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

a drink, so I help myself. Then I sit down, spark up and tell them, ‘I’ve seen one.’

‘One what?’

‘Player, name of Duncan McKenzie,’ I tell them. ‘And tomorrow I’m going to buy him from Nottingham Forest for £250,000.’

‘Now just one bloody minute,’ says Bolton.

‘We haven’t got one,’ I tell them.

‘One what?’

‘One minute or, for that matter, one centre-forward.’

‘Now just a –’

‘Allan Clarke is bloody suspended and Jones is fucking injured,’ I tell them all. ‘So I don’t know who you think is going to score you the goals you’ll need to retain the league or win you the European Cup.’

‘There’ll have to be a discussion,’ says Bolton. ‘We know nothing about this Duncan McKenzie and you’re asking us to part with a quarter of a million bloody quid.’

‘Twenty-eight goals last season,’ I tell him. ‘What more do you need to know?’

‘I’d like to know who else you’re planning to buy?’ asks Percy Woodward.

‘A goalkeeper and a centre-half,’ I tell him. ‘This team needs rebuilding from the back. This team needs a new spine.’

‘And who would this new spine be then?’

‘Peter Shilton and Colin Todd.’

‘And what about Harvey and Hunter?’ asks Bolton. ‘They are both full internationals.’

‘So are Shilton and Todd.’

‘But are they for sale?’ asks Cussins.

I laugh. I tell him, ‘Everyone’s for sale, Mr Cussins. Surely you know that?’

‘Quite a long list you’ve got there,’ says Bolton. ‘Papers also say you’re interested in Derby’s John McGovern.’

‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read,’ I tell them. ‘But he’s a good player. Known him since he was a lad.’

‘We have Billy Bremner,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t need John McGovern.’

‘You might be right,’ I tell him. ‘You might be wrong. But you pay me to be right every Saturday and I’m telling you, you need new players because some of the lot you’ve got have bloody shot it.’

‘They’re the League Champions,’ says Woodward.

‘Last season,’ I tell him. ‘Last season.’

‘Look,’ says Cussins. ‘The first priority is the contracts of the players we have. The ones we want to hang on to. There are still eight to be signed.’

‘These contracts?’ I ask them. ‘Why weren’t they done before I got here?’

‘It was difficult,’ says Cussins. ‘What with the World Cup and the close season.’

‘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 home-town 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