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

at Elland Road, here with me tonight in front of 32,000 Yorkshiremen. Tonight it’s just me on my Jack bloody Jones in front of 32,000 fucking Yorkshiremen –

Tetley Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em …

I take a deep breath and I swallow, I swallow and walk down that tunnel, walk down that tunnel and out into that stadium, out into that stadium to make my very, very long, long way to that bench but, as I make my way to that bench, tonight these 32,000 Yorkshiremen in Elland Road, tonight they rise as one to their feet and applaud me as I make my way to that bench in the dug-out, and I wave to the crowd and bow ever so slightly as I make my way, I wave and bow and then take my seat on that bench in the dug-out, take my seat on that bench as the manager of Leeds United; Leeds United, the Champions of England –

Tetley Bittermen, says the sign. Join ’em.

‘Welcome to Elland Road, Mr Clough,’ shouts a man from behind the dug-out. ‘Best of luck,’ shouts another, and Jimmy Gordon, Jimmy in his brand-new Leeds United Admiral tracksuit with his bloody name upon his back, he gives me a little nudge and a little wink, and I glance at my watch, my watch that is back on my wrist, and for the first time, the first time in a very long time, I think that maybe, just maybe this might work out.

* * *

The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The whispers. The way things are going, you’ve got to keep winning games, keep winning games otherwise that lot in the boardroom will slaughter you –

Slaughter you. Bury you.

So that’s what you do to Arsenal; you slaughter them, you bury them, 5–0; McGovern (21), Hinton (37), McFarland (40), Hector (42) and Davies (47).

‘I do not accept that was our best performance of the season,’ you tell the press and the cameras, the columns and the panels. ‘That was at Goodison on August the twenty-ninth when we lost 1–0 and you lot bloody wrote us off; slaughtered and buried us. That’s when the doubts crept in, the doubts and the fears that we could play that well and still lose. Well, today those doubts and those fears have been banished.’

It’s over three years since you hit Tottenham for five, three years since you and Dave Mackay slaughtered and buried Bill Nicholson and Tottenham.

Arsenal don’t leave the visitors’ dressing room for a full forty-five minutes after the match, locked in –

Slaughtered and buried –

Just like you know you will be, you will be if you slip, if you lose –

If you ever take your bloody eye off that fucking ball.

* * *

Fifteen minutes into the game, Harvey moves to get his body behind the ball, to take it on the first bounce, but the ball slips through and under him, into the net –

Two games. Two defeats. No goals.

‘Bad luck, lads,’ I tell the dressing room. ‘Didn’t deserve to lose, not tonight. There are things to work on tomorrow, things to take care of before Birmingham; but we can sort it out on the training pitch and get it right on Saturday. There’s no need to panic and there’s no need to blame yourselves. Just a matter of confidence, that’s all.’

‘Aye-aye-aye,’ mumbles Syd Owen from the back of the room. ‘Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

I bite my bloody tongue, bite it till it fucking bleeds, and I go outside, outside to the corridor, to the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, and I tell them all:

‘We did not play with confidence.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘We badly missed Bremner, Clarke and Hunter.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘I was very sorry for David Harvey, but it is essential he forgets it.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘We created enough chances, but we could not put them in.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘It is a bad start by anybody’s standards, particularly by Leeds’s standards.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘But we will be here in the morning, working like hell.’

‘Aye-aye-aye. Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

‘This is all you can do. Goodnight, gentlemen.’

Then I walk away, away from the press and the cameras, the vultures and the hyenas, round the corner and down the corridor to the office, the telephone and the bottle:

If only you could see me here. If only you could hear me now …

I miss my wife. I miss my kids. I wish I wasn’t here. I wasn’t me –

If you could only hold me here. If you could only help me now …

The things I’ve bloody done. The things I’ve fucking said –

‘Never heard such a load of fucking rubbish.’

All these things I’ve said and done.

* * *

You have been invited to speak at the Yorkshire TV Sports Personality of the Year dinner. You have not won it, just been invited to speak about the winner –

Mr Peter Lorimer of Leeds United.

The Sports Personality of the Year dinner is being held at the Queen’s Hotel, Leeds. It is being screened by Yorkshire Television, who have organized it in conjunction with the Variety Club of Great Britain –

Mr Wilson, the former and future Prime Minister, is the guest of honour –

But he does not impress you, Wilson. Not these days. Just another bloody comfortable socialist, out to feather his own fucking nest, the nests of his mates –

‘We’re all out for good old Number One,’ you start to hum, you start to sing.