The Damned Utd by David Peace (easy readers txt) 📕

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. No 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