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

he? But then, and this is what really got to me, then while the FA and the CID are sniffing around, the Director of Public fucking Prosecutions and all, while they’re all sniffing around, Don’s on the bloody box and in the fucking papers crying the bloody poor tale again; fixture congestion, injuries, suspension, bad refereeing and bad bloody luck –

‘Anything and anybody but themselves –’

‘It’s just too much. We should have had at least three penalties. When you get decisions like that going against you, what can you do?’

The waiter still looks confused. The waiter repeats, ‘Bad luck?’

‘Bad luck? Bad luck my fucking arse. There’s no such bloody thing as bad luck, bad luck or good, not over forty-two games. If Leeds United had been better than Derby County then Leeds United would have won that title and not Derby County. But Leeds lost nine games and we lost eight, so Leeds finished second and we finished first –

‘Champions! End of bloody story.’

Mehmet the waiter picks up my empty coffee cup and nods his head.

‘Last two seasons haven’t been much better for them, have they?’ I tell Mehmet. ‘In 1972–73 they lost to bloody Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final and then to AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. They might have won the league last year but, since Revie took them over, they’ve lost three FA Cup finals and two semi-finals; three European finals and two semi-finals; and they’ve “just” missed out on the league eight bloody times, runners-up five fucking times. What do you say about that, Mehmet?’

Mehmet shrugs his shoulders and says again, ‘Bad luck?’

‘Bad fucking luck my arse,’ I tell the man again. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, shall I? It’s because they’ve been so fucking hated, so absolutely despised by everybody outside this bloody city. Everybody! Do you know what I mean?’

Mehmet shrugs his shoulders again, then nods again and says, ‘Everybody.’

‘Just think about it,’ I tell him. ‘All those bloody times Leeds “just” missed out on a league title or “just” lost a cup final, you know why? I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because every team they met, in every bloody match they ever played, they hated Leeds, they despised them. That Monday night at Molineux, that night in front of fifty-odd-thousand of their own supporters, there was no way Wolves were going to go easy on Leeds, no way they were going to throw the match; no way because they hated Leeds United, they despised Leeds United. Their keeper Parkes, players like Munro and Dougan, these players had the game of their lives and I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because there’s not a team in the country, not a team in Europe, who does not want to beat Don Revie and Leeds United. Not one. That’s all they dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United and beating Don Revie and Leeds United. That’s all I dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United, beating Don Revie and Leeds United –

‘You’d be the bloody same, Mehmet, if you were me.’

Mehmet the waiter looks confused. Mehmet the waiter shakes his head and says, ‘But you’re the manager of Leeds United now, aren’t you, Mr Clough?’

Day Twenty

You have won the 1971–72 League Championship; you have beaten Shanks and Liverpool; you have beaten Revie and Leeds –

You are the Champions of England.

The summer months see the builders back to the Baseball Ground, now you’re in the European Cup; there has been work on the Osmaston End and on the Normanton Stand; new, pylon-mounted floodlights are also erected, now your games will be shown in colour at home and abroad –

Now you are the Champions.

But all your dreams are nightmares and all your hopes are hells, the birds and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the demons, the wolves and the vultures, all circling around you, the clouds and the storms gathering above you, above the new pylon-mounted floodlights, your pockets filled with lists, your walls defaced with threats, your cigarettes won’t stay lit, your drinks won’t stay down.

The parties and the banquets, the civic receptions and the open-top bus tours, the parades and the photographs; the Championship dinner that no other club dare attend; the Charity Shield you’ll never defend –

Every one a pantomime, every one a lie –

You can’t stand the directors and the directors can’t stand you:

‘The threat to me comes from the faceless, nameless men in long coats with long knives who operate behind closed doors.’

There is a war coming; a civil bloody war.

* * *

No need for nightmares. Not today …

Every day I wake up and wonder if I’ll ever win again; Hartlepools, Derby and Brighton, every day I wondered if I’d ever win again. But today I wake up and for the first time wonder if I’ll ever bloody want to win again; if I’ll ever give a fuck again –

Monday 19 August 1974.

I have a shit. I have a shave. I get washed and I get dressed. I go downstairs. The boys are already out in the garden with their mates, having a kick about in the dew. My daughter’s at the table, colouring in. My wife puts my breakfast down in front of me and moves the newspaper away, out of my sight. I reach over and I bring it back –

No need for nightmares, that’s what I told the press on Saturday and that’s their headline for today, and that’s what I’ll tell them again; today and every fucking day –

‘But what’ll you tell yourself?’ asks