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

him for you,’ she says. ‘You need to talk to him –’

‘Don’t,’ I tell her. ‘Not now. It’s too late.’

‘If you’re sure?’ she says. ‘But you get yourself off to bed then.’

‘But how are you?’ I ask her. ‘How’s Brighton? The children?’

‘We’re all well,’ she says. ‘Peter’s very busy, of course, but the new flat’s nice. Lovely view. Wendy likes her job too, settled in very well. But you don’t want to hear about all that. You get yourself to bed and Peter will call you tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be here.’

‘Hang on,’ she says. ‘He’s coming downstairs now. I’ll put him on.’

‘Brian?’ says Peter. ‘What’s wrong? It’s half two in the morning.’

‘Name your price,’ I tell him. ‘You can have whatever you want, but just come. We’ll be able to sort this place out together. We’ll be able to clean it up, to turn it around. We’ll be able to put them in their fucking place. Stop all their whispering and conspiring, their plotting and scheming, their lying and cheating. Me and you, just like before –’

‘Brian –’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘Brian –’

‘It’s too much for me,’ I tell him. ‘I need you up here, Pete.’

‘There’s no point kidding you,’ he says. ‘I’ll not come to Leeds.’

‘Then that’s me and you finished,’ I tell him and I hang up.

* * *

The Leeds defeat was a turning point. Again. You have now beaten Chelsea, Southampton, Coventry and Forest. You have beaten Notts County 6–0 in the FA Cup. You have given away tickets to striking miners. You are Cloughie. You can do what you want –

Football manager one week, prime minister the next.

Manchester United are in Nottingham. Frank O’Farrell is there to sign Ian Storey-Moore. Storey-Moore is a left-winger; fast, direct and twenty-eight years old. Nottingham Forest have accepted a £200,000 bid from United. O’Farrell and the Forest secretary have gone up to Edwalton Hall to finalize the deal with Ian Storey-Moore. Then Pete hears the deal is breaking down over Storey-Moore’s personal terms –

Pete says, ‘This one’s ours, Brian.’

You pick up the phone. You dial Edwalton Hall. You catch Ian Storey-Moore –

‘Cloughie here,’ you tell him. ‘Stay where you are, I’m coming over.’

You and Pete drive over to Nottingham. You make him an offer he can’t refuse; Ian Storey-Moore will play for Derby. Not United –

Ian Storey-Moore signs blank forms –

The only thing missing is the signature of the Forest secretary.

Longson calls you. Longson asks you, ‘Are you sure you’re in order?’

‘He wants to play for Derby County,’ you tell him. ‘So I’ve bought him.’

You take Ian Storey-Moore to the Midland Hotel, Derby. You introduce him to his new teammates. Before the home game against Wolves, you parade him around the Baseball Ground in a Derby County shirt as your new player. Your new player waves to the crowd. Your new player sits up in the directors’ box to watch Derby beat Wolves 2–1.

Then you drive him back to the Midland Hotel after the game –

You lock him in a room with his wife, a nice room –

You cross your fingers. You hope for the best –

But Forest won’t sign the transfer forms:

‘I am absolutely staggered and distressed at the performance of Nottingham Forest Football Club this morning. They are depriving the game of the dignity it deserves, and I will not have Derby County brought into any disrepute by anyone in football.’

Sir Matt Busby buys Mrs Ian Storey-Moore a bouquet of flowers –

Ian Storey-Moore joins Manchester United.

You are outraged. You send a four-page telegram in protest to Alan Hardaker and the Football League Management Committee. Your chairman sends a second telegram disassociating himself from you and your protest –

You are outraged, fucking outraged –

Outraged and out for revenge, again.

Day Seventeen

I don’t think I’ve slept; not since I hung up on Peter. Just lain here; eyes closed, thinking. Next news there’s my old mate John Shaw from Derby banging on the hotel door:

‘Do you fancy some company for the trip down to London?’ he asks.

‘I’m booked on the bloody train with Billy Bremner, aren’t I?’

‘Sod him,’ he says. ‘I’ll drive you. Meet him at the FA.’

That’s what we do then. We drive down to London –

Day before the season starts. Day before our first game –

Drive down to London, thanks to Billy Bremner, talking politics and unions, socialism and football, wishing it was a one-way trip –

‘I hate them,’ I tell John. ‘I hate managing them. But what can I bloody do? They’re filthy and they cheat. They’ve got it off to a fine art. If the pressure’s on, someone goes down in the penalty area to give them time to regroup. Then one of them gets boot trouble, which is just an excuse for the trainer to pass on messages from the bench. You wouldn’t believe what they’re capable of …’

‘Need to get you back to Derby County,’ says John. ‘Back where you belong.’

‘Either I’ll bust them or they’ll bust me.’

* * *

April Fool’s Day 1972, and Leeds United have come to you; 39,000 crammed inside the Baseball Ground to see you versus Revie.

Don’s been up to his old tricks again too, telling anyone who’ll listen that there’ll be no Giles today; John ruled out with a troublesome strain. But then, surprise surprise, come three o’clock and here comes Johnny Giles –

It makes no odds. No difference today –

Today you will not lose. Not today –

Not on this field. Not today:

You create chance after chance as Robson hustles Bremner and O’Hare turns Charlton time after time to score twice, the second cannoning back off Sprake and going in off Hunter for an own goal. It is the first time you have