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

there and show all them 35,000 folk and that team of old men and so-called superstars what you’re bloody made of, how you earn your big wages, and if you’re still losing at that final fucking whistle don’t bother coming back into work on Monday morning because you’ll not have a bloody job to come to. Be the real world for the lot of you –

‘Now fuck off, out of my sight!’

Five minutes later, Hinton floats a ball into their box; Wignall charges in and goes up with Stepney for it; the ball runs loose and Hector stabs it in. Ten minutes after that, Hennessey robs Georgie bleeding Best and passes the ball out to Hinton, who sends in another centre for O’Hare to head against the crossbar and Wignall to then bury. That’s how it ends,2–2.

‘Carry on playing like that and they’ll get me the sack,’ you tell the world.

Times change, faces change but the doubt remains. The fear remains –

Round every corner. Down every corridor –

Every match, every day, the doubt and then the fear.

* * *

I hate injured players. I don’t want to hear their bloody names. I don’t want to see their fucking faces. I stay out of the treatment rooms. I stay out of the bloody hospitals. I can’t stand the fucking sight of them –

‘I’m not taking you to Stoke,’ I tell Eddie Gray, and then I watch his face fall; this face that has taken so much pain; worked through it; smiled through it all; the initial breaks and the many operations; the verdicts and the second opinions; the frustration and the depression; the rehabilitation and the therapy; the training and the cortisone –

I watch it fall to the floor and crawl across the carpet to the door.

* * *

Here is where League Championships are won and lost; here at Leeds Road, Huddersfield. Not White Hart Lane. Not Anfield or Highbury. Not Old Trafford in front of 50,000 crowds and the television millions –

Here, in this filthy Yorkshire town on a filthy Saturday in November in front of 15,000 filthy Yorkshire folk calling you every filthy fucking name they can bloody think of; here is where Championships are won, won and lost –

And Derby have just lost. 2-bloody-1. You look around this filthy fucking dressing room, these filthy fucking players, soaked to their bloody skins and covered in filthy fucking Yorkshire mud –

And you ask Colin Boulton, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you fucking will because you’re a useless cunt of a keeper.’

You ask Ronnie Webster, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you fucking will because you’re utter fucking shite. Bloody rubbish.’

You ask John Robson, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you will because you’re the worst fucking defender I’ve ever seen.’

You ask Colin Todd, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No,’ he says. ‘I don’t.’

‘Well, the amount of bloody money I fucking paid for you, I must have been bloody pissed out of my fucking skull. You can’t even bloody keep on your fuck ing feet.’

You ask McFarland, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, Roy?’

‘No,’ he says.

‘No, what?’

‘No, Boss. I don’t want to get you the sack.’

‘Well, I don’t fucking believe you,’ you tell him and then turn to Terry Hennessey, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack and all, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘So where the bloody hell were you this afternoon? You might as well have fucking stopped at home, use you were to me out there.’

You ask John McGovern, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you, John?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Well, you remember that open goal, that open bloody goal you should have stuck that fucking ball in?’

‘Yes, Boss.’

‘Well, that looked like a deliberate miss to me, to get your manager the sack.’

‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t.’

‘Fuck off,’ you tell him and turn to Archie Gemmill. ‘You want to get me the fucking sack and all, do you, Scotsman?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Come on, admit it,’ you tell him. ‘You liked it better back in the Third Division, didn’t you? Come on, admit it.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ he says.

You shake your head and turn to John O’Hare and ask him the same ques tion: ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

You point at Hinton and ask O’Hare, ‘You know how many centres he sent in?’

‘I’m sorry, Boss,’ he says.

‘No, you’re not,’ you tell him. ‘Or you’d be out there now fucking practising.’

You ask Kevin Hector, ‘You want to get me the fucking sack, do you?’

‘No, Boss,’ he says.

‘Really?’ you ask him. ‘Didn’t bloody look like that to me. Not when they took the lead and you had that chance – not chance – that fucking sitter when you landed flat on your bloody arse. They’ll be laughing about that in Huddersfield all fucking season.’

You turn to Alan Hinton. You tell him, ‘You played well, Alan. Thank you.’

You leave them to Peter; for Peter to kiss them all better. You step out into the corridor and light a fag; there’s Sam Longson, your chairman –

‘Did you hear all that?’ you ask Uncle Sam.

‘You can’t talk to people like that,’ says Longson.

‘Can’t I?’ you ask him. ‘You just bloody watch me.’

* * *

‘Jones injured. Gray injured. Bates injured. Yorath injured. Clarke suspended. Hunter suspended. The odds are already stacked against us,’ I tell them as I pour the drinks –

For Harry from the Yorkshire Post. For Ron from the Evening Post –

‘I’d have liked to have