on the bloody field.’

But there is something in their eyes
…

‘There was no question of me being carpeted. The board wanted to be informed of everything that goes on within the club, and rightly so. I informed them of everything. It has always been my policy to work with the chairman of a club, and the board, and everyone connected with a club, and this will continue to be my policy.’

No questions today, just something in their eyes
…

‘The bid from Forest wasn’t high enough. I feel Terry is worth more. We think he can do Leeds more good. Forest’s bid didn’t meet with our valuation of him. The price we have on Terry Cooper.’

The way they look at me, the way they stare, but only when I look away
…

‘I have never been so convinced of anything in my life as that I am getting the full support of the players. That the players back me.’

Like I’m sick, like I’ve got cancer and I’m dying but no one dare tell me
…

‘The situation is beautiful and clear.’

* * *

Just when you think things could get no worse, things get bloody worse, much,
much fucking worse; Brighton and Hove Albion lose 8–2 at home to Bristol
Rovers; this is the single worst defeat of your career, as a player or as a manager
.

You put your youngest lad in the car and drive to London. You sit your
youngest lad on your knee in the studios of LWT. In front of the TV cameras.
This is your defence. This boy is your defence. This boy is your protection
–

‘
The Brighton players are a disgrace,’ you tell Brian Moore and his cameras.
‘They do not know their trade and they shirk all moral responsibilities
–

‘
All moral responsibilities
.’

* * *

I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I lock up the office. I double check the door. I walk down that corridor. Past those trophies. Past those photographs. Through those doors and out into the car park. To my brand-new blue Mercedes-Benz –

There are two young lads stood beside the car, in their boots and in their jeans, their scarves round their necks, their scarves round their wrists, hands in their pockets –

‘How are you this evening, lads?’ I ask them.

They nod their heads and blink. They nudge each other with their elbows.

‘Were you here on Saturday, were you?’ I ask them.

They nod their heads again. They sway from side to side.

‘What did you think then?’ I ask them.

‘Rubbish,’ says one of them, and the other one giggles.

‘Why do you think that was then?’ I ask them.

‘Because of that John McGovern,’ says the one that speaks. ‘He’s rubbish, he is.’

‘He won the Championship at Derby,’ I tell them. ‘Just give him time, will you?’

The quieter lad asks, ‘But are you going to bring all the Derby players here?’

‘Don’t believe all that crap in the papers, lads,’ I tell them. ‘And don’t worry, it’ll all come right in the end. You’ll see.’

They nod their heads again and blink.

I take out my car keys. I open the car door.

‘Where are you going?’ they ask me.

‘Home,’ I tell them. ‘Now don’t you get too pissed tonight, eh, lads?’

They smile. They laugh. They wave –

‘Cheerio then,’ I tell them. ‘Cheerio, lads.’

Derby County draw with Arsenal. Derby County beat Newcastle. Derby
County beat Tottenham. Dave Mackay has started winning. Dave Mackay
keeps winning. Leeds United keep winning too. Don Revie keeps winning.
But Brian Clough keeps losing
.

The only good result you get is from the FA Disciplinary Committee; the
FA find you not guilty of bringing the game into disrepute for all the things
you said and wrote about Leeds United, for all the things you said and wrote
about Don Revie
–

The things you said and wrote, over and over, again and again
.

This result will open doors, you think; open better doors. Because another
good result comes in another defeat for England under Alf Ramsey, England
losing 1–0 to Italy; the pressure mounting now on Alf Ramsey and the FA
–

These results will open other doors, you think. These will open better doors
.

* * *

Things are never the way they say they are. Things are never the way you want them to be. Things just get worse and worse, day by day, hour by hour. Then things fall apart. Things just collapse –

I get out of bed. In silence. I eat breakfast. In silence. I leave the house. In silence. I drive to work. In silence. I park. In silence. I walk across the car park. In silence. Up the banking. In silence. To the training ground. In silence –

No smiles. No laughter. No banter. No jokes. No conversations. No chat. Not here.

I stand at the edge of the training ground and watch them practise and practise. Jimmy comes over. Jimmy says, ‘Thought we’d knock it on the head now, Boss?’

‘Fine,’ I tell him and then I ask, ‘What were they practising just then?’

Jimmy smiles. Jimmy says, ‘Dummies, Boss.’

‘They could have used me for once then,’ I tell him and then I traipse back down the banking. Past Syd and Maurice. In silence. Past the huts and across the car park. The puddles and the potholes. In silence. Into reception –

‘Players’lounge,’ says Bolton. ‘Ten minutes.’

* * *

You put down the phone. You know it’s over now. No chance of going back
–

Derby County Football Club have held their Annual General Meeting for
1973. Mike Keeling presented a petition of 7,000 signatures demanding your
reinstatement. The board presented a counterpetition of 22,000 signatures
.

There were still chants against Jack Kirkland. Still chants against Sam
Longson; the meeting dissolving into catcalls and chaos as Longson held a
microphone to his ear and stared into space, the stewards picking up Keeling
and throwing him down the stairs
.

But it’s over now and you know it. No going back. Not now
.

* * *

The players’ lounge, Elland Road. Deep in the West Stand, off the main corridor. Two doors locked and an empty bar. Low ceiling and sticky carpet. Mirrors, mirrors on the walls. Fresh from their baths in their black mourning suits, the players file in; the players and directors heading straight to the funeral of Harry Reynolds, straight after this; this players’ court, this charade, this first funeral,
mine
–

‘I say, I say, I say,’ Manny Cussins begins. ‘We held a board meeting last night because we feel there is some unrest in the camp, that things aren’t quite right …’

‘Never mind that crap,’ says Bolton. ‘We want to know what’s going on here.’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is silence from the players.

I turn my chair around and sit down. I rest my arms on its back and ask them, ‘Listen, lads, how about we start all over again and try to improve things?’

Heads low, their fingers and their nails between their lips and their teeth, there is still only silence.

‘Perhaps if Mr Clough were to step outside,’ says John Giles, ‘then perhaps we would all feel a little more like speaking our minds.’

I look at the Irishman. The Irishman smiles. The Irishman winks –

Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Fucking bastards. The bloody lot of them
…

I don’t wait. I stand up. I turn my back. I leave –

‘
We’re not happy with the handling of the team
…’

I leave them to it. Under the stand, through the doors and round the corners, I walk –

‘
We never see him and when we do he tells us nothing
…’

I walk back down that corridor to the office. Back to find Jimmy by that door –

‘
We’re not allowed to mention Mr Revie’s name
…’

‘That’s it,’ I tell Jimmy. ‘There’s no way I can continue to manage this club.’

‘
What I want to know is why, after all the things he’d said about us, did
you appoint him in the first place, Mr Cussins?
’

‘What you going to do, Boss?’ asks Jimmy.

‘
It wasn’t just me who appointed him, boys
…’

‘I’m resigning,’ I tell him. ‘But I’ll make sure your job’s safe.’

‘
So what are you saying, lads?
’

‘I’m not bloody staying here without you,’ says Jimmy. ‘No fucking way.’

‘
What the lads are trying to say, Mr Bolton, is that he’s just not good
enough
…’

‘Right then,’ I tell him. ‘I want you to go home tonight and work out how much bloody brass you’re going to need …’

‘
Not good enough for Leeds United
.’

‘… because I know that’s what I’m going to fucking do.’

* * *

You are not at work. You are up in the air. Thirty thousand feet up in the air.
On your way to New York City. On your way to see Ali–Frazier II at
Madison Square Garden. All expenses paid. Thanks to the
Daily Mail;
the
Daily Mail
who will introduce you to Ali:

Ali vs Clough – the Meeting of the Mouths – Ego vs Ego.

You don’t care. Thirty thousand feet up in the air. On your way to New York
City. On a charter flight in the company of the Victoria Sporting Club. The
Victoria Sporting Club who sweep every miniature from the drinks trolley and
then toss them over to you
–

‘
Help yourself to whatever you bloody like, Brian,’ they shout. ‘You just
take as many as you fucking like, old son
.’

Up in the air, drunk and scared. You pull out the paper, the
Daily Mail:

‘Clay and I want each other bad,’ says Frazier. ‘I still call him Clay; his mother named him Clay. If you’ve been around this guy long enough, you can have a lot of hate in your heart when the bell rings, but otherwise you kind of look at him and you laugh. There’s something wrong with the guy. I’m aware now that the guy’s got a couple of loosescrews someplace.’

Up in the air, drunk and scared, this is how 1974 begins for Cloughie
–

Drunk and scared, up in the air, nineteen hundred and seventy-four
.

* * *

I watch them climb down the steps and off the team bus still in their black suits and their black ties, with their paperback books and their packs of cards, but I don’t bother to count the hearts, not this night –

This night has 30,000 eyes but no hearts. Thirty thousand eyes plus two: Don in the crowd. Don in the stands. Don in his black suit. His black tie. His funeral suit. His mourning suit. Here for my final game, same as my first game:

Huddersfield Town vs Leeds United
–

This time it’s no friendly. This time it’s the Football League Cup, second round.

Huddersfield Town in their royal blue and white vertical-striped shirts, white shorts and white stockings: Poole. Hutt. Garner. Pugh. Saunders. Dolan. Hoy. McGinley. Gowling. Chapman and Smith –

Versus
–

Leeds United in their yellow shirts, yellow shorts and yellow stockings: Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. Bates. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. Jordan. Giles and Madeley. No McKenzie. No McGovern. No O’Hare –

They are Leeds United, the Champions of England. But they are not my team. Not mine. They win a penalty and Lorimer scores. The referee demands it be retaken and Lorimer misses. They go a goal behind with only eleven minutes left, a goal behind to a Third Division team, a goal behind before Lorimer crashes a volley into the back of the net with only one minute left. There will have to be a replay now at Elland Road in two weeks’ time. But I will not be there. I will not be their manager –

Because they are not my team. Not mine. Not this team, and they never will be –

In their dirty yellow shirts, dirty yellow shorts and dirty yellow stockings
…

They are his team. His Leeds. His dirty, fucking Leeds and they always will be –

In his black suit. His black tie. In his funeral suit. His mourning suit
…

Not my team. Never. Not mine. Never. Not this team. Never –

They are not Derby County and I am not Donald Revie.

* * *

Derby keep winning. Leeds keep winning. Brighton keep losing. But you are
never there; Sunday through Thursday, you’re never, never there
–

You are shaking hands with Muhammad Ali, shaking hands with Frank
Sinatra. You are not on the back pages of the papers, you’re on the front
.

You’re also back on the streets of Derby, on the stump for Phillip
Whitehead; Phillip Whitehead, the Labour MP for Derby North; Phillip
Whitehead who stood by you at Derby; Phillip Whitehead, your friend, who
you want to help, and help full-time:

‘
But how can you do that when you’re the manager at Brighton?
’

‘
No bloody problem,’ you tell him. ‘I only go there on Fridays and then I’m
back home here in Derby by Saturday night
…’

In the sleet and in the drizzle. On the estates and on the streets. On the stump:

‘
I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell the voters of Derby, shout through your loud-
hailer. ‘And I think you should all come out and vote for the Labour Party
.’

In the sleet. In the drizzle. On the estates. On the streets. You are a Pied Piper:

‘
I’m Brian Clough,’ you tell them. ‘And I want you all to get down to the
polling station now and vote for Phillip Whitehead, your Labour candidate
.’

In the sleet and in the drizzle, on the estates and on the streets, you love all
this; the canvassing on the doorsteps, the speeches to the packed halls
–

‘
A slice of bloody cake for all!’ you tell them. ‘That’s what Brian Clough says
.’

‘
When you coming back to Derby, Cloughie?’ shouts someone during one
of the question times as the whole hall applauds and stamps its feet
–

‘
Let’s get Phillip elected first,’ you tell the hall. ‘Then let’s see what happens
.’

In the February 1974 General Election, Phillip Whitehead retains his seat
with a majority of twelve hundred, against all the predictions. All the odds
–

That’s what happens in Derby. In February 1974. Just that
.

* * *

The five-mile coach journey from Leeds Road, Huddersfield, back to Elland Road, Leeds, is a long one; the longest bloody one of my whole fucking life. No paperback books tonight. No packs of cards. No bloody hearts tonight. No one laughs. No one jokes. No one speaks at all. Not one single word until Manny Cussins says –

‘Can I have a word with you, Brian?’

‘A word?’

‘Yes,’ he mumbles. ‘A word and a drink? Back at my flat.’

* * *

You are up in the air again. You are up in the air and on your way to Iran at
the personal invitation of the Shah; the Shah of Iran who wants you to man
age his national team
–

You and Bill and Vince from the Sunday Mirror. First Class all the way
.

The Shah offers you £500 a week to manage the Iranian team, twice your
Brighton salary, with a palatial apartment and your own private swimming
pool, luxury cars and chauffeurs at your beck and call, with flights back home
at your every whim and fancy, the American School for your three children
–

You feed apples and oranges to the Shah’s horses and shake your head; it’s
not for you, not this country, not this national team
.

But the phone keeps ringing and ringing, and the offers keep coming and
coming. Aston Villa. Queen’s Park Rangers. But not England. Not for you.
Not England. Not yet
.

The trips keep coming too, the concerts and the photo opportunities
–

The variety and the television shows, the newspaper columns
–

But it’s not enough; not, not nearly bloody enough
–

Derby keep winning. Leeds keep winning
–

But not Brighton. Not you. Not yet
.

* * *

Manny Cussins pours the drinks. Manny Cussins lights the cigars –

Manny Cussins says those five words, ‘It’s not working, is it?’

‘What’s not working?’ I ask him. ‘I haven’t been here five fucking minutes, so how can anything be bloody working yet?’

‘The players are unhappy with you,’ he says. ‘The players and the fans.’

‘So what do you want to do about it?’

‘If it’s not working,’ he mumbles, ‘then we’ll have to part company.’

* * *

This time last year you were trying to reach the final of the European Cup. Now
you’re trying to keep Brighton in the Third Division; trying and failing
–

‘
We’ve bloody shot it,’ says Taylor
.

‘
No,’ you tell him. ‘You have
.’

‘
Fuck off!
’

‘
You’re never here,’ you tell him. ‘You’re always away watching so-
and-
so
.’

‘
I’m never fucking here? What about you?’ asks Taylor
.

‘
What about me?
’