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

of Hennessey and of McGovern. Fucking shame only 27,000 turned up to watch it –

Fucking shame you then went to Old Trafford and were beaten 3–0 by the worst Manchester United team in years. Fucking shame you only trained with the team for thirty minutes that week. Fucking shame you spent most of that week on the motorway or on the train, up and down to London Weekend Television. Fucking shame no one is speaking, speaking to each other, listening to each other:

‘My terms are simple. If someone wants to employ me, they take me as I am. If, after five years, they can’t take me as I am, then the whole world has gone berserk.’

There are 60,000 here tonight in the Kosevo Stadium for the return leg among the trees and the hills of Bosnia and Herzegovina, the mosques and the minarets;60,000 sons of Tito with their hooters and their sirens –

‘Europe is an adventure,’ you tell the team. ‘Like a bonus, a holiday. So let’s make bloody sure we fucking enjoy it, enjoy it and bloody win it!’

Within quarter of an hour, Hinton and O’Hare have made it 2–0, 4–0 on aggregate, the game as good as over. But Željezničar Sarajevo do not go gracefully into the Balkan night; they trip and they kick, on that rough, rough pitch, in that heavy, heavy Yugoslavian mud; they are worse than Leeds United, worse than the sons of Don Revie –

The sons of Tito burn their newspapers, the sons of Tito light their rockets –

But you win and their press say, ‘See you in Belgrade next May.’

Belgrade. Next May. The 1973 European Cup final.

* * *

Bremner doesn’t knock. Bremner opens the door and says, ‘You want ed to see me?’

‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Have a seat, Billy. Pull up a pew, mate.’

Bremner doesn’t speak. Bremner sits down in the chair and he waits.

‘You’re out for the next three games,’ I tell him. ‘Possibly longer?’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner just sits in the chair and waits.

‘Now I don’t know what your thoughts are about this,’ I ask him, ‘but as team captain and a natural leader, it would be a bloody shame to lose your presence in the dressing room, as well as on the pitch, for these three games.’

Bremner still doesn’t speak. Bremner still just sits in his chair and waits.

‘I’d like you to be here for the home games at least,’ I tell him. ‘I’d also value your input in the team talks; over lunch, in the dressing room, and on the bench with me.’

Bremner stands up. Bremner says, ‘Is that all?’

* * *

Europe gives you hopes. Europe gives you dreams –

You start to win domestic games; beating Birmingham and Tottenham, drawing with Chelsea in the League Cup. You are set to play Benfica in the next round of the European Cup; Benfica and Eusebio, five-time finalists, twice winners of the cup; your hopes and your dreams made real –

But there is always doubt. There is always fear. Always trouble –

The childish vendettas and the mischief, the back-biting and the politics –

The directors are in the chairman’s ear, asking about Peter; what does he do, how does he do it, how much do we pay him for it, and do we really need him?

Then the chairman is in your ear about Peter; what exactly does he do, how exactly does he do it, how much exactly do we pay him, do we really, really need him, and how about a bit of extra money for you in your new contract, the extra money and the new contract that could be yours –

If there was no Peter Taylor.

Then the club secretary whispers in Pete’s ear about you; about how you don’t support Peter in the boardroom, about how you murder him and plot to dispose of him, about how you’re never there but always on the box and in the papers, about the bit of extra money in the new contract that could be coming your way if there was no Peter, or the bit of extra money and new contract that could be for Peter –

If there was no Brian Clough.

There is always doubt and always fear. There is always trouble, always tension. Tension and trouble; fear and doubt; war, war, war and then, right on cue –

As if by magick, here come Leeds, Leeds, Leeds.

* * *

Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. There is a half-eaten cheese sandwich on the desk, my address book open beside it –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout …

‘Take your bloody pick,’ I tell them down the telephone –

Forest. Leicester. Birmingham. Everton. Stoke and even Carlisle …

‘Harvey. Cooper. Cherry. Giles. Hunter,’ I tell anyone who’ll listen –

Ipswich. Norwich. Luton. Burnley. Wednesday and bloody Hull …

‘Take your fucking pick,’ I tell them, beg and plead with them –

Every manager I’ve ever met, every trainer, coach and scout.

The half-eaten cheese sandwich, my address book and an empty, drained glass. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands. Under the stands –

‘Where’s my fucking watch?’

* * *

Longson has been summoned to a meeting of the Football League Management Committee, another bloody meeting of the Management Committee, another fucking meeting to discuss you. The Football League Management Committee tell Longson that Derby County Football Club will face severe disciplinary action and severe fines, even more severe disciplinary action and even more severe fines, if their manager does not modify his criticisms on the television and in the papers, his