The Damned Utd (6 page)

‘Rubbish,’ laughs Percy Woodward. ‘Bloody rubbish. Revie was too scared. Didn’t want to break up the family.’

‘Not a very happy family now,’ I tell them. ‘Some very worried men out there.’

‘What about our friend John Giles?’

‘Not my friend,’ I tell them.

‘But have you …’

‘Have I done your dirty work?’ I laugh. ‘Is that what you want to know?’

‘Brian, Brian,’ says Cussins. ‘It’s not like that. John Giles has been a loyal servant for this club and an important part of our success. But …’

‘But you’d like me to help you get shot of him?’

They don’t say yes. They don’t say no –

They dare not.

Twenty years ago, this lot would have been selecting the side then
sacking the manager when they lost. Things haven’t changed; they never blame themselves for anything bad and they never say thank you for anything good –

Directors.

* * *

Peter shuts his little black book. Peter puts out his fag. Peter says, ‘I know just
the player. Just the club
.’

This time you and Peter go and do your shopping at Nottingham Forest
–

Pete spends half his bloody life here. Never out the fucking place. Hometown
boy; even played twice as an amateur for
Forest’s
first team against
Notts
County, a hometown derby in a wartime league
.

Pete has two names at the top of his Nottingham shopping list
:

Alan Hinton and Terry Hennessey
.

Forest won’t sell Hennessey. Not yet. But Forest don’t seem too sorry to see
the back of Hinton; dropped by England, over the hill, say the press, he’s being
given the bird by his own supporters, week in, week out
–

Gladys,
they shout
. Where’s your fucking handbag?

You couldn’t give a shit; Peter says he’s got pace and a left foot that can shoot
and cross with equal accuracy, and that he can do both under pressure
–

That’s all you need to know, all you need to hear
.

You tell Hinton to come to the Baseball Ground for a chat and then you
walk him round and round and round the cinder track as night comes down
and the lights go on
–

‘
You’re destined to play for us,’ you tell him. ‘So don’t miss your chance
.’

It’s well after midnight when you track down the Forest chairman to the
Bridgford
Hotel. He wants
£30
,000 for Hinton. You lie and tell him Hinton
wants a grand for himself. The Forest chairman agrees to
£29
,000 and you’re
laughing as you hang up; it’s the principle of the thing
–

Never give the bastards what they want.

You pay
£29
,000 and Forest boast to your directors about how they’ve done
you, how they’ve off-loaded a passenger
–

What colour’s your fucking handbag, Gladys?

You couldn’t give a fuck; four years from now, then you’ll see who’s laughing
.

But three months later you’re still winning and then losing, winning and
then losing, and you’re still receiving hate mail
–

Sidney Bradley, the vice-chairman, summons you and Peter to the carpet of his
office. Sidney Bradley says, ‘I’m not happy with the way you two are operating
.’

You’ve only been in the place five bloody minutes and already they want
fucking rid. Shot of you both. You go to Sam Longson and you tell him, ‘You
are the only chairman I can work with. You are the saviour of Derby County
.’

Uncle Sam pulls you close. Tight. Uncle Sam puts his wings around you
–

Then Uncle Sam kisses you better. Now Uncle Sam will protect you
–

The son he never had
.

* * *

The Monday press conference. The post-mortem. The long rope –

‘I don’t have any disputes on my hands and I don’t think there will be any problems because I’ve never had any trouble over players’ contracts in the past, but I still feel that they should be signed, sealed and delivered long before a new manager takes over and certainly before 5 August. The last thing I wanted to do when I arrived here was to start by having to talk contracts with men I’d never met.’

‘What about reports that Mr Revie is taking legal advice over the remarks you made on last Friday’s
Calendar
programme?’

‘Listen to me,’ I tell him. ‘Did you see that programme?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘And?’

The gentleman stammers. The man stutters and shits himself.

‘Anyone who saw that programme,’ I tell him and the whole fucking lot of them, ‘can make up their own minds and, as far as I’m concerned, Revie can have fifty transcripts of the broadcast if he wants them. Did you get all that down?’

The gentleman of the press nods.

‘Rest of you lot?’

The rest of the gentlemen of the press nod too.

‘You don’t want me to say it again. Bit more slowly?’

The gentlemen of the press shake their heads now.

‘Good work,’ I tell them. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, my wife’s got my tea on.’

* * *

You’ve gone from fifth to thirteenth and seen all hope of promotion slide away
with you. The only good news is your cup form. You beat your old club
Hartlepools, then Birmingham City, Lincoln City and Darlington to reach the
semi-finals of the League Cup, where you’ll face Leeds United, home and
away. Leeds United who, coincidentally, you’ve also been drawn against in the
third round of the FA Cup. So, between 17 January and 7 February 1968,
you’ll be playing Leeds United three times
–

Leeds United and Don Revie, an inspiration to you and Peter
–

Leeds United and Don Revie who went from the Second to the First
Division as Champions in 1964 to become runners-up in the First Division
and the FA Cup in 1965, First Division runners-up again in 1966 and runners
-
up in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup final of 1967
–

United and County, sleeping giants in one-club towns; Leeds steeped in
rugby and Derby steeped in cricket; sleeping giants awoken by men who were
among the finest, most skilful and most neglected players of their day
–

Don Revie was also born in Middlesbrough. Just like you
–

Peas in a pod, you and Don. Peas in a pod
–

Born just seven years and some streets apart
.

The club and the whole town is excited at the prospect of these games
–

Just like you. Unable to sleep. Unable to eat. Back at the ground at the crack
of dawn to sweep the corridors, to clean the baths and polish the pegs
–

You’re first at the door when the Leeds team bus arrives at the Baseball
Ground, the players filing off, Don in his huddle with Les Cocker, Maurice
Lindley and Syd Owen
.

‘
Welcome to Derby, Don,’ you say. ‘Pleasure to meet you. I’m Brian Clough
.’

But Don doesn’t acknowledge you, introduce himself or even say hello
–

Don stays away from the boardroom, out of the bar. Don heads straight
down the corridor, down to the dressing room, the visitors’ dressing room
–

To stare into the mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, combing
his hair and saying his prayers, combing his hair and saying his prayers
,
combing his hair and saying his prayers
–

Don doesn’t see you in the tunnel. Don doesn’t see you on your bench
–

Don rocking back and forth on the visitors’ bench in the visitors’ dug-out,
rocking back and forth in his lucky blue suit and his old car coat
–

From the very first whistle of the game to the very last one
–

Rocking back and forth as his team niggle at your heels and pull at your
shirts, clipping ankles and catching thighs, all elbows and knees to your fingers
and thumbs
–

Fingers and thumbs and a needless handball from Bobby
Saxton
to give
away the penalty that Johnny Giles blasts into the back of your net
–

Bobby
Saxton
will not play for Derby County again. Not play for you
again. Never, never, never play again
.

But at the very final whistle you stick out your own hand and you tell Don
Revie, ‘Well done, Don. See you next week
.’

And this time Don Revie takes that outstretched hand but he looks right
through you as he shakes it, shakes it, shakes it, looks right through you to the
mirror, the mirror, mirror on the dressing-room wall, a comb in his hand and a
prayer on his lips, a comb in his hand and a prayer on his lips, a comb in his
hand and a prayer on his lips
–

That he will win and you will lose. He will win and you will lose
–

The rituals observed, the superstitions followed, all Don’s prayers are answered
.

You travel up to Elland Road twice in two weeks and twice in two weeks
you are well beaten and you travel back down to Derby with nothing
–

Nothing but ambitions fuelled; hearts hardened and lessons learnt
–

Losing 2–0 in the FA Cup to goals from Lorimer and Charlton, then losing
3–2 in the second leg of the semi-final of the League Cup
–

Two Derby goals that you know, in your hardened heart of hearts, flatter
you and flatter Derby County in front of Elland Road
–

In front of Leeds United, in front of Don Revie
–

‘
Bit lucky there,’ says Don. ‘Thought God might be smiling on you
.’

‘
I don’t believe in luck,’ you tell Don. ‘And I don’t believe in God
.’

‘
So what do you believe in then?’ asks Don Revie
.

‘
Me,’ you tell him. ‘Brian Howard Clough
.’

* * *

Just the three of us now; me,
his
shadow and
his
echo –

In the empty stadium, beneath the empty stand, off the empty corridor, the three of us in
his
old bloody office in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk on
his
old fucking phone –

The spit from his lips. His tongue. The breath from his mouth. His stomach
–

My brandy. My cigarette. My call –

Bill Nicholson ranting down the line about Martin Chivers; about modern footballers; about Mammon and greed –

‘John Giles could be just the man you need,’ I tell him. ‘Be able to groom him. Mould him. Done a fine job with the Republic. Just what the Spurs need …’

Bill Nick’s not keen, but Bill agrees to meet Giles. To talk to him.

I hang up, pour another brandy and light another cig, in my brand-new chair at my brand-new desk in
his
empty old office, off
his
empty old corridor, beneath
his
empty old stand in
his
empty old stadium –

Just the three of us: me,
his
shadow and
his
echo –

I walk out into the corridor. Round the corner –

Down the tunnel and out onto that pitch –

My brandy in one hand, my cigarette in the other, I stand in the centre circle again and look up into the dark, empty Yorkshire night –

Don’t take it out on this world
–

This night has a thousand eyes but just one song.

* * *

‘
It’s easy to be a good manager,’ Harry Storer always used to say. ‘All you have
to do is sign good players
.’

Harry Storer was right. Harry Storer was always bloody right
–

It’s players that lose you games. Players that win you games
–

Not theories. Not tactics. Not luck. Not superstition. Not God. Players
–

You pick them, but they play. They win, they lose or they draw
–

Not you. Not the manager. Them. The players
–

You have kept the likes of Kevin Hector and Alan Durban. You have
brought in the likes of John O’Hare, Roy McFarland and Alan Hinton
–

You have tasted Elland Road. You have tasted the Big Time. But now it’s back
to the Second Division. Back to Portsmouth, Millwall, Huddersfield and Carlisle
.

Derby County win a few games. Derby County lose a few
–

Peaks and ruts. The hate mail comes. Ruts and peaks. The hate mail goes
–

But there are still men like Fred Wallace; there are always men like Fred
Wallace, standing on the terraces, behind the dug-out, outside the dressing
room, in the corridors, in the boardrooms and at the bars
–

‘
Dropped another place,’ he tells you. ‘Fifth from bottom now
.’

Men who want you to fail. Men who want you to lose. Men who wish you
dead. Men like Fred Wallace. There are always men like Fred and there are
always doubts
–

There are doubts in 1968 and there’ll be doubts in 1978
–

Doubts and broken promises:

Derby County fail to win any of their last six games. Derby County lose
their very last match at home to Blackpool. You have lost nineteen games in the
1967–68 season, scored seventy-one goals but conceded seventy-eight, and you
have finished the season eighteenth in Division Two; one place lower than last
season, last season when Derby sacked Tim Ward; two places lower than you
promised the Rotary Club of Derby
–

Promised the newspapers and the television, the town and the fans
–

Broken promises and broken hearts –

Meanwhile, Hartlepools United have been promoted to Division Three
–