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

Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry” or you’re fucking sacked!’

‘Sit down,’ Ron is saying. ‘Come on, Brian lad, sit down …’

‘So make it one for my baby,’ Mike is singing. ‘And one more …’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s the wrong fucking song.’

‘Brian,’ they’re saying. ‘Brian, please –’

‘I want “I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”,’ I tell the bar, the hotel, the whole of Leeds. ‘That’s all I want. “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”. Fucking wankers, the lot of you!’

But there’s no one here. No one in the piano bar –

Harry, Ron and Mike have all gone home –

Bert the Pianist has gone home too –

No one here but bloody me –

Only fucking me now –

Cloughie.

The barman takes my legs, the waiter takes my arms, but no one takes me home.

Day Thirty-two

England have drawn. England are out of the World Cup. The press and the television want Ramsey out. The press and the television want you in. But all you want this morning is company. Not to be on your Jack Jones in a posh London hotel. Not today; Thursday 18 October 1973.

You leave the capital. You drive back to Derby. There is a man on your doorstep. Man you’ve never met before. He says, ‘I want to help you get your job back, Brian.’

His name is John. John writes plays. Plays about the Yom Kippur War.

‘Come on in then,’ you tell him. ‘Have a seat and have a drink.’

You hand him a large scotch and water. The doorbell rings –

‘Brian,’ whispers your wife. ‘It’s the police, love.’

You put down your whisky with no water. You go to your front door:

‘Hello, George. Are you coming in?’ you ask Detective Inspector George Stewart.

‘Not today, Brian,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to mark your card.’

‘And why’s that then, George?’ you ask him.

George nods at the Mercedes. ‘You do know you’re not insured, don’t you?’

‘Like hell I’m not,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve just driven back from bloody London!’

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you that Mr Kirkland has cancelled your insurance.’

‘He’s done bloody what?’ you ask him. ‘The fucking cunt!’

‘Aye,’ says George. ‘And I wouldn’t want you to run into one of our lot who doesn’t know who you are, or who doesn’t give a shit who you are, or who just wants to make a bloody name for themselves, or just plain doesn’t like you very fucking much.’

‘Point taken, George,’ you tell him and shut the door in his face.

‘That’s bloody outrageous,’ says John. ‘Fucking diabolical.’

‘Fucking inconvenient and all,’ you tell him. ‘I’ve got to drive to Birmingham.’

‘About a job?’ asks John.

‘I bloody wish,’ you tell him. ‘I’m down to play in a charity match tonight.’

‘I’ll drive you,’ says John. ‘I’d be happy to.’

‘In that case I’ll have another drink,’ you tell John as your wife leaves the room to pick up the kids –

To make them their tea. To give them their baths. To put them to bed –

To try to lead a normal bloody life.

Later, much later that night, John is driving you back home from Birmingham, from the charity match and the nightclub: the Talk of the Midlands, where you shared a stage with Mike bloody Yarwood and appealed to the people of Derby for their support –

The people of Derby who gave you a standing fucking ovation –

John is driving you back home when he asks, ‘Are you going to the game?’

You open your eyes. You ask him, ‘Which one?’

‘The bloody Derby–Leicester one,’ he laughs. ‘On Saturday.’

You shake your head. You tell him, ‘I daren’t.’

‘You what?’ he says. ‘Cloughie scared?’

You nod your head. ‘That’s right.’

‘Listen to me,’ he tells you now. ‘If you were to walk around that running track on Saturday afternoon, you’d get an ecstatic reception. The television will be there. Be on all the news programmes. Think of the visual impact. The impact on the public.’

‘I can’t do it,’ you tell him. ‘They might throw me out.’

‘They won’t throw you out,’ he laughs. ‘You created that team. You’re a hero.’

‘Well, I’ve not got a bloody ticket either.’

‘You leave that to me,’ says John. ‘You leave everything to me.’

* * *

Saturday comes again, welcome or not, it comes again like it always does, welcome or not, wanted or not, another judgement day –

The chance to be saved, the chance to be damned.

I sit alone at the front of the coach on the motorway to Manchester and I already know today’s result before we’ve even arrived –

No mystery. Not today. Not there. Not at Maine Road.

I’ve not been to a game yet when I haven’t already known the result before my team has got changed, before one whistle has been blown or one ball has been kicked; I know the result, know the answer –

Because I look into their eyes, I look into their hearts –

No mystery. Not today. Not any day. Not there –

Not in their eyes. Not in their hearts –

No mystery there. Just answers –

In the eyes. In the hearts –

Because in our eyes and in our hearts we have already lost, we are already damned.

* * *

It is Saturday lunchtime. You are at the Kedleston Hall Hotel, your new headquarters, having a long lunch with John, his mate Bill Holmes, your mate Dave Cox and Peter –

Peter who looks like he’s died twice in the last two days.

You’re all smoking and drinking more than you’re eating; knocking back the booze; knocking back the Dutch courage –

Laughing and joking more than you’re talking.

Then John looks at his watch. Then John says, ‘It’s time, Brian.’

You finish your drink. You pat Pete on his knee. You both stand up. You leave the restaurant of the Kedleston Hall