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

pleaded and Peter had begged, begged and pleaded, pleaded and begged –

Barcelona. Greece. Birmingham. Coventry. Anywhere but here –

‘But I’m happy here,’ you told him then, tell him now. ‘We’re on a good thing.’

But Peter’s never happy with your lot; the grass is always greener and your own nothing but a field of weeds and stones; nothing but weeds and stones –

‘We’re short of pace,’ he says, again and again. ‘And we’ll go down without it.’

‘Did all right last season,’ you tell him. ‘If it’s not broken …’

‘And if we go down,’ he says, ‘who’ll want us then, Brian?’

* * *

I hate fucking flying and this lot don’t make it any bloody better; they don’t talk or joke, don’t drink or smoke, they just sit and stare at the backs of the chairs in front of them. The safety instructions. Me and all –

I think about my wife. I think about my kids …

In the sky over England, up among the bloody birds and the clouds, no one feels invincible. Not up here. Not even me. Not without a drink or a fag in my hand. Up here everybody’s mortal, full of regret, wishing they were back down there with their feet upon the ground, making things right, making things good, making things better –

They’ll be having their tea, my wife and my kids, watching a bit of telly …

Never flew with Middlesbrough. Never flew with Sunderland –

Then it’ll be bathtime and bedtime, a story if they’re good …

Never would have if we’d stayed at bloody Hartlepools –

Goodnight, sleep tight; lights out and sweet dreams …

Never would again if I had my way. Never would again –

Sweet, sweet dreams.

* * *

Observe. Expose. Replace. Observe. Expose. Replace –

This is what Peter does; what Peter does for his money; does to feel worthwhile; to feel needed; important. Stuart Webb’s been in Peter’s ear; he’s been telling him about this lad at his old club; this young Scot at Preston North End. So Peter goes to see Archie Gemmill and ninety minutes later Peter is on the telephone to the Baseball Ground –

‘I’ve seen one,’ he tells you. ‘Get Longson’s cheque book up here fast.’

You drive up to Preston. You meet Alan Ball, father of England’s Alan Ball, the manager of Preston North End. You agree to pay £64,000 for Gemmill –

If Gemmill will agree to join you (which he will; they always do).

Peter goes back home now, needed and important, his job done –

Now your job starts. You go round to Gemmill’s house. Two minutes inside this house and you know your work has only just begun; you can sense another club, the League Champions Everton, are in here; you can hear it in Gemmill’s voice, see it in his eyes, smell it on his clothes. And then there’s Gemmill’s wife; Betty’s seen you on the telly and she’s not keen on what she’s seen, that mouth, those opinions. Betty’s also pregnant and against any other changes in her life –

Two minutes in here and you know you’ll not be going home tonight. So you roll up your sleeves, march into their kitchen and get stuck into the washing-up.

‘I’d like to sleep on it,’ says Archie Gemmill.

‘Good man,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll kip in your spare room, if you don’t mind.’

The next morning Betty cooks you bacon and eggs while Archie signs the contract between the marmalade and the ketchup –

A job well done, that’s you.

You go back to the Preston ground. You break the news to Ball; Ball doesn’t look too sad. Ball thinks he’s pulled a fast one –

‘He’s not the player you think he is,’ says Ball. ‘Your mate’s fucked up.’

You don’t listen to him; you don’t give a fuck. You and Peter, you know players. Nobody else knows players, just you and Peter –

‘You’re not making any friends, you and your mate,’ says Ball –

You don’t bloody listen; you don’t give a flying fuck –

It’s all water off a duck’s back to you.

You go back to Derby. You sell Willie Carlin to Leicester. You let Peter tell him. Hold his hand. Hold his heart –

Inject it full of cortisone. Dry his tears –

All water off a duck’s back.

* * *

There are 15,000 at the Dell for this bloody Ted Bates testimonial match; the last of these fucking dress rehearsals. Clarke, Madeley and Yorath haven’t made the trip and so I play Terry Cooper and Eddie Gray from the start to see how they’ll hold up for Saturday. I also play Hunter in the first half as well, even though he’s suspended for Saturday, play him because I’ve got a couple of prospective clubs in the stands here to have a look at him, Cherry, Cooper and Harvey. Flog those four for starters, get shot of the Irishman, buy Shilton, Todd, McGovern and O’Hare and then I’ll be halfway there –

But now I’m still back in the stalls; back in the stalls with the season four days off.

In the dug-out, under his breath, Jimmy Gordon asks, ‘What’s wrong, Boss?’

‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘You’re not even watching them,’ he says. ‘Eyes are on the roof of the stand.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You do your job and I’ll do mine.’

There are just two good things about this game: the behaviour of the players, for bloody once, and Duncan McKenzie’s first goal for the club, a fifteen-yard shot inside the far post. He also misses a hatful of chances, but at least he’s got one under his belt –

Just two good things in ninety fucking minutes of football –

It’s not enough. Jimmy knows it. I bloody know it –

There is something