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

they’d all like a bit of what you’ve got, have a bit of what you’ve got, give their right arm for it.

The same with the bloody players; you know there are more who loathe you than love you. But you know not one would ask for a transfer, over their dead fucking body –

You have seen the tears in their eyes. Heard their pleas for mercy.

Because on your day, on your day there is no stopping you. On your day, you can do no wrong; walk on water, then turn it into wine –

Just like today; even after you’ve been knocked down and robbed blind by Juventus, even after you’ve been cheated out of the European Cup, cheated out of your destiny by that black-and-white old whore, even after all that, you’ve still gone out and fucking won the last three bloody league matches of the season –

Still scored nine goals, still conceded only one, still got six points out of six –

Beating Everton 3–1, Ipswich Town 3–0, and now Wolves 3–0.

But now it all stops. The season over. Champions no more. Europe no more –

You have done your job. The season over. It is out of your hands now –

Your empty hands. No trophies. Your season now over –

Between the fingers, the fingers of grass –

In the soil. In the dirt. In the mud –

Everything bad, bad, bad –

It hits you anew every day. Every time you close your eyes, that’s all you ever see, her face in the kitchen. In the doorway. In the garden. In her hat. In her nightie. In the hospital. You wish you’d buried your mam, not cremated her. Now there is no grave, no place to go. But if you had buried her, if there had been a grave, you’d go every Sunday –

But there’s no place to go but here, here, here, here, here, here, here, here –

Here where the crowd’s all gone home, here where there is no crowd –

No crowd. No trophies. No one. No one here now, now, now –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can say, over and over –

No spirits here. No ghosts here. No saints here –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ is all you can repeat –

Only devils are here. Only demons now –

‘I’ve lost my mam,’ all you can say –

Devils and demons. Here, now –

Now, now your mam is dead.

Day Twenty-seven

The sun is shining, the sky is blue, and it’s a beautiful Monday morning in late August. The kind of day that makes you feel glad to be alive and glad to be English, glad of your family and glad of your friends, glad you’ve your health and glad you’ve a job; two away games this week, one in London and one in Manchester; Billy Bremner and Johnny Giles up before the FA Disciplinary Committee; but nothing can take this feeling away from me –

This feeling of victory. This feeling of winning …

I get washed and I get dressed; a good shave and a good suit; nice tie, clean shoes. I get out my other suit and get out my suitcase. I pack my razor and pack my toothbrush. Then I go downstairs, down to my family. The smell of bacon frying and bread toasting. The sound of eggs breaking and kettles boiling. I sit down at the table and I ask my eldest to pass me the sugar, and he knocks over the salt cellar, spills the salt my way, my direction –

Not superstition. Not bloody ritual and not fucking luck.

I get out the car. I put my suitcase in the back. I go back into the house. I kiss my wife and kids goodbye. I wave to them as I reverse out of our drive and blow them more kisses. I don’t pick up Jimmy Gordon; don’t pick up John McGovern or John O’Hare. Just me today, on the drive north. Just me on this beautiful Monday morning in late August, on my way to work with the radio on, listening to the news –

‘Kevin started watching Blackpool two years ago. He went to all the home games. I wouldn’t stop him going to matches but I’ve always told him: “Be careful, don’t get into any trouble.” I used to watch Blackpool myself, but the trouble on the Kop put me off and I don’t go now. I think it’s a disgrace. I feel sorry for those who are genuine supporters. They are going to have to do something about it. He was only fourteen years old.’

I switch off the radio as I come off the motorway. Round the bends and the corners to the junction with Lowfields Road and onto Elland Road. Sharp right and through the gates and I hit the brakes hard; there’s a big black dog stood in the entrance to the car park. I hit the horn hard but this big black dog will not move. I start to reverse. I look in the mirror. I see the writing on a wall –

TUO HGUOLC

* * *

Leeds were the shortest ever favourites to win the FA Cup. But Bob Stokoe –

The same Bob bloody Stokoe who looked down on you as you lay on that cold, hard Boxing Day ground and said, ‘He’s fucking codding is Clough.’

– Bob fucking Stokoe hates Don Revie even more than you and so Leeds United lose the FA Cup final to his Second Division Sunderland. Eleven days later, with Clarke and Bremner suspended, Giles injured and Revie supposedly on his way to Everton, Leeds lose the Cup Winners’ Cup final to AC Milan in Greece