The Damned Utd (34 page)

You’re sorry now, you’re sorry now, you’re so fucking very sorry now
–

You thought you’d never get away. You thought Mike Bamber would never
let you leave. You thought he’d lock you in your room at the Courtlands Hotel,
Brighton. Then you thought Peter would never agree to come back with you.
Not back to Derby with you. Not tonight. Then you thought you’d never find
a car. Not at that time. Not to go to Derby. Never find a driver. Then the journey
took a lifetime. The traffic. The weather. You thought you’d never make it.
Thought the meeting would be over by the time you got here. But here you are,
back home in Derby. Here for the meeting at the King’s Hall, Derby
–

The King’s Hall packed. Standing room only. The King’s Hall expectant
–

You climb onto the stage. You raise your hands. You fight the tears
–

‘
We took the job because we were out of work,’ you tell the King’s Hall,
Derby. ‘We are football men and the position was open
.’

You have come to say goodbye. You have come to say thanks
–

‘
Thanks for everything you’re doing,’ you tell them. ‘And don’t forget to
support Roy McFarland
…’

You start to cry. You cannot stop. You hand the microphone to Pete and Peter
says, ‘I think we’d better cool it now. But thank you for your support
.’

But the Derby County Protest Movement don’t agree. The Protest
Movement don’t agree to cool it. The Protest Movement still want you back
–

‘
This is incredible,’ you tell John Shaw. ‘If I can get back to Derby, I will
.’

‘
But we’re not going back,’ Taylor tells you. ‘There can be no going back,
Brian. Not now. Not now we’ve signed for Brighton. We should all get on with
the rest of our lives and stop misleading people. The Protest Movement, the
players, the people of Derby. It’s not fair; not fair on them, not fair on Dave
–’

‘
Fuck Dave Mackay,’ you tell him. ‘Fuck him
.’

‘
You don’t mean that,’ he says. ‘You’re only hurting him and hurting yourself.
Half these folk that are protesting, asking for you back, they’re only doing
it to get a bit of free publicity for their businesses, jumping on the bandwagon
to promote themselves
.’

‘
Fuck off!’ you tell him. ‘Fuck off!
’

‘
Open your eyes, man,’ he tells you. ‘Look around you. No one cares about
you. No one cares about Derby County. About a little fucking football club
.’

‘
Fuck off!
’

‘
We’ve resigned, Brian. We’ve got new jobs,’ he says. ‘It’s time to move on
.’

You storm out. You slam the doors. You walk the streets of Derby. You find a
taxi. You get a free lift home. You push open your front door. You run up the
stairs. You fall down onto your bed and pull the covers over your head
–

‘
What have I done?’ you shout and scream. ‘What have I fucking done?
’

It is Thursday 1 November 1973
.

I see it from the motorway. Through the windscreen.
Are you there,
Brian?
Fallen off the top of Beeston Hill. In a heap up against the railway and the motorway banking.
Are you still there?
The floodlights and the stands, those fingers and fists up from those sticks and those stones, his flesh and their bones.
Zombies, bloody zombies
. No kids in the back today. Just Arthur Seaton, Colin Smith, Arthur Machin and Joe Lampton here today –

You let them bastards grind you down
, they whisper.
Those zombies
…

‘Shut your bloody gobs,’ I tell them and turn the radio on, on fucking full blast:

‘
I was wrong in not acting more decisively and more forthrightly … It is a
burden I shall bear for every day of the life that is left to me
…’

Nixon. Nixon. Nixon. Radio on:

‘
Mr Evel Knievel fell in the canyon leap on his sky cycle over Snake River
Canyon, but landed without injury thanks to his parachute
…’

Parachute. Parachute. Parachute. Radio on:

‘
Meanwhile, in other sporting news, Leeds United, never out of the top four
places over the last ten years, find themselves this morning still three places off
the bottom and their new manager, Brian Clough, in an increasingly difficult
position
…’

I switch off the radio as I come off the motorway in my new blue Mercedes-Benz.
There is no heaven and there is no hell
. Round the bends and the corners to the junction with Lowfields Road and onto Elland Road. N
o heaven and no hell
. Sharp right and through those fucking gates.
No hell. No hell. No hell
. No big black fucking dog today.
Just
other people. Other places. Other times
. The writing on the wall –

CLOUGH OUT!

* * *

Brighton and Hove Albion, autumn and winter 1973. Hotels and nightclubs,
the Courtlands and the Fiesta Club, the best of everything, the very best
–

‘Oh, you don’t like to be beside the seaside …’

Champagne and oysters, smoked salmon and caviar
–

‘You don’t like to be beside the sea …’

Nights on the town; Dora Bryan, Bruce Forsyth and Les Dawson
–

‘You don’t like to stroll along the prom, prom, prom …’

But it’s not the life for you, a table by the window, a bloody table for one
–

‘Where the brass bands play …’

You miss your wife. You miss your kids. You miss your Derby
–

‘Tiddley-om-pom-pom!’

* * *

The sun is shining, the rain falling. The sky black and blue, purple and yellow. No rainbows here, only training. It should be a day off, a day of rest for the players. Except we drew against Luton Town on Saturday, at home. Except we are fourth from the bottom of Division One, with four points and four goals from six games. Except we play Huddersfield Town tomorrow night in the second round of the League Cup, away. There are no days off, no days of rest now, under these bloated Yorkshire skies –

‘Enough pissing about,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s get into two teams, now!’

In their purple tracksuits with their names on their backs, they pull on their bibs and wait for the whistle and then off we go, go, go –

For hours and hours I run and I shout and no one speaks and no one passes, but I can read their game, I can read their moves, so when the Irishman picks up the ball in his own half and shapes to pass, I move in towards him, to close him down, and the Irishman is forced to turn, to pass back to Hunter, a short, bad pass back, and I’m after it, this short, bad and deliberately stray pass, Hunter and Giles coming, Hunter and Giles coming, my eye on the ball, my mind on the ball, and Hunter is here, Giles is here and –

Cruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunch
…

Black and blue, purple and yellow; the silence and the lights out –

‘
Get up, Clough! He’s fucking codding is Clough
…’

I am on the ground, in the mud, my eyes wide and the ball gone. I see their faces standing over me, looking down at me. They are dirty moons. They are panting moons –

‘
How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?
’

‘We call that the suicide ball, Mr Clough.’

* * *

It is the dead of night, November 1973. The dead of a Derby night. You have
driven through this night. From Brighton. Back to Derby. You park outside the
Barry McGuinness Health Club in London Road. You take the carrier bag off
the passenger seat. You lock the car door. You walk into that health club
–

The Derby players look up. John Shaw and Barry McGuinness look up
–

‘
I’ll burn down this restaurant, Barry, and kidnap your kids, John,’ you tell
them, ‘if you bloody damage these players’ fucking careers
.’

John and Barry blanch. John and Barry nod
.

‘
And I want you lot bloody home,’ you tell the players. ‘In your beds now, go!
’

The players nod, your players, and they get to their feet. They start to leave,
slowly. David Nish the last. Always the bloody last. David Nish dawdling
–

‘
Go on with you, David,’ you shout after him. ‘Dragging them bloody feet
would have cost you ten fucking quid a few weeks ago
.’

You open the carrier bag. You take out three bottles of ale and three glasses
–

‘
I’ve brought my own beer and one each for you two,’ you tell John and
Barry. ‘Now then, gentlemen, what are you two going to do for me?
’

‘
You’ve just bloody blown it,’ mumbles John. ‘The players had come here to
tell us they were all ready to come out on fucking strike for you
.’

You pour your brown ale. You drink it down in one. You wipe your mouth
–

‘
Go to the Baseball Ground,’ you tell John and Barry. ‘Find Tommy
Mason. He’s in the second team. Nice lad. Never make it. Tell him to get the
bloody reserves out on strike. Then the fucking first team will follow
.’

* * *

I am alone in the shower, I am alone in the bath, I am alone in the dressing room, sat on that bench, beneath those pegs, my towel around my waist and over my legs, my legs bruised but not broken, not broken but hurting,
Keep on fighting
above the door, the exit.

* * *

You don’t like driving so you get Bill from the Midland, your old mate Colin
or John Shaw to drive you back and forth, Brighton to Derby, back and forth,
Derby to Brighton. Today, it’s Bill with his foot down as you change into your
tracksuit on the back seat
–

Bamber has a meeting with you in your office at the Goldstone Ground
–

But you are late, late again, and he’s waiting, waiting again
–

Him in his suit and tie, you in your tracksuit and boots
–

You put them boots up on your desk, your hands behind your head and tell
him, ‘Mr Chairman, I’ve shot it. I’ve been off for three weeks and training’s
whacked me
.’

‘
You’re a bloody liar, Brian,’ laughs Bamber. ‘It’s been pouring with rain
here all morning and your bloody boots are as clean as a fucking whistle
.’

‘
Well done!’ you tell him. ‘You’ve caught me out already!
’

* * *

Under the stands, through the doors, round the corners and down the corridors, here come the feet, here come the voices and here come the knocks –

‘Boss?’ say John McGovern and John O’Hare. ‘You wanted to see us?’

‘Yes,’ I tell them. ‘Sit yourselves down. Drink? Fag?’

John McGovern shakes his head. John O’Hare shakes his head.

‘Right, listen,’ I tell them both. ‘There’s no bloody way I can play you two, because you don’t fucking deserve to take all this off them. I’ve got to leave you both out. You understand why, don’t you? You understand my position?’

John McGovern nods. John O’Hare nods.

I light another cig. I pour another drink –

I offer them the open packet, the bottle –

They shake their heads again. They get up. They go.

* * *

Back to square one; John Shaw went round to Tommy Mason’s digs; John drank
cups of tea with Tommy’s landlady; John heard Tommy coming down the street,
back from training; Tommy saw John; Tommy couldn’t believe his luck; Tommy
thought you wanted him down at Brighton; John broke the bad news, then John
broke the good news; Tommy agreed to bring the second team out on strike. But
Webby heard the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes; so then Webby issued
threats, threats of writs; so the rumours of plots, the rumours of strikes rescinded
–

Back to square one; back to Plan B; Operation Snowball
–

You are sat alone in Mike Keeling’s flat. Mike Keeling and John Shaw are
across the road with Archie Gemmill and Colin Todd in Gemmill’s flat
.

‘
When you hear the word “snowball”,’ Shaw and Keeling are telling
Gemmill and Todd, ‘you and the rest of the team are to come out on strike
.’

‘
Did the Boss tell you to tell me that?’ asks Gemmill
.

‘
No,’ says Keeling. ‘He’s the manager of Brighton now. This is me telling you
.’

‘
Will you do it?’ asks John Shaw
.

‘
Only if the Boss tells me
.’

Mike Keeling and John Shaw come back across the road to where you are sat
alone waiting in Keeling’s flat. Keeling and Shaw tell you what Gemmill said
–

‘
Send the wee lad over here,’ you tell them
.

John Shaw goes back across the road. John Shaw returns with Gemmill
–

‘
Would you go on strike to get me back?’ you ask him
.

‘
I would, Boss,’ says Gemmill
.

‘
Would you do it without my asking?
’

‘
No,’ he says. ‘I’d only strike if you told me to
.’

And so that is the end of Plan B; the end of Operation Snowball
.

But that very night, you meet your Derby players and their wives again;
you meet them at the Midland Hotel, then invite them back to yours
–

To finally admit defeat. To finally say goodbye. But the players won’t admit
defeat. The players won’t say goodbye
–

They’ll never admit defeat. Never say goodbye
–

The Derby players, your players, draft a letter to Dave Mackay:

Your wife then marches the wives down to a meeting of the Protest Movement,
while you open another crate of champagne and light another cigar
–

No one is admitting defeat. Never. No one is saying goodbye. Ever
–

The results are going against Mackay. The results going your way
–

Only John O’Hare will report for training tomorrow morning
.

* * *

Down the corridors and round the corners. Up the stairs and down another corridor. In the Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains drawn, I am drinking French brandy, tasting Yorkshire carpet.

‘You’re not selling Cooper and you’re not buying Todd,’ states Bolton again. ‘You’re not selling Harvey and you’re not buying Shilton.’

‘I bloody am.’

‘You’re bloody not,’ shouts Bolton. ‘Not Harvey. Not Cooper. Not for
£
75,000. Not for
£
175,000. Not when all you’ve bloody got is four bloody points out of twelve. Not when we’re bloody fourth from the fucking bottom.’

‘Is that what you all think?’ I ask them. ‘The whole bloody lot of you?’

The Yorkshire board stare back at me. The Yorkshire board nod.

‘What about Bob Roberts?’ I ask. ‘Where’s Bob Roberts?’

‘Bob’s on holiday,’ smiles Bolton. ‘Bob can’t help you now.’

On that Yorkshire carpet, behind those Yorkshire curtains, in that Yorkshire boardroom, this is when I see it, see it clearly in his eyes, in his eyes and all their eyes –

This is when the penny finally drop, drop, drops.

* * *

Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the rumours; had enough of the
threats. He has lost to QPR. He has lost to Ipswich Town. He has lost to
Sheffield United. Dave Mackay has yet to win and now he faces Leeds
United, Arsenal and then Newcastle
–

Dave Mackay has had enough; had enough of the results; had enough of the
B.B.C. campaign; had enough of the Derby players, your players
–

Dave Mackay has finally hit the roof. Dave Mackay has taken off his gloves
now. Read them the bloody riot act. In no uncertain fucking terms:

‘
Clough’s not bloody coming back,’ he tells them. ‘If it isn’t me here, it’ll be
someone else, but it won’t be Brian fucking Clough. Now if you don’t want to
play for me, then you can put in your transfer request and fuck off. If that
means the lot of you, so be it; I’ll play the bloody reserves. The choice is yours
– stay or fucking go
.’

Dave Mackay then takes them to one side, one by one, player by player, and
one by one, player by player, they make their peace with Dave Mackay. Last of
them all, Roy McFarland makes his peace and he shakes Dave’s hand in front
of the dressing room. Then Roy calls for the Derby County Protest Movement
to end its activities
.

But you still hope, hope against hope, that something will happen today
because today Dave Mackay and Derby County are at home to Don Revie
and Leeds United
–