The Damned Utd (29 page)

First Division Positions, 1 September 1974

The last of the Cunning Men is here –
I have the hair from your comb. I have the hair from your drains –
Tonight I will burn it. Tonight I will bury it.
All the beasts of the field here too –
The birds and the badgers. The foxes and the ferrets –
The dogs and the demons. The wolves and the vultures –
Come to devour, to eat you.

The loneliest bloody day of the week, the loneliest fucking place on earth; under the stands, through the doors, round the corners to the bathroom and toilet in the corridor. The bathroom door is locked, the bathroom mirror broken. There is a dirty grey handkerchief wrapped around the knuckle of my right hand and when I look up into that mirror again there are black splintered cracks across my face, terrible black splintered cracks across my face –

Leeds United lost yesterday. 2-bloody-1 to Manchester City at Maine Road; Leeds United have just three points from five games and have scored just three goals. By this stage last year, Leeds United had beaten Everton, Arsenal, Tottenham, Wolves and Birmingham City; this stage last year, Leeds had ten points from five games and had scored fifteen goals with six from Lorimer, four from Bremner, two from Jones and one a piece from Giles, Madeley and Clarke –

This time last year, when Don bloody Revie was the manager of Leeds United and I was the manager of Derby County; when Don was fucking top and I was second; this time last year, when Alf Ramsey was still the manager of England.

I run the taps. I wash my face. I open the bathroom door. I go down the corridor.
His
corridor. Round the corner.
His
corner. Down the tunnel.
His
tunnel. Out into the light and out onto that pitch.
His
pitch.
His
field –

His
field of loss.
His
field of blood.
His
field of sacrifice.
His
field of slaughter.
His
field of vengeance.
His
field of victory!

I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home with my wife and with my kids, carving the roast and digging the garden, walking the dog and washing the car. Not here. Not in this place –

This hateful, spiteful place –

Flecked in their phlegm
.

It starts to spit again. I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I walk off that field, off that pitch. Down that tunnel, down that corridor. Round those corners, through those doors and out of Elland Road.

In the car park of the ground, in the shadow of the stands, there are four young kids in their boots and their jeans, kicking a jam-jar lid about –

‘Morning, lads,’ I shout.

‘Afternoon, Mr Clough,’ they shout back.

‘How are you today then, lads?’

‘All right, ta,’ they shout. ‘And you?’

‘I’m surviving,’ I tell them and walk across the car park, across the car park to the huts on their stilts beside the banking that leads up to the training pitch. The huts are all locked so I have to give the lock a right good kick before it gives in –

‘What you doing?’ the young lads ask me.

‘You’ll see,’ I tell them and force open the door to one of the huts. I go inside and drag out one of those huge string bags that hold all the old match-day balls. I open up the bag and boot one of the balls down the steps from the hut to the lads in the car park –

‘There you go,’ I tell them. ‘Courtesy of Leeds United.’

‘Ta very much,’ they all shout.

‘You’re very welcome, lads,’ I tell them and walk back down the steps from the hut, down to the car park and across to my car, a little lad waiting by the door –

He asks, ‘What happened to your hand, Mr Clough?’

‘I got it caught somewhere, didn’t I?’ I tell him.

‘How did you do that then?’

‘Stuck it somewhere I bloody shouldn’t have, that’s how.’

‘Least it weren’t your fucking nose,’ he laughs.

‘You might be right there,’ I tell him. ‘But there’s no need for language like that, not on a Sunday, so you bugger off home and get that big mouth of yours washed out.’

The scenes have shifted, the sets changed again. The curtain falls and another
one rises. You have taken your final bow at the old Baseball Ground. You have
transferred to London. You have been on the Parkinson show. You have been
in the papers, all over the papers, the front and back pages
–

Never out of the papers. Never off the television
–

Risen in your new grey suit, arms outstretched
–

Cloughie, Immaculate.

Jimmy Gordon, Judas James Gordon, might be in temporary charge of the
team, might be the one who picked Saturday’s team, but the Derby players,
your
players, beat Leicester City 2–1. ‘For Brian and Peter,’ they said. ‘For
Brian and Peter
.’

Not for Jimmy. Not for the bloody board and not for fucking Longson
.

But Longson has not been silent. Longson has responded. Longson in the
papers. Front and back pages. Longson on the telly and things have got nasty
now; very, very nasty now because Longson has made all kinds of allegations
about you; allegations about expenses; allegations about transfer deals; allegations
about players’ salaries and bonuses; allegations about tickets and petty
cash; about money, money, money
–

Always funny, funny money –

Not allegations made by the whole board. Just by Longson
.

You drove back from London yesterday in a rented car. You kissed your wife.
You kissed your kids. You had your Sunday lunch. Then you spent the rest of the
day on the phone to your friends, your friends who came round, to drink your
drinks and hold your hand, your friends who are solicitors, your friends who went
through Longson’s statement, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by
sentence, word by word, your friends who helped you repudiate that statement,
paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by sentence, word by word.
Allegation by fucking allegation
.

Today your friends who are solicitors will begin a libel action on your behalf.
They will issue a writ. Not just against Longson, but against the whole board
–

‘
It’ll turn them against Longson,’ said John. ‘It’ll drive a wedge between them.
Set them at each other’s throats, you’ll see. At each other’s throats, they’ll be
.’

You get out of bed. You get washed. You get dressed
–

You go downstairs. You go into the kitchen
–

Risen again in your new grey suit
–

Cloughie, Immaculate –

Unemployed
.

* * *

The sun might be shining outside, the sky might be blue, but I’m under the covers of my bed, with the tables and the fixtures in my head; next Saturday, if Leeds beat Luton then Leeds will have five points. Five points could take Leeds up to eleventh or twelfth, if Leicester lose to Wolves, West Ham lose to Sheffield United, QPR lose to Birmingham, Chelsea lose to Middlesbrough, Tottenham lose to Liverpool, and if Arsenal and Burnley draw, Carlisle and Stoke draw, Ipswich and Everton draw. The problem is Derby vs Newcastle. If Derby and Newcastle draw, both teams will have six points and, if Leeds beat Luton, Leeds will only have five points. The best result then would be a defeat for Derby. Then Newcastle will have seven points and both Derby and Leeds will have five points. Then it will come down to goal average. So Leeds will need to beat Luton by three or four goals to make certain that Leeds climb above Derby; beat Luton who were promoted as Second Division runners-up to Middlesbrough last season –

The tables and the fixtures in my head, the doubts and the fears that should Leeds lose to Luton and then Tottenham beat Liverpool, Birmingham beat QPR and Coventry beat Manchester City, then Leeds would be bottom of the First Division –

The wife is frying some bacon, the kids eating their cereal –

Leeds would be bottom of the First Division
…

I pour a cup of tea, heap in four sugars –

Bottom of the First Division
…

Four kisses bye-bye –

Bye-
bloody-
bye
.

* * *

The Derby players
, your
players, have written a letter to the board. This is
what the Derby players
, your
players, have written in their letter to the board:

You have tears running down your cheeks at what the Derby players
, your
players, have written about you, a big bloody lump in your throat and the
phone in your hand:

‘I am staggered,’ you tell the
Daily Mail,
exclusively. ‘Whatever happens I
will always be grateful to the players
, my
players, for restoring my faith in
human nature
.’

* * *

The cleaning lady is cleaning the office, under the desk and behind the door, not whistling or humming along to her tunes today –

I ask her, ‘How are you today then, Joan?’

‘I’ve been better, Brian,’ she says. ‘I’ve been better.’

I ask, ‘Why’s that then, love?’

‘State of that bloody bathroom down corridor,’ she says. ‘That’s why.’

‘What about it?’

‘You should’ve seen it,’ she says. ‘Mirror broken. Blood in sink. Piss over floor.’

‘No?’

‘I tell you, Brian,’ she tells me, ‘they don’t pay us enough to clean up all that.’

My face is red, my hand still bandaged as I say, ‘I’m sorry, love.’

‘Why?’ she asks. ‘Not like it’s your fault, is it, Brian? Not you that thumped mirror and bled all over sink then pissed on floor just because you lost, was it?’

* * *

You have your faith in human nature back, but you still have no job and no
car. You have to take a taxi to meet the Derby players
, your
players, for lunch
at the Kedleston Hall Hotel, your new headquarters. You have to pay for the
taxi yourself. The Derby players are confused and waiting, their heads in their
hands; the players are depressed and worried, their faces long; the players scared
and furious, their eyes wide, on stalks
–

‘
It’s a bloody outrage,’ says Roy McFarland;
Red Roy,
as the press call
him. ‘The way they’ve treated you, after all you’ve done for them. I tell you,
last week was the worst week of my whole bloody life. Drawing with Poland
and losing you as a boss, the worst week of my life. I didn’t hang around after
the England match, didn’t go back to the hotel with the other lads; I just got
in me car and drove straight back home to Derby
.’

Eyes filling up and drinks going down, tempers rising and voices choking
–

‘What can we do, Boss?’ they all ask you
.

‘
You’ve done enough,’ you tell them. ‘That letter was brilliant. Meant a lot
.’

‘
But there must be more we can do?’ they all ask. ‘There has to be, Boss?
’

‘
I’ll tell you what we’ll do,’ you tell them. ‘We’ll have a bloody party. Tonight
.’

‘
A party?’ they all say. ‘What kind of a party?
’

‘
A fucking big one,’ you tell them. ‘So bugger off home and get your wives
and your bairns and your glad rags on and meet us all at the Newton Park
Hotel tonight
.’

* * *

There should be no training today. There should be no players in today. They should all be at home with their wives and their kids, the girlfriends and their pets. But then Jimmy told me they were all coming in anyway, coming in for their complimentary club cars, their brand-new bloody club cars. But after Saturday, after Maine Road, they don’t deserve a club fucking bicycle between them and so I cancelled their days off and told them to report back here at nine o’clock, Monday morning, if they wanted their bloody fucking club cars –

‘The bloody chances you lot missed on Saturday,’ I tell them. ‘They ought to make you all fucking walk to the ground and back every game, never mind giving you a bleeding club car. Only you’d get fucking lost, you’re that bloody thick half of you.’

I turn my back on them. I leave them to Jimmy. I walk off the training pitch. Down the banking. Past the huts on their stilts. John Reynolds, the groundsman, and Sydney Owen are stood at the top of the steps to one of the huts. They are staring at a broken lock and an open door –

‘Be bloody kids,’ I tell them as I pass them.

Sydney says something that sounds like, ‘Bloody big mouth again.’

‘You what?’ I ask him –

‘I said, be bloody big ones then,’ says Sydney.

Least there’s no Maurice today. Maurice is in Switzerland to watch Zurich play Geneva. To spy on Zurich. To compile his dossier. To write his report. There’s no John Giles either. The Irishman is down in London with his Eire squad. To meet with Tottenham. His ticket bloody out of here.

This is what those players are thinking about at training today –

Not Stoke City. Not QPR. Not Birmingham or Manchester City –

Not the chances they missed; the chances they must take –

Against Luton. Against Huddersfield and against Zurich –

Johnny fucking Giles
, that’s what they’re thinking about –

Johnny fucking Giles and Vauxhall bloody motors –

‘What kind you going to get, Boss?’ Jimmy had asked me first thing this morning.

‘I’m not off, am I,’ I told him.

‘Why not?’

‘Not been invited, have I.’

‘Why not?’ he asked me again.

‘Maybe they think I won’t be around long enough to need a new bloody car.’

‘I hope you’re fucking joking,’ said Jimmy.

‘I wish I were,’ I told him. ‘Wish I were.’

* * *

You leave the Derby players, your players, until tonight. You drive over to see
Mike Keeling. Mike Keeling thinks the board have turned against Longson.
He thinks there might be a wedge between them now
–

‘
They’re at each other’s throats,’ he says. ‘At each other’s throats!
’

‘
Bet you wish you’d not been so bloody quick to resign now, don’t you?
’

‘
What about you?’ he asks you. ‘Is that how you feel, Brian? Is it?
’

‘
You know it is,’ you tell him. ‘You know it bloody is
.’

‘
Well, just this once,’ he says, ‘we might just be able to turn back the clock
.’

‘
You really think so, Mike? Really?
’

‘
I can’t promise,’ he says. ‘But I really think we have a chance, yes
.’

‘
So what can I do to help you?’ you ask him. ‘To help you make it happen?
’

‘
An olive branch, Brian,’ he says. ‘Some kind of olive branch would help
.’

‘
Well, I’ve been thinking,’ you tell him, ‘thinking that if they’ll take me
back, and when I say they, I’m not talking about that bastard Longson, but if
the board will take me back, me and Peter, then I’d be willing to jack in all the
telly and the papers
.’

‘
Really? You’d give all that up? The television and the papers?
’

‘
Course I bloody would,’ you tell him. ‘If it meant I could get my real job
back
.’

* * *

I finish my drink. I finish my fag. I leave the office. I lock the door. I double check it’s locked. I walk down the corridor, round the corner, up the stairs, round another corner, down another corridor towards the doors to the directors’ dining room. I can already hear their Yorkshire voices behind the doors, their raised Yorkshire voices –

I can hear my name, hear my name, and only my fucking name
…

I light another fag and I listen. Then I open the doors to the dining room and their Yorkshire voices suddenly fall. The dining room silent. Their eyes on their plates. Their knives and their forks.

Sam Bolton looks up from his. Sam Bolton has his knife in his hand as he asks me, ‘What the bloody hell is going on with John Giles and Tottenham bloody Hotspur?’

‘What you all so bothered about?’ I ask him, all of them. ‘Not two bleeding minutes ago you wanted the bugger gone, didn’t you?’

They’ve still lost their Yorkshire voices, rest of them. Eyes still on their plates. Their knives and their forks.

‘So let’s get them bloody fingers crossed,’ I tell them –

But no one laughs. No one smiles. No one says a fucking word.

I put down my drink. I put out my fag. I turn back towards the doors. The exit –

‘One last thing,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t much care for being third from bottom.’

‘Fourth from bottom,’ I correct him.

‘Nor do we much care for managers who clutch at straws, Clough.’

* * *

You take your wife and your kids to the Newton Park Hotel near Burto
n-
upon-Trent. You take your wife and your kids to meet the Derby players
, your
players, and their wives and their kids. Peter and Lillian come too. It is sup
posed to be a farewell dinner, that’s how you sold it to your wife and your kids,
to Peter and to Lillian
–