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

telling you. Forget Jack Charlton. Forget Norman Hunter. Their days are numbered, mark my words. Alan Hinton, he’s another of mine. Great winger and, now he’s with us, he’ll be back in that England side, Ramsey or no bloody Ramsey. And Kevin Hector? You must have heard of Kevin Hector?’

‘Vaguely,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Didn’t he play for Bradford Park Avenue?’

‘He did that,’ you tell him. ‘But now he’s with us and you just can’t stop the lad scoring goals. Not for love nor money.’

‘Where did you finish last season?’ asks Dave Mackay.

‘Eighteenth.’

‘Eighteenth?’ he laughs. ‘I’m very sorry, Brian. But I just wouldn’t come to you. Not for ten thousand quid. Sorry.’

‘I’ll give you ten thousand quid, here and now, in cash.’

‘No chance,’ he laughs again. ‘I’m off to Hearts tomorrow. That’s that.’

‘What would you come for then?’ you ask him. ‘If not ten grand?’

‘I’d consider fifteen.’

‘I can’t get fifteen.’

‘Then you’re wasting your time,’ he says. ‘You might as well get off home.’

You look at Dave Mackay sat in the sunshine on the pitch at White Hart Lane, with its players’ lounge and its china cups and its china plates; Dave Mackay, the greatest wing-half of his day; Dave Mackay, about to hang up his boots for a seat on the bench and a manager’s suit –

You look at Dave Mackay and you tell him, ‘I can get you fourteen thousand and, better than that, I can keep you playing.’

Dave Mackay looks down at the grass on the pitch at White Hart Lane, then up at the stands and the seats, and then Dave Mackay sticks out his hand and says, ‘Done.’

* * *

In his corridors, in his shadows, they are waiting again; Maurice Lindley and Syd Owen –

Behind my back. Under their breath. Behind their hands. Through gritted teeth, they whisper –

‘He’s never really going to buy this lad McKenzie, is he?’

‘Turn this place into a bloody circus,’ they murmur –

‘A bleeding pantomime,’ they hiss.

I slam his door, I turn my key. In his office, at my desk –

I pick up his phone, I dial –

‘Is that Duncan McKenzie?’

‘Yes, this is he.’

‘This is Brian Clough speaking,’ I tell him. ‘Now listen to me, you go get your coat and your skates on because you’re coming to meet me at the Victoria Hotel in Sheffield. Half an hour and you’d better not be bloody late. And Duncan?’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘Bring a bloody pen because you’re fucking signing for Leeds United today.’

* * *

You leave London behind. Thank Christ. You drive straight back to the Baseball Ground. Home sweet home. You sing and shout all the way –

Nailed it. Nailed it. Nailed it.

Peter is waiting. Pete is wondering, ‘Any luck?’

‘Fuck luck,’ you tell him. ‘He’ll be here tomorrow to put his pen to our paper.’

‘I don’t bloody believe it,’ shouts Peter. ‘Never thought you had a prayer.’

‘Fuck your prayers and all,’ you tell him. ‘Just believe in me. Brian Clough.’

‘I do,’ says Pete. ‘You know I do.’

* * *

Duncan McKenzie is waiting for us in the posh lobby of the Victoria Hotel, Sheffield. He’s looking at his watch, biting his nails and chain- smoking. I walk across that lobby and tell him, ‘Forget Derby County. Forget the Spurs. You’re coming to Leeds for £200 a week.’

Before he can reply or light another fag, I take him by his hand and waltz him into the bar. Duncan doesn’t drink, but he will do today –

Champagne –

‘Congratulations,’ I tell him. ‘You’re my first signing for the new Leeds United. My Leeds United; honest and sincere, playing with flair and with humour, winning with style but winning the “right” way and winning the admiration of Liverpool fans, Arsenal fans and Derby fans, Tottenham and Birmingham fans –

‘Because of THE WAY WE PLAY,’ I tell him once, twice, three times.

Duncan McKenzie lights another cigarette and says, ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘There’ll be no more codding referees. No more haranguing referees. No more threatening referees. No more bloody bribing referees either,’ I tell him.

Another cigarette, another ‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘No more dirty fucking Leeds!’

‘Yes, Mr Clough.’

‘And Duncan …’

‘Yes, Mr Clough?’

‘You call me Boss from now on.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

I order another bottle of champagne. I go for a pee. I come back and change seats. I move round the table and sit down next to Duncan. I put my arm round him. I tell him, ‘You’re going to be my eyes and ears in that dressing room.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘My eyes and ears.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘They hate me,’ I tell him. ‘Despise me. And they’ll hate you too. Despise you. But we’ll be here long after they’ve all gone.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know why they hate me?’ I ask him. ‘Why they’ll hate you?’

‘No, Boss. Why?’

‘Because we’re not like them,’ I tell him. ‘Because we don’t fucking cheat like them. Because we play fair and we win fair.’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Do you know how many bloody goals I scored when I was playing?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Two hundred and fifty-one,’ I tell him.

‘That’s great, Boss.’

‘You know how many fucking games that took me? League games?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss, I don’t.’

‘Have a guess.’

‘But I’m sorry, Boss, I –’

‘Go on, have a bleeding guess.’

‘Three hundred.’

‘Two hundred and seventy-four,’ I tell him. ‘Just 274. Now what do you fucking think about that then?’

‘Is that a record, Boss?’

‘Course it bloody is,’ I tell him. ‘You know anyone else who’s scored 251 goals in 274 league games, do you? Bobby bloody Charlton? Jimmy fucking Greaves? They score that many bloody goals in so few fucking games, did they? Did they bloody hell. So course it’s a fucking record and it’ll always be a fucking record because there’ll never be another one like me. Never. Ever. Not you. Not no one. Now drink up