The Damned Utd (14 page)

But now I’m still back in the stalls; back in the stalls with the season four days off.

In the dug-out, under his breath, Jimmy Gordon asks, ‘What’s wrong, Boss?’

‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘You’re not even watching them,’ he says. ‘Eyes are on the roof of the stand.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You do your job and I’ll do mine.’

There are just two good things about this game: the behaviour of the players, for bloody once, and Duncan McKenzie’s first goal for the club, a fifteen-yard shot inside the far post. He also misses a hatful of chances, but at least he’s got one under his belt –

Just two good things in ninety fucking minutes of football –

It’s not enough. Jimmy knows it. I bloody know it –

There is something wrong.

The players know it too. They feel it in their boots –

The season starts in four days. The season starts away from home.

* * *

It is Halloween 1970, and Peter looks like death. You know how he feels
:

You have played fourteen games so far this season and won just four of
them. You have been beaten at home by Coventry, Newcastle, Chelsea and
Leeds
–

Leeds, Leeds, Leeds
:

You never had a kick, never had a bloody touch. Never had any fucking confidence
either. Just cortisone. Norman Hunter man of the match, a colossus, the
Leeds defence outstanding, with goals from Sniffer Clarke and Peter Lorimer
–

Leeds went two points clear at the top. You dropped four places down
–

Now you’ve just lost 2–0 to Arsenal. Now you are twentieth in the league
.

Peter is stretched out on the treatment table at Highbury. He looked terrible
on the coach here from
Paddington
and looked no better in the dug-out next to
you
–

‘
I’d give anything to stay here,’ he tells you
.

‘
Come on,’ you tell him. ‘You’re taking the team to Majorca tomorrow
.’

Peter opens his eyes. His bloodshot eyes. Peter looks up at you
–

You’re not going to Majorca. Not this time. It’s half-term holidays for the
kids and you’re going to spend the week with them and your wife
.

You’ll not be going home to pack; you’ll not be driving back down to Luton
Airport; you’ll not be flying to Majorca at three in the morning
–

That’ll be Peter, with his pains in his chest, with his doubts and his fears
–

Not you. Just Peter. Peter and the team
.

* * *

I’m first on the coach. The coach back to the airport. Least there’ll be drink on this plane. The plane back to Leeds –

Leeds, Leeds, fucking Leeds
.

I’m first off when it lands. First back on the coach to Elland Road. First off again. The players stumbling back to their cars in the dark, them that can still walk. But there’s no car and no walking for me; a taxi waiting outside Elland Road to take McKenzie and me back to the Dragonara Hotel –

Situated next to Leeds City Station and the closest modern luxury hotel to
the Leeds United ground. For party rates please contact the sales manager
…

Part of the
Ladbroke
Group
.

I sit on my modern luxury bed in my modern luxury hotel room. I stare out of the modern luxury window at the modern concrete city of Leeds –

Motorway City, City of the Future
.

I reach over the modern luxury bed and I switch on the modern luxury radio. But there’s no Frank Sinatra. No Tony Bennett. No Ink Spots and no more bloody brandy either. I get off my modern luxury bed and walk down the modern luxury corridor and bang on the door of a modern luxury footballer –

Bang and bang and fucking bang again
–

‘Who is it?’ shouts Duncan McKenzie. ‘It’s one o’clock in the morning.’

‘It’s Cloughie,’ I tell him. ‘I want to see you down in reception.’

He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will come
.

‘Give us five minutes then,’ he shouts back. ‘I need to get dressed, Boss.’

‘Don’t make it any bloody longer then,’ I tell him.

Reception is deserted but for a terrible fucking draught and some horrible bloody music which the receptionist can’t seem to turn off. I have an argument about the music and the bar being closed but I still manage to order a pot of tea and then sit down with my feet up to wait for McKenzie –

‘Took your bloody time,’ I tell him. ‘Worse than a fucking woman.’

McKenzie sits down. McKenzie takes out his fags.

‘Don’t ever let me see you get off a plane in that condition again,’ I tell him.

‘What do you mean? What condition?’

‘Don’t play daft with me, lad. You were fucking rat-arsed!’

‘But I don’t drink, Boss,’ he says. ‘I’d only had a couple of tonic waters.’

‘Good job I’ve only ordered you a cup of bleeding tea then, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Boss,’ he says and puts out one cig and lights another –

‘And give us one of them while you’re at it,’ I tell him.

He hands me a cigarette and holds up a light –

I take a drag and ask him, ‘Who were you sat with on the plane back?’

‘I can’t remember now,’ McKenzie says. ‘Trevor Cherry, I think.’

‘What did he say about me?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Come on,’ I tell him. ‘What was bloody Cherry saying about me?’

‘We didn’t talk about you,’ he says. ‘Just small talk. Mutual friends.’

I know he’s lying. I know they talked of nothing but Cloughie.

‘You’ve settled in well,’ I tell him. ‘They trust you. Now what are they saying?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You’re supposed to be my eyes and ears in that bloody dressing room. Now what are they fucking saying about me?’

‘Nothing. Honest, Boss,’ he pleads. ‘Just worried about their futures. Nervous –’

‘Course they’re all fucking nervous,’ I tell him. ‘They’re all fucking old men; over thirty the bloody lot of them.’

‘They just want to play well –’

‘Fucking shut up about them, will you?’ I tell him. ‘What about me? No one understands my position. No one understands the mess Revie left them in and put me in; no contracts, over-the-hill the lot of them. Team had shot it and he knew it. No chance in hell they can win the European Cup. That’s why he fucked off and took the England job. You think he’d have walked out on a team that he thought was going to win the European Cup? The fucking European Cup? That man? Never in a month of bloody Sundays. They’ve fucking shot it; he knew it and I know it. Half them bloody players fucking know it and all; know it in their boots; know it in their hearts. But now it’s my job to tell them, tell them what they already bloody know but don’t want to fucking hear.’

He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will nod
.

‘Thank Christ I got you,’ I tell him. ‘Now bugger off.’

Duncan stands up. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Goodnight, Boss.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘Before I give you a bloody kiss goodnight.’

But Duncan doesn’t move. ‘Boss, can I ask you one question?’

‘If you give us another fag.’

Duncan hands me one, then asks, ‘What did you think of my goal?’

‘It was good,’ I tell him and Duncan smiles –

A right broad Cheshire Cat of a grin –

Just like my eldest. Just like my youngest
–

‘Almost bloody good enough to make up for the other hundred fucking sitters you missed. Now get off to bloody bed, you’ve got fucking training tomorrow morning!’

* * *

It is the early hours of Saturday 9 January 1971. You are home to Wolves this
afternoon. You are lying awake next to the wife
–

You cannot sleep. You cannot dream
–

You thought things had been on the up again; the draws with Liverpool and
Manchester City, the wins over Blackpool and Forest. But then you lost at
home to West Ham and away at Stoke, drawing 4–4 with Manchester United
at home on Boxing Day
–

4–4 when you’d been leading 2–0 at half-time; you blame Les bloody Green
for that. Blame fucking Pete; it was Peter who brought him from Burton
Albion with him; Taylor who’s kept defending him, paying off his gambling
debts, fending off the paternity suits, lending him money and keeping him in
the side when he’s cost you games
.

You hear the phone ringing. You get out of bed. You go downstairs
–

‘
You won’t see me today,’ says Taylor. ‘I’ve not slept a bloody wink. I feel like
fucking death. I think I’ve got cancer
.’

‘
Be at the ground in half an hour,’ you tell him
.

‘
It’s no good,’ he says. ‘I’ve had it
.’

‘
I want you there not later than nine,’ you tell him and hang up
–

I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.

You get out your address book and the phone book and you start to make
the calls; to call in favours, to trade on your fame; to pull strings, to get what
you want
–

The best possible care for Peter
.

You get the X-ray department of your local hospital to open on their weekend.
You get the best doctor in Derby to come in, to bring a cancer specialist with him
.

You pick Pete up at the ground. You drive him to the hospital
–

And then you wait, wait in the corridor, wait and pray for Pete
.

‘
He’s had a heart attack,’ the doctor says. ‘Probably about eight weeks ago
.’

‘
The Arsenal game,’ you tell Pete. ‘Remember how you were?
’

‘
When was that?’ asks the doctor
.

‘
October thirty-
first,’ I tell him. ‘We lost 2–0
.’

‘
Well, that certainly fits,’ says the doctor. ‘Now you need to drive him home
slowly and make sure he stays there
.’

‘
We’ve got a match against Wolves this afternoon,’ says Pete. ‘I can’t
.’

‘
You’ve got no match. Nor will you have for several weeks,’ the doctor tells
Pete. ‘It’s important that you rest completely
.’

You both thank the doctor, the consultant, the specialist and the X-ray
department. Then you drive Pete home slowly and see him into his house,
making sure he stays put
.

Back at the ground, you drop Peter’s old mate Les Green; drop him after
129 consecutive league and cup appearances; drop him and tell him he will
never play for Derby County or Brian Clough again
–

You play Colin Boulton in goal. You lose 2–1
–

It’s your twelfth defeat of the season
.

I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room with an old-fashioned fucking hangover and no one but myself to blame –

No one but myself and Harvey, Stewart, Lorimer, the Grays, Bates, Clarke,
Hunter, McQueen, Reaney, Yorath, Cherry, Jordan, Giles, Madeley, Bremner,
Cooper, Maurice bloody Lindley and Sydney fucking Owen
.

Two wins, one draw and one defeat (on penalties) and I should be happy; if this was for real, Leeds would have five points from four games, four games away from home, and I would be happy; not ecstatic, not over-the-moon but not gutted; not sick-as-a-parrot, just happy. But this is not for real –

For real is Saturday. For real is away at Stoke
.

I get out of bed. I have a wash and a shave. I get dressed. I go downstairs to see if I can still get any breakfast. I sit in the deserted dining room and stare at my bacon and eggs, my tea and my toast, trying not to throw up again –

This is not real life. Not the life I wanted
–

Those days gone. These days here –

Not the life for me
.

* * *

January 1971 is a miserable month; Peter’s still at home ill, Sam still on his
holidays; no one here but you and Webby, and you’re already regretting
appointing Stuart bloody Webb as club fucking secretary; too bloody big for his
bloody posh boots is Stuart Webb
.

Folk had been coming up to the ground all morning for tickets for the cup
tie against Wolves; almost sold the bloody lot; got a carpet of fucking cash, the
apprentices stuffing it into plastic bags and wastepaper baskets, anything and
anywhere to get it out the way. Now
here’s
this bloody johnny-
come-
lately of a
secretary, a secretary you fucking appointed, here he bloody is giving you the
third fucking degree
–

‘
The ladies in the office say there were four whole bins full of cash,’ he says.
‘There’s three here; now where’s the fourth?
’

‘
How the bloody hell should I know?’ you tell him
.

‘
Well, someone said you took one home at lunchtime, for safe keeping
.’

‘
Who the fucking hell told you that?
’

‘
It doesn’t matter who told me,’ he says. ‘What matters is where the cash is
.’

‘
Exactly,’ you tell him. ‘So stop bloody yapping and start fucking looking!
’

‘
All right,’ he says. ‘I will and I’ll get the police to help me, shall I?
’

‘
All right, all right,’ you tell him. ‘It’s at home. I’ll bring it in tomorrow
.’

‘
Why did you take it home?
’

‘
Because, one, you won’t give us a key to the bloody safe and, two, it’s safer
in my house than in this fucking office and, three, I can do what the bloody hell
I want here because I’m the fucking boss – not you. You’re a secretary and you
answer to me
.’

Stuart Webb shakes his head. Stuart Webb slams the door on his way out
.

Peter is still ill, Sam still on his holidays
–

Suddenly, this is a lonely place
.

* * *

The taxi drops me at the ground. Training has already finished, the players gone home. But through the doors. Under the stand. Round the corner. Down the corridor. Bobby Collins is waiting for me –

Bobby Collins, former captain of Leeds, now manager at Huddersfield
–

‘You’re bloody late,’ he says as I show him into the office. ‘Huddersfield Town might not be in the First Division, Mr Clough, but I’m still a busy man and I don’t like to be kept fucking waiting.’

I pull open a drawer. I take out a bottle of Scotch. ‘Drink?’

‘Not just now, thank you very much.’

I pour myself a large one and ask him, ‘Now do you want Johnny Giles or not?’

‘Of course I bloody want him,’ he says. ‘Who fucking wouldn’t?’

* * *

January was bad but February could be worse. Pete is still fucking ill; the whole
town ill now. Rolls-Royce in collapse. Thousands out of work. The Derbyshire
Building Society on the verge of bankruptcy. The whole fucking town. That’s
why Derby County FC must be on the mend. That’s why you start to win
some matches again, away at Ipswich and West Ham. For the whole town. You
lose at Everton in the cup, but you then beat Palace and Blackpool. That’s why
you also go shopping. For the whole fucking town. No Peter to hold your hand
this time either. But this time you know exactly who you want. This time you
go back to Sunderland for Colin Todd
–

You coached this lad in the Sunderland youth team; the Almighty Todd
–

‘
He’s too expensive,’ you tell the press. ‘We’re not interested
.’

You don’t ask Peter. You don’t ask the chairman. You don’t ask the board
–

You are the manager. You are the man in charge. You are the Boss
–

You sign the players. You pick the players. Because it’s you who sinks if they
don’t swim. No one else. That’s why you don’t ask. That’s why you just do it
–

This time you break the British transfer record;
£170
,000 for a defender;
£170
,000 as Rolls-Royce collapses, the whole town, the whole fucking town
–

But you’ve also done it for them; for the whole bloody town
–

To cheer Derby up; the whole fucking town
.

Longson is in the Caribbean. The tactless old twit. You send him a telegram
:

‘Signed you another good player, Todd. Running short of cash, love Brian.’

In Colin
Todd’s
first game you beat Arsenal 2–0 and you’re hailed a hero
again. The next game is away against Leeds. Revie tries to get it postponed
because of a flu epidemic in the Leeds United dressing room. You’re having
bloody none of that and, fucking surprise surprise, only Sniffer Clarke is absent
from the Leeds eleven. Norman
Hunter’s
certainly not absent and eventually
ends up in the book as Revie and Cocker leap out of their dug-out, arms flapping,
shouting and carrying on as if Norman really were bloody innocent. But
fifteen minutes from the end Lorimer fucking scores and sends Leeds seven
points clear of Arsenal and Derby back to the drawing board
–

You lose to Liverpool, Newcastle and Nottingham bleeding Forest and do
not win a single bloody game in the whole of fucking March
–

Fear and doubt. Drink and cigarettes. No sleep. That’s March 1971
–

It is your worst month as a manager. Your loneliest month
.

But then Peter finally comes back to bloody work and you finally get a fucking
win, at home to Huddersfield. You lose again at Tottenham but then you do
not lose again; you beat United at Old Trafford and Everton at home
–

But it’s not enough for Peter; Peter’s had a long time alone in the house with
his
Raceform;
a long time alone to think; to brood and to dwell
–

‘
Longson slipped you a £5,000 rise, didn’t he?
’

‘
Who fucking told you that?
’

‘
Answer the bloody question,’ Peter says. ‘Am I right or am I wrong?
’

‘
I want to know where you got your bloody information
.’

‘
That doesn’t fucking matter, Brian. What matters to me is that you took a
£5,000 rise, that you took it eighteen fucking months ago, and that you’ve
never said a bloody word about it to me. I thought we were partners, Brian
.’

‘
Pete, listen
–’

‘
No, you listen, Brian,’ he says. ‘I want my share of the cake
.’

‘
Pete
–’

‘
I want my share of the fucking cake, Brian. Yes or no?
’

* * *

‘Bobby Collins thinks that Giles is the player to do Huddersfield proud, but Giles will be very much involved in my squad for Saturday’s game at Stoke. That is my priority now. So Johnny Giles, at the moment, is absolutely necessary to Leeds United. If the situation changes, Bobby Collins will be the first to be informed.’

‘What do you think about the comments made by Kevin Keegan’s father that if Johnny Giles hadn’t punched Keegan then none of this would have happened?’

‘It’s only natural for a father to stick up for his own son; I’d do the bloody same for my two lads and I hope you’d do the same for yours.’

‘But do you blame Giles for the whole affair? Believe he started it?’

‘How it all started is a mystery to me. We shall just have to wait until we get the referee’s report to get things sorted out. But I did feel very sorry for Kevin Keegan.’

‘Will Billy Bremner be appealing?’

‘No.’

‘What do you think of the decision by the FA to call this meeting of representatives of the Football League, the Professional Footballers’ Association, linesmen, referees and managers to study ways of improving behaviour on the pitch?’

‘I’m all for cleaning up the game, you gentlemen know that. But I wouldn’t want to see it done on the back of Billy Bremner.’

‘You still intend to play Bremner on Saturday?’

‘Of course I bloody do.’

‘And you’ll be accompanying Bremner to London on Friday?’

‘I don’t think I’ve any fucking choice, have I?’

* * *

These have been a bad few months but at least Pete is back at work. He’s still
not happy; still after his slice of cake, but at least he’s back at work, back doing
what he’s paid for. Pete has found another one; another ugly duckling, another
bargain-bin reject. He’s been down to Worcester three times to watch Roger
Davies in the Southern League. He’s offered Worcester City
£6
,000 but
Worcester have put up their price; Worcester know Arsenal, Coventry and
Portsmouth are all in the hunt now
–

Now Worcester want
£14,000
for Roger Davies
.

‘
Is it definitely yes?’ you ask Pete
.

‘
It’s definitely yes,’ he says, and so you get in your car and drive down to
Worcester to meet Pete and sign Roger Davies for
£14,000
–

‘
I hope you’re right about Davies,’ says Sam Longson to Pete when you all
get back home to
Derby.‘
£14
,000 is a lot of money for a non-league player
.’

‘
Fuck off,’ replies Pete and walks out of the room and out of the ground
.

You follow Pete home; knock on his door; let yourself in. You pour him a
drink; pour yourself one; light you both a fag and put your arms around him
.

‘
You shouldn’t let the chairman upset you,’ you tell him
.

‘
Easy for you,’ sniffs Pete. ‘The son he never had, with your £5,000 raise
.’

‘
Right, listen, you miserable bastard, why did we buy Roger fucking Davies?
’

‘
You doubting me and all now?’ he shouts. ‘Thanks a fucking bunch, mate
.’

‘
I’m not bloody doubting you, Pete,’ you tell him. ‘But I want to hear you
tell me why we went down to Worcester City and bought a non-league player
for
£14,000
.’

‘
Because he’s twenty-one years old, six foot odd and a decent fucking striker
.’

‘
There you go,’ you tell him. ‘Now why didn’t you say that to Longson?
’

‘
Because he questioned my judgement; questioned the one bloody thing I
can do: spot fucking players. I’m not you, Brian, and I never will be – on the
telly, in the papers – and I don’t bloody want to be. But I don’t want to be
questioned and fucking doubted either. I just want to be appreciated and
respected. Is that too much to ask? A little bit of bloody respect? A little bit of
fucking appreciation every now and again?
’

‘
Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘What was the first thing you ever said to me?
Directors never say thank you, that’s what. We could give them the league, the
European Cup, and you know as well as I do that they’d never once say thank
you. So don’t let the bastards start getting under your skin now and stop feeling
so fucking sorry for yourself
.’

‘
You’re right,’ he says
.

‘
I know I am
.’

‘
You always are
.’

‘
I know I am,’ you say. ‘So let’s get back to work and make sure next season
we bloody win that fucking title. Not for any fucking chairman or any board of
bloody directors. For us; me and you; Clough and Taylor; and no one else
.’

* * *

I am on my hands and my knees on the training ground, looking for that bloody watch of mine in the grass and the dirt. But the light is going and I’m sure one of them fucking nicked it anyway. There’s a ball in the grass by the fence. I pick it up and chuck it up into the sky and volley it into the back of the practice net. I go and pick it out of the back of the net. I go back to the edge of the penalty box and chuck it up into the sky again, volley it into the back of the net again,
again and again and again, ten times in all, never missing, not once. But there are tears in my eyes and then I can’t stop crying, stood there on that practice pitch in the dark, the tears rolling down my bloody cheeks, for once in my fucking life glad that I’m alone.

* * *

This has been a bad season; a season to forget. But today it’s almost over. Today
is the last game of the 1970–71 season. Today is also Dave
Mackay’s
last game
–

1 May 1971; home to West Bromwich Albion
–