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

fucking will; why I failed my eleven-plus and haven’t got a certificate to my name, not a bloody one; why I scored 251 goals in 274 games but won only two England caps and not any fucking more –

Why I won the Second Division and the league titles; why I reached the semi-finals of the European Cup and why one day very soon I’ll win the bloody cup itself –

Because I never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will –

Because I’m Brian bloody Clough. Face fucking down on the floor tonight –

The future bloody manager of England, face fucking down on the floor.

Day Twenty-two

Here is Europe again; your hopes and your dreams. The hopes and the dreams that keep you here, home to Benfica –

Derby County vs Benfica in the second round of the European Cup.

You can’t sleep. You can’t eat. You don’t believe in luck. You don’t believe in prayers, so you can only plot, only plot and scheme:

You had the groundsman pump half the river Derwent onto the pitch the night before, turning the Baseball Ground into a bog. You have Kevin Hector carried down the narrow corridor into the treatment room. You have the team doctor pump Kevin Hector full of cortisone an hour before kick-off; the hour before the Eagles of Lisbon are supposed to feast upon the Rams of Derby –

The press have given you no chance. The press have written you off:

Hard luck, Cloughie, they all write. This time you’re out of your class.

Pete pins up these cuttings in the dressing room; this is where you and Pete are at your best, in the dressing room, beneath these cuttings, with ten minutes to kick-off. You’ve asked Pete to run through their players, who to watch for and what to watch them for, something you never usually do, never usually give a fuck about. Tonight’s no different. Pete looks down at the piece of paper in his hand then he looks back up at your team, your boys, and he screws up that piece of paper –

‘No sweat,’ he says. ‘You’ve nothing to worry about with this lot.’

Pete’s right, you’re right; this is one of those nights you’ve dreamt of; one of those nights you were born and live for, and, despite your comments, despite your criticisms, over 38,000 people are here to share this night with you, this night when you sweep aside Benfica and Eusebio from the first minute to the last, from the minute McFarland climbs above their defence to head home Hinton’s cross, from the minute McFarland nods down another Hinton cross for Hector to score with a left-foot shot into the top corner, from the minute McGovern takes hold of a Daniel lob to score from the edge of the area, from the first minute to the last –

‘Unbelievable,’ Malcolm Allison tells you at half-time. ‘Fucking unbelievable.’

You put your head around that dressing-room door and you simply tell them, ‘You are brilliant, each and every one of you.’

Boulton. Robson. Daniel. Hennessey. McFarland. Todd. McGovern. Gemmill. O’Hare. Hector and Hinton –

Derby County; your team, your boys.

Tonight is everything you’ve ever dreamed of. Everything you’ve ever worked for. Everything you were born and live for. Plotted and schemed for –

Tonight is vindication. Tonight is justification –

Tonight is your revenge, revenge, revenge –

Tonight is Derby County 3, Benfica 0 –

25 October 1972 –

Tonight you have only one word for the press after this game, one word for your team, your boys, and tonight that word is ‘Magical’.

* * *

This is another of his traditions, another of his bloody routines, another of his fucking rituals. Tonight is my first home game at Elland Road; home to Queen’s Park Rangers. But we don’t meet at Elland Road; we meet at the Craiglands Hotel, Ilkley –

Fucking Ilkley; middle of the moors, middle of bloody nowhere.

A little light training and a little light lunch; bit of bingo, bit of bowls; chat with the coaches and a discussion with Don; then back to Elland Road –

‘Every home game,’ says Maurice Lindley. ‘Been this way for a long time.’

‘Well, it’s the last fucking time,’ I tell him. ‘They’d be better off having an extra couple of hours at home with their wives and kids, not sat around on their arses up here, twiddling their bloody thumbs or gambling their fucking wages away, waiting and worrying like a load of little old ladies.’

‘It’s valuable preparation time,’ says Maurice. ‘Helps them focus on the game.’

‘It’s a waste of bloody time and a waste of bloody money,’ I tell him.

‘It cost me a fucking fortune to get up here in that bloody taxi.’

‘The lads won’t like it,’ he says. ‘They don’t like change. They like consistency.’

‘Tough fucking shit then,’ I tell him and head inside the place to the deserted, silent restaurant; deserted but for the first team, sat staring into their tomato soup, waiting for their steak and chips.

Billy Bremner’s here, Sniffer and Hunter too, even though all three are suspended. I go up to Billy Bremner, put an arm around his shoulder, pat him on his back and say, ‘It’s good of you to come, Billy. Much appreciated. Thank you, Billy.’

Billy Bremner doesn’t turn round. Billy Bremner just stares into his soup and says, ‘Didn’t have much fucking choice now, did I, Mr Clough?’

* * *

Derby travel to the Estadio da Luz in Lisbon for the second leg on 8 November 1972. You don’t train. You don’t practise. You grill sardines and drink vinho verde –

DRINKMANSHIP, screams the Daily