The Damned Utd (13 page)

There’s only one winner; only ever one winner
–

Brian Howard Clough
.

* * *

‘You’re home early,’ says my wife. ‘Not like you. Are you feeling all right?’

‘You want me to go back out? Find a pub?’ I ask her.

‘Don’t be daft,’ she says. ‘It’s a nice surprise.’

‘Make the most of it,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll be away a bit this week.’

‘You’ve got enough shirts, have you?’

‘I’ll get by,’ I tell her.

She walks over to me. She puts her arms around my neck and asks, ‘Will you?’

‘I’ll have to,’ I tell her. ‘Not much choice, have I?’

‘Never say that,’ she says. ‘You’ve always got us. You know that, don’t you?’

‘What do you think keeps me sane?’

‘I don’t know,’ she smiles. ‘Thought you said it was football that kept you sane.’

‘Not any more,’ I tell her. ‘Not any more.’

Cassius Clay becomes Muhammad Ali. The Quarrymen become the Beatles.
Lesley
Hornby
becomes Twiggy and George Best becomes
Georgie
Best
–

Superstar.

It is a new world. It is a new England
–

The colour supplements. The colour televisions. The brand-new papers.
The Sun. The columns and the panels. The columns and the panels that need
opinions. Minds with opinions. Mouths with opinions
–

A mind and a mouth like yours, open wide
.

Open wide, just like your arms and your wallet
.

Your wife is not keen. Peter neither. But Sam Longson is
–

‘
You have something big to offer football,’ Uncle Sam assures you
.

The summer of 1970; Alf Ramsey and England are in Mexico for the World
Cup, losing twenty-odd pounds a game and struggling for air. You are in the television
studios of Independent Television, getting hundreds of quid a game and
struggling for breath on a panel with Malcolm Allison; Big Mal and Big Head
–

You are television panellists. You are television pundits
–

You open your mouths. You speak your minds
–

You are controversial. You are confident
–

Making names for yourselves
–

A new name for yourself
–

Cloughie.

* * *

I’ve been stood here for an hour watching them go through their paces, through their practices; here in the shadow of this ground, here under this sickening sky. Tonight’s game is at Southampton, the last so-called friendly before the season starts –

Have to fly down as well –

I don’t want to go; not one single part of me. I’d pay good money to get out of it.

Bites Yer Legs comes up to where I’m stood –

‘I’m a bit worried about the way we dealt with the corners on Saturday,’ he says. ‘We’ve got to get that right and I wondered if you had any thoughts?’

‘You’re professional fucking footballers,’ I tell him. ‘Sort it out yourselves.’

* * *

In the 1969–70 season, Derby County finished fourth; fourth in your first season
in the First Division. You played forty-two league games, won fifteen at
home and seven away; you scored sixty-four goals and conceded thirty-seven;
you had a total of fifty-three points at the end of the season, thirteen less than
Everton, the Champions, four less than Leeds in second, two less than Chelsea
in third, but two more than Liverpool and eight more than Manchester United.
Derby finish fourth; Derby should be in Europe next season; in the Inter
-
Cities Fairs Cup
–

But Derby are not. Derby have been banned. But despite the ban from
Europe. Despite the boardroom fights. Despite these dark clouds and ominous
signs, hopes are still high for the new season, the 1970–71 season
–

Hopes on the pitch. Hopes off the pitch. Hopes upstairs. Hopes downstairs
–

A new club secretary has been appointed, has been appointed by you
–

You didn’t ask the board. You didn’t ask Uncle Sam. You didn’t ask Peter
and you didn’t ask your wife
–

You just told them all that you had appointed Stuart Webb
–

Stuart Webb comes from Preston North End. Stuart Webb is young
–

Webby has immaculate suits. Webby has business aspirations
–

Burning ambitions. Burning, scolding ambitions
–

Webby wants to be in total control of the administration of the club, to
expand the promotions, to revive the supporters’ club, the Junior Rams, to initiate
awards nights
–

He wants to do for Derby off the pitch what you have done on the pitch
–

Stuart Webb wants to be you. Stuart Webb wants to be Brian Clough
–

Webby wants to be Cloughie
.

You can’t blame him. Nobody can
–

Everybody wants to be you. Everybody loves you; fathers and sons, wives
and daughters. Young and old, rich and poor. Because hopes are high in the poor
houses, hopes are high in the posh houses
–

Hopes you have raised. Hopes you must fulfil
.

Manchester United have come to the Baseball Ground for the big pre-season
game; the 1970 Watneys Cup final. In front of 32,000
–

Live on television. Live because of Manchester United
:

Stepney
. Edwards.
Dunne
.
Crerand
. Ure.
Sadler
. Morgan. Law. Charlton.
Kidd and Best (with Stiles on the bench)
–

The one and only Manchester United, with Law, Charlton, Kidd and Best
.

But it’s your team, your boys, who score four, who hammer in shot after
shot, who produce four
-
or
five-man moves with simple first-time passes, it is
your team, your boys who find the space, who carve open their defence
–

Time after time after time
.

Later, the men from Manchester will say this was just a friendly; just another
pre-season game; an inconsequential warm-up. But you know there are no
such things as friendlies
–

Because you know you cannot switch it on and switch it off
.

You sit in your dug-out and you watch Denis Law limp off, Kidd and Best
fade and Bobby Charlton look so very, very tired, and then you look at your
team, your boys; every one of them giving you 100 per cent, because they know
you cannot switch it on and switch it off; because they know football is a game
of habit; because they know that habit should be winning
–

You’ve raised hopes. Hopes you must fulfil
–

And you will; you, Peter, Sam and Webby
–

The Golden Age here at last
.

* * *

In the Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains drawn. Judgement hour is upon them, upon us all. The FA Secretary and the FA Disciplinary Committee have concluded their four-hour meeting
down in London. The Leeds board have received the FA statement –

I help myself to a large brandy and take a seat next to Bremner.

Manny Cussins takes out the statement and, in a solemn tone, reads it aloud: ‘Bremner of Leeds and Keegan of Liverpool will each be under suspension for three matches with effect from August the twentieth unless an application for a personal hearing is made by the players…’

Cussins pauses here and looks up at Bremner –

Bremner shakes his head.

‘Both Bremner of Leeds and Keegan of Liverpool will also be charged separately under FA Rule 40 A7 for bringing the game into disrepute by their actions following being sent off the field of play. Both players, their managers and a representative of each respective board are ordered to attend a meeting at FA headquarters on Friday with Mr Vernon Stokes, the chairman of the FA Disciplinary Committee.’

Cussins puts the statement to one side. The eyes of the board are on me now –

I light a cigar. I take a nip of brandy. I turn to William Bremner and I tell him, ‘They’re going to hang you out to dry for this, you stupid bastard.’

* * *

Despite the high hopes, despite the Watneys Cup, there are always the dark
clouds and ominous signs; heavy over you, but heavier still over Peter, worried
and shitting bricks
–

‘
We’re short of pace,’ he says, over and over. ‘We’ll go down without pace
.’

Brick after brick after brick; day after day after day
–

This is how the 1970–71 season starts; Peter anxious again, screwing up his
Sporting Life
, chain-smoking and biting his nails, having those dreams again,
those nightmares that tell him you’ve shot it, he’s shot it, his days of doubt, his
nights of fear
–

Only doubts and only fears. No succour, no supper
.

Peter thinks you should both have gone to Greece last March; gone to
Greece to work for the Colonels for
£20
,000 a year plus a £10,000 signing-
on fee, all tax-free. Peter would have gone, but there was no job for Peter without
Brian. In your secret room at the
Mackworth
Hotel, Peter had begged and
pleaded with you to take the job
–

‘
I’m not meddling with dynamite,’ you told him and that was that
.

Peter thinks you should both have gone to Birmingham last April; gone to
Birmingham to work for Clifford
Coombs
. Peter would have gone, but there
was no job for Peter without Brian. Again in your secret room at the
Mackworth
Hotel, Peter had pleaded and Peter had begged, begged and pleaded,
pleaded and begged
–

Barcelona. Greece. Birmingham. Coventry. Anywhere but here
–

‘
But I’m happy here,’ you told him then, tell him now. ‘We’re on a good thing
.’

But Peter’s never happy with your lot; the grass is always greener and your
own nothing but a field of weeds and stones; nothing but weeds and stones
–

‘
We’re short of pace,’ he says, again and again. ‘And we’ll go down without it
.’

‘
Did all right last season,’ you tell him. ‘If it’s not broken
…’

‘
And if we go down,’ he says, ‘who’ll want us then, Brian?
’

* * *

I hate fucking flying and this lot don’t make it any bloody better; they don’t talk or joke, don’t drink or smoke, they just sit and stare at the backs of the chairs in front of them. The safety instructions. Me and all –

I think about my wife. I think about my kids
…

In the sky over England, up among the bloody birds and the clouds, no one feels invincible. Not up here. Not even me. Not without a drink or a fag in my hand. Up here everybody’s mortal, full of regret, wishing they were back down there with their feet upon the ground, making things right, making things good, making things better –

They’ll be having their tea, my wife and my kids, watching a bit of telly
…

Never flew with Middlesbrough. Never flew with Sunderland –

Then it’ll be
bathtime
and bedtime, a story if they’re good
…

Never would have if we’d stayed at bloody Hartlepools –

Goodnight, sleep tight; lights out and sweet dreams
…

Never would again if I had my way. Never would again –

Sweet, sweet dreams
.

* * *

Observe. Expose. Replace. Observe. Expose. Replace –

This is what Peter does; what Peter does for his money; does to feel worthwhile;
to feel needed; important. Stuart
Webb’s
been in Peter’s ear; he’s been
telling him about this lad at his old club; this young Scot at Preston North
End. So Peter goes to see Archie Gemmill and ninety minutes later Peter is on
the telephone to the Baseball Ground
–

‘
I’ve seen one,’ he tells you. ‘Get
Longson’s
cheque book up here fast
.’

You drive up to Preston. You meet Alan Ball, father of
England’s
Alan Ball,
the manager of Preston North End. You agree to pay
£64
,000 for Gemmill
–

If Gemmill will agree to join you (which he will; they always do)
.

Peter goes back home now, needed and important, his job done
–

Now your job starts. You go round to Gemmill’s house. Two minutes inside
this house and you know your work has only just begun; you can sense another
club, the League Champions Everton, are in here; you can hear it in Gemmill’s
voice, see it in his eyes, smell it on his clothes. And then there’s Gemmill’s
wife;
Betty’s
seen you on the telly and
she’s
not keen on what
she’s
seen, that
mouth, those opinions.
Betty’s
also pregnant and against any other changes in
her life
–

Two minutes in here and you know you’ll not be going home tonight. So you
roll up your sleeves, march into their kitchen and get stuck into the washing-up
.

‘
I’d like to sleep on it,’ says Archie Gemmill
.

‘
Good man,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll kip in your spare room, if you don’t mind
.’

The next morning Betty cooks you bacon and eggs while Archie signs the
contract between the marmalade and the ketchup
–

A job well done, that’s you
.

You go back to the Preston ground. You break the news to Ball; Ball doesn’t
look too sad. Ball thinks he’s pulled a fast one
–

‘
He’s not the player you think he is,’ says Ball. ‘Your
mate’s
fucked up
.’

You don’t listen to him; you don’t give a fuck. You and Peter, you know
players. Nobody else knows players, just you and Peter
–

‘
You’re not making any friends, you and your mate,’ says Ball
–

You don’t bloody listen; you don’t give a flying fuck
–

It’s all water off a
duck’s
back to you
.

You go back to Derby. You sell Willie Carlin to Leicester. You let Peter tell
him. Hold his hand. Hold his heart
–

Inject it full of cortisone. Dry his tears
–

All water off a
duck’s
back
.

* * *

There are 15,000 at the Dell for this bloody Ted Bates testimonial match; the last of these fucking dress rehearsals. Clarke, Madeley and Yorath haven’t made the trip and so I play Terry Cooper and Eddie Gray from the start to see how they’ll hold up for Saturday. I also play Hunter in the first half as well, even though he’s suspended for Saturday, play him because I’ve got a couple of prospective clubs in the stands here to have a look at him, Cherry, Cooper and Harvey. Flog those four for starters, get shot of the Irishman, buy Shilton, Todd, McGovern and O’Hare and then I’ll be halfway there –