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

of slaughter. His field of vengeance. His field of victory!

I shouldn’t be here. I should be at home with my wife and with my kids, carving the roast and digging the garden, walking the dog and washing the car. Not here. Not in this place –

This hateful, spiteful place –

Flecked in their phlegm.

It starts to spit again. I put out my cig. I finish my drink. I walk off that field, off that pitch. Down that tunnel, down that corridor. Round those corners, through those doors and out of Elland Road.

In the car park of the ground, in the shadow of the stands, there are four young kids in their boots and their jeans, kicking a jam-jar lid about –

‘Morning, lads,’ I shout.

‘Afternoon, Mr Clough,’ they shout back.

‘How are you today then, lads?’

‘All right, ta,’ they shout. ‘And you?’

‘I’m surviving,’ I tell them and walk across the car park, across the car park to the huts on their stilts beside the banking that leads up to the training pitch. The huts are all locked so I have to give the lock a right good kick before it gives in –

‘What you doing?’ the young lads ask me.

‘You’ll see,’ I tell them and force open the door to one of the huts. I go inside and drag out one of those huge string bags that hold all the old match-day balls. I open up the bag and boot one of the balls down the steps from the hut to the lads in the car park –

‘There you go,’ I tell them. ‘Courtesy of Leeds United.’

‘Ta very much,’ they all shout.

‘You’re very welcome, lads,’ I tell them and walk back down the steps from the hut, down to the car park and across to my car, a little lad waiting by the door –

He asks, ‘What happened to your hand, Mr Clough?’

‘I got it caught somewhere, didn’t I?’ I tell him.

‘How did you do that then?’

‘Stuck it somewhere I bloody shouldn’t have, that’s how.’

‘Least it weren’t your fucking nose,’ he laughs.

‘You might be right there,’ I tell him. ‘But there’s no need for language like that, not on a Sunday, so you bugger off home and get that big mouth of yours washed out.’

Day Thirty-four

The scenes have shifted, the sets changed again. The curtain falls and another one rises. You have taken your final bow at the old Baseball Ground. You have transferred to London. You have been on the Parkinson show. You have been in the papers, all over the papers, the front and back pages –

Never out of the papers. Never off the television –

Risen in your new grey suit, arms outstretched –

Cloughie, Immaculate.

Jimmy Gordon, Judas James Gordon, might be in temporary charge of the team, might be the one who picked Saturday’s team, but the Derby players, your players, beat Leicester City 2–1. ‘For Brian and Peter,’ they said. ‘For Brian and Peter.’

Not for Jimmy. Not for the bloody board and not for fucking Longson.

But Longson has not been silent. Longson has responded. Longson in the papers. Front and back pages. Longson on the telly and things have got nasty now; very, very nasty now because Longson has made all kinds of allegations about you; allegations about expenses; allegations about transfer deals; allegations about players’ salaries and bonuses; allegations about tickets and petty cash; about money, money, money –

Always funny, funny money –

Not allegations made by the whole board. Just by Longson.

You drove back from London yesterday in a rented car. You kissed your wife. You kissed your kids. You had your Sunday lunch. Then you spent the rest of the day on the phone to your friends, your friends who came round, to drink your drinks and hold your hand, your friends who are solicitors, your friends who went through Longson’s statement, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by sentence, word by word, your friends who helped you repudiate that statement, paragraph by paragraph, line by line, sentence by sentence, word by word. Allegation by fucking allegation.

Today your friends who are solicitors will begin a libel action on your behalf. They will issue a writ. Not just against Longson, but against the whole board –

‘It’ll turn them against Longson,’ said John. ‘It’ll drive a wedge between them. Set them at each other’s throats, you’ll see. At each other’s throats, they’ll be.’

You get out of bed. You get washed. You get dressed –

You go downstairs. You go into the kitchen –

Risen again in your new grey suit –

Cloughie, Immaculate –

Unemployed.

* * *

The sun might be shining outside, the sky might be blue, but I’m under the covers of my bed, with the tables and the fixtures in my head; next Saturday, if Leeds beat Luton then Leeds will have five points. Five points could take Leeds up to eleventh or twelfth, if Leicester lose to Wolves, West Ham lose to Sheffield United, QPR lose to Birmingham, Chelsea lose to Middlesbrough, Tottenham lose to Liverpool, and if Arsenal and Burnley draw, Carlisle and Stoke draw, Ipswich and Everton draw. The problem is Derby vs Newcastle. If Derby and Newcastle draw, both teams will have six points and, if Leeds beat Luton, Leeds will only have five points. The best result then would be a defeat for Derby. Then Newcastle will have seven points and both Derby and Leeds will have five points. Then it will come down to goal average. So Leeds will need to beat Luton by three or four goals to make certain that Leeds climb above Derby; beat Luton who were promoted as Second Division