The Damned Utd (26 page)

‘I thought you didn’t believe in luck, Mr Clough? In superstition?’

‘Well, you know what they say?’ I ask him. ‘When in Rome …’

‘Are you going to wear it tomorrow then?’

‘Tomorrow?’ I ask him. ‘What’s tomorrow?’

‘Just the FA disciplinary hearing.’

* * *

You have been beaten 1–0 by Tottenham Hotspur at White Hart Lane, drawn
at home with Norwich City and watched Henry Newton struggle in both
games. The board have refused Peter permission to write for the
Derby Evening Telegraph.
The board have refused your wife and Peter’s wife tickets
for the game at Old Trafford this Saturday
.

It is Thursday and you are late again for the weekly board meeting. In your
absence, Sam Longson has called for your sacking
–

‘For bloody breach of fucking contract?’ you repeat
.

‘
There is a clause in your contract,’ states Longson, ‘that requires you to give
your whole time and your whole attention to the affairs of Derby County
Football Club
.’

‘
Hypocrites! Bloody hypocrites! When I was invited to sit on the last World
Cup panel, three years ago now, you lot bloody told me I
must
do it. And in
those days I even fucking took him with me,’ you tell them, rail at them, pointing
at Longson
–

‘
And he bloody lapped it up, fucking loved it he did!
’

‘
Stop him doing television,’ Peter tells them, ‘and you’ll take away part and
parcel of his management job from him. That’s unfair. Brian’s right, you were
the ones who encouraged him in the first place. Egged him on
.’

‘
Not me,’ says Jack Kirkland. ‘You’ll not be laying that one at my door
.’

‘
Well then, what about this?’ asks Longson and hands out a piece of paper
–

It’s an invoice for your expenses for your trip to Amsterdam; your trip to
Amsterdam to watch Poland play Holland, the warm-up for the England game
–

The England game you will be watching and speaking about for ITV
.

‘
That’s a mistake,’ you tell them. ‘A genuine mistake. The TV pays for that
.’

This time the board believe you. This time Sam Longson loses the vote to
sack you. You have lived to fight another day
–

But Jack Kirkland still has the last word:

‘
Stay off the bloody television and cut down the newspaper work,’ he tells
you. ‘And get on with the fucking job we’re paying you for
.’

It is Thursday 11 October 1973
.

First Division Positions, 28 August 1974

First thing every morning, last thing every night –
I recite Psalm 109.
Twice a day for one whole year.
If I miss one morning, if I miss one night –
Then I die, not you –
But I am a Cunning Man. And I am a Clever Man –
And I never miss.

It’s gone two in the morning when the bus drops us back at Elland Road and the taxi comes to take me to my modern luxury hotel. The bar is closed, the piano silent. I go up to my room and I pick up the phone to call my wife and kids, to call my brothers, to call John, Billy or Colin or any of my family and my friends not here with me tonight –

My mam and Peter
.

I dial room service and I order champagne. Then I get out my pens and I get out my papers. I spread out the
Evening
Post and I start on the league tables and the fixtures. There’s a knock on the door and the waiter wheels in the trolley –

The bucket and the bottle
.

‘Thank you very much,’ I tell him. ‘Now pick up that phone and call your gaffer and tell him you won’t be back down for the next hour because Brian bloody Clough has requested the pleasure of your company and then go get yourself another glass, pull up a pew and raise that glass in a toast with me –

‘
To absent friends – fuck them all
.’

* * *

No one speaks when you meet in the car park at the Baseball Ground. No one
speaks as you get on the team bus. No one speaks on the drive to Old Trafford.
No one speaks at all; the players don’t speak; the trainers and the coaches don’t
speak; Jimmy and Peter don’t speak; you don’t speak; Longson and Webby
don’t speak; Kirkland and the other directors don’t speak. No one speaks at
all. No one says a single bloody word
–

Things have come to this; month by month, week by week, day by day. Now
things can’t get any worse; the month is here, the week is here and the day is
coming, the hour and the minute. Tick-tock, tick-tock, go the hands on your
watch. Tick-tock
–

This is the end, you think. This is the end. This is the end
.

You and Peter stay with the team in the dressing room, your wives in the
stands on scalped tickets, the ground filling up, the ground opening up
–

Tick-tock, go the hands on your watch. Tick-tock
.

You go down the tunnel with the team, your team, and out onto the pitch.
You walk along the touchline. You look up into the stand for your wife. You see
her in the stands. You put two fingers together and salute her with a wave. You
take your place in the dug-out, on the bench, with Peter and with Jimmy
–

Tick-tock, go the hands on your watch
.

Just four minutes in and Forsyth underhits a back pass to Stepney, and
Hector nips in and tucks the ball into the corner of the net. Just four minutes
in and it’s as good as over, good as over until the seventy-ninth minute when
Kidd and Young hit the bar. But the score remains the same until the end
–

This is the end, you think. This is the end
.

‘
I know that Don Revie studies the league table every night,’ you tell the
press and the television. ‘And I know he’ll be looking at that table and thinking
about Liverpool and Newcastle. But I also know one club will hit him right
in the eye, and that club is Derby and this time I reckon we’ll be ready for Don
Revie and Leeds United when he brings them to the Baseball Ground on
November the twenty-
fourth
.’

‘
You’ll still be there then, will you?’ they ask. ‘Still the manager?
’

Peter pulls you away. Peter takes you to one side. Peter says, ‘Winning here
doesn’t happen very often. Let’s take the wives upstairs to the boardroom
.’

‘I don’t think it’s a good idea,’ you tell him
.

‘
Come on,’ he says. ‘Might never happen again
.’

Tick-tock, tick-tock, go the hands on your watch. Tick-tock
–

‘
Go on then,’ you tell him, ‘but I’m not staying more than half an hour
.’

So Peter goes off and finds your wives and then the four of you go upstairs
to the Manchester United boardroom, the Manchester United boardroom where
Longson and Kirkland and all the other Derby brass are having the time of
their bloody lives, with their cigars in their hands and their wives on their arms,
the time of their lives until you four walk in and the Manchester United boardroom
goes quiet, silent
–

Tick-tock, go the hands on your watch. Tick-tock
.

But then the glasses clink, the coughs come and the conversations start back up
.

‘
This must be the first time you’ve been in here?’ asks Louis Edwards as he
cracks open another bottle of champagne. But Peter is already pulling you away,
already taking you to one side and saying, ‘Time we were going back down
.’

‘
Fuck off,’ you tell him. ‘We’ve only just bloody got up here
.’

‘
But I don’t like it here,’ he says. ‘Not my kind
.’

‘Looks like someone wants a word with you though,’ you tell him, and
Peter glances back to see Jack Kirkland crooking his finger, beckoning him over
.

‘No one bloody crooks their fucking finger at me,’ hisses Peter
.

‘Just go and see what the twat wants and then we’ll get off,’ you tell him
–

Tick-tock, go the hands on your watch
.

But as Peter is walking across the Manchester United boardroom towards
Jack Kirkland, Longson is walking up to you and, in front of your wife and in
front of the room, Sam Longson asks, ‘Did you make a V-sign at the
Manchester United directors?’

‘
Did I do what?
’

‘
Did you make a V-sign at Sir Matt and the Manchester United directors?
’

‘
No.
’

‘
They say you did
.’

‘
Well, I didn’t
.’

‘
I want you to apologize
.’

‘
No
.’

‘
I’m not asking you to apologize,’ says Longson. ‘I’m telling you to apologize
.’

‘
Fuck off
.’

The chairman of Derby County Football Club stares into your eyes as your
wife looks down at the devils in the carpet and you glance at your watch
–

It has stopped
.

Longson turns and walks away as Peter comes back across the Manchester
United carpet. Peter is also red-faced. Peter also has tears in his eyes. Peter takes
Lillian by her arm. Peter leads her out of the Manchester United boardroom
–

You turn to your wife. You tell her, ‘We’re going.’

No one speaks on the coach back to Derby; the players don’t speak; the
trainers and the coaches don’t speak; Jimmy and Peter don’t speak; you don’t
speak; your wives don’t speak; no one speaks at all
–

No one says a single fucking word
–

It is Saturday 13 October 1973, and you know
this is the end.

* * *

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, but it’s still another bloody ugly Yorkshire morning at the arse-end of August when I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room, feeling like fucking dogshit, and reach over the pens and the papers, the league tables and the fixtures to switch on the modern luxury radio beside the bed:

‘Yesterday Mr Denis Howell, the Sports Minister, chaired the so-called
Soccer Summit to hammer out plans for dealing with hooliganism after the
stabbing to death of a fourteen-
year-
old Blackpool supporter last Saturday.
Afterwards Mr Howell said that players would also be required to tighten up
their conduct on the pitch:

‘“
We have expressed the view that the FA, in dealing with misconduct,
must express the seriousness of the situation and the determination we have to
get this problem under control and conquer it in the interests of football and the
sporting public
.”

‘
Later this morning, Billy Bremner, of Leeds United and Scotland, and Kevin
Keegan, of Liverpool and England, will appear before the FA Disciplinary
Committee in London, accused of bringing the game into disrepute by pulling off
their shirts after being sent off in the FA Charity Shield at Wembley earlier this
month
.’

I switch off my modern luxury radio and lie back in my modern luxury hotel bed and thank fucking God that I left Maurice in London to accompany Bremner and Giles –

Thank fucking God
, this once.

* * *

The coach drops you all back at the Baseball Ground. You call taxis for your
wives and then you and Peter go up the stairs to your office
–

‘
He wants to know exactly what my job is,’ rails Peter. ‘Can you fucking
believe the cunt? He’s only been on the board two fucking minutes and he
wants to know what my bloody job is. Wagging his fucking finger at me in front
of all them folk. First thing Monday bloody morning, the bastard tells me. Well,
I’m not going, Brian. I’m bloody off. No one wags their fucking finger at me
.’

You open up your office. You switch on the lights. You go inside
–

The security grille has been pulled down over the bar
.

You walk over to the grille. You rattle it
–

It’s been locked
.

* * *

There is no training today and the car park is empty when the taxi drops me at the ground. It’ll fill up soon enough; as soon as the FA Disciplinary Committee announces its verdict. I see John Reynolds up on the practice pitch. I jog up the banking and onto the pitch –

I hold up my wrist and my watch and I tell him, ‘Still going strong, John.’

‘That’s good,’ he says.

I nod and I smile and I ask him, ‘How are you this morning then, John?’

‘I’m working,’ he says and walks away.

* * *

You pace and you pace, up and down your carpet. Back and forth, you pace
and you pace. The walls getting closer and closer, the room getting hotter and
hotter. It is Sunday lunchtime and you can hear the church bells pealing, smell
the Sunday joint cooking. Roasting. Peter is sat on your sofa. Peter is smoking.
You pick up the phone. You telephone Longson at his home
–

‘
Can I have your permission to sack Stuart Webb? He’s locked the bar
.’

‘
I know,’ Longson tells you. ‘Stuart was acting on my instructions
.’

‘
He was what? Why? What’s going on?
’

‘You just get on with managing the team,’ he tells you and hangs up
.

You put down your telephone. Slam it down. Break it
–

Peter is sat on your sofa. Peter is crying
–

It is Sunday 14 October 1973
.

* * *

Under the stands. Through the doors. Round the corners. Down the corridor to the office. I unlock the door and I switch on the lights. The telephone is ringing. I pour a drink and I light a fag and I pick up the phone:

‘You best come up here,’ says Cussins. ‘The verdict’s in.’

I finish my drink. I put out my cigarette. I switch off the lights and I lock the door. Down the corridors and round the corners. Up the stairs and through the doors –

The Yorkshire boardroom, the Yorkshire curtains, the board silent and subdued, grim and stony-faced. The ashtrays filling up –

‘Both Bremner and Keegan have been fined
£
500 each and suspended from today until September the thirtieth,’ says Manny Cussins.

‘September the thirtieth?’ I repeat. ‘That’s over a bloody month.’

‘The viewing public were shocked and offended by what they saw,’ says Cussins. ‘The FA were let down. Mr Stokes and the Committee felt they had no choice.’

‘What about Giles?’

‘Both John Giles and Tommy Smith were giving a good talking to,’ says Cussins. ‘But no further action was taken against either of them.’

‘How many games will Bremner miss?’ asks Percy Woodward.

‘Eight,’ I tell him. ‘Including the first leg of the European Cup.’

‘Eight?’ repeats Cussins.

‘Not forgetting the three he’s already missed, so that’s eleven in all.’

‘We’ll survive,’ says Woodward. ‘It’s happened before.’

‘A hundred and forty-two days out of the last ten years,’ I tell them.

‘But this is the first trouble Bremner’s had in over four years,’ says Woodward. ‘Mr Revie worked very hard to improve discipline.’

I light a cigarette. I say nothing.

Then Sam Bolton says, ‘You should have been there.’

‘At the FA? Why?’

‘Paisley was there with his players.’

‘So bloody what?’ I tell him. ‘What Bremner did was nothing to do with me and I’ll not be associated with it.’

‘He’s your player,’ says Bolton. ‘Your captain.’

‘It wouldn’t have made any bloody difference whether I was there or not.’

‘Not to fine or suspension,’ says Bolton. ‘But it might have made a bloody difference to player himself and rest of his bloody team.’

‘Bollocks,’ I tell him, tell them all, and I leave the room. Through the doors. Down the stairs. Round the corners. Down the corridors. I unlock the door and I switch on the light. There is a note on the floor under the door to say Bill Nicholson called.

* * *

Peter comes out of his meeting with Jack Kirkland and says, ‘I don’t think there
is any place for me here now. It’s Hartlepools all over again, trying to get at you
through me.’

‘They think we’re too big for our boots,’ you say and hand Peter the letter
–

The letter that arrived this morning. The letter from Longson
–

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