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

McGovern force early saves from Ray Clemence, but then it’s all Kevin Keegan, all Liverpool. Nineteen-year-old Phil Thompson scores the first of the night and his first for Liverpool; the first goal Derby have conceded in 305 minutes of First Division football. In the eighty-fifth minute of this game, Keegan scores a second with a penalty –

You have been beaten, well beaten, and outplayed –

Derby County drop from fifth to seventh place.

Eight days later, on Wednesday 12 September, Liverpool come to the Baseball Ground. Between these two games, you have beaten Everton in a game that some of the papers described as the very worst Derby County performance since you took over:

‘A shambles of a match … the kind of match one wants to forget … a complete lack of application … Everton robbed by two decisions from a linesman.’

Peter pins these words to the dressing-room wall; no team talk tonight and, four days after one of your worst performances, you take apart the League Champions –

You attack. You attack. You attack –

‘To go like this, from the macabre to the sublime,’ say the newspapers now, ‘means that Derby County are superbly managed. Nobody has ever doubted the ability of this team, but somebody had to make these players produce their best –’

Roger Davies stabs home a rebound after Kevin Hector’s shot is blocked –

‘That somebody is Brian Clough –’

Roy McFarland exchanges passes with Hector and fires in a well-taken strike –

‘Last Saturday, one had to scratch around to find someone who had played even adequately. Last night, one could fill a book describing the fluid moves and the brilliant individual performances –’

Then Nish, Davies and Gemmill combine before Hector scores the third –

‘Even Don Revie and Leeds United, gazing down with a three- point lead over the Rams, would have been pleased with McGovern, Powell and Gemmill.’

You’ve beaten the League Champions 3–1; beaten Kevin Keegan and Liverpool; beaten Bill Shankly; beaten and outplayed them –

Buried and slaughtered them.

You are on your way back to the top. Right back to where you belong –

It is Wednesday 12 September 1973.

* * *

There are no smiles on the team coach down to London. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers, packs of cards and paperback books. Bremner hasn’t travelled with us; he’ll be making his own way down tomorrow, ready for the FA Disciplinary Committee on Wednesday. I glance back down the aisle at Giles from time to time, the backseat boy, glance back to look for hints of doubt, hints of fear –

But the man doesn’t give a fuck.

Not smiling, not laughing, he plays a hand of cards here, then reads another page of his paperback book, The Exorcist.

There are still no smiles as we check in at the Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington. No smiles and no laughter at the team talk with their timetable for tomorrow. The drinks and then the dinner. No smiles and no laughter. Just murmurs and whispers –

The early night for them and the late, late night for me –

The late, late night with no, no sleep –

No, no sleep but dreams of dogs –

Big black dogs that bark:

‘Clough out!’

Day Twenty-eight

There is no beginning and there is no end. Things just going from bad to worse; worse and worse, week by week, worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse –

Longson wants his seat on the League Management Committee, his place on the plane when England travel abroad, a word or a wave from the Duke of Kent in the Royal Box at Wembley, dinner and drinks with Hardaker and Shipman –

Longson thought you were his passport to these places, his ticket to the top, and so he gave you the keys to his car and his bungalow at Anglesey, a waste- disposal unit for your kitchen and a Burberry suede coat for your back, presents for your kids and the photograph in his wallet of the son he never had –

‘It’s in the eyes, the power Brian has over the players, power he has over me.’

Now Longson wishes he’d never looked into your eyes, into the eyes of the son he never had; the son he no longer wants; this son he no longer speaks to.

So you dictate while Peter types:

‘Due to the complete breakdown of communication, common sense and ability to have a reasonable discussion with the chairman, we find it impossible to work with Mr Longson for the good of Derby County any more. Would you please advise the best way to resolve this urgent problem?’

You both sign the letter, put the letter into an envelope and then the post.

* * *

The sun is not shining, the sky is not blue, and it’s an ugly Tuesday morning in August 1974. The lack of sleep and the lack of dreams. The excess of nightmares and the excess of drink. The hangover and the call home. To the wife and to the kids. To say I love you and I miss you and wish I was there –

There, there, anywhere but here –

The Royal Garden Hotel, Kensington High Street, London.

* * *

There is no response. No answer to your letter. No beginning and no end. Things just getting worse and worse, day by day, worse and worse, hour by hour, worse and worse –

Jack Kirkland and Stuart Webb, the new director and the new secretary, have got their feet right under the table now, your table. Kirkland and Webby have unveiled their plans for a new 50,000-capacity stadium, a 50,000-capacity stadium with a sports and leisure centre attached, a 50,000-capacity