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

Your own wife squeezing your hand the tightest of all.

* * *

The press conference is late. The press conference is about the Irishman and Tottenham Hotspur. The press conference is not about the Manchester City game; not about the chances Leeds missed; the position Leeds are in. But Manny Cussins has still come along; to show his support for me; his confidence in me.

But the press don’t want to know about Manchester City. The press don’t want to know why the League Champions are just one place and point above the relegation zone. The press just want to know about the Irishman and Tottenham Hotspur –

Thank fucking Christ for Johnny fucking Giles.

‘As far as I am personally concerned, I think we should all be very sorry to lose him for his playing ability,’ says Manny Cussins. ‘We all value him for his wonderful service with us but would give fair consideration to anything that concerns his future.’

‘Have Leeds United had an enquiry or an offer from Tottenham about Giles?’

‘We’ve had no communication from anyone at Tottenham,’ says Cussins, glancing at me. ‘I think Mr Clough would have told us, had Giles been approached.’

‘Is that right, Brian?’ they ask me. ‘You’ve had no contact with Tottenham?’

* * *

You are stood in the car park of the Newton Park Hotel with the Derby players, your players, the Derby players and their wives and their kids, your own wife and your own kids –

No one wants to get into their car. No one wants to go to their home –

No one wants to say goodnight. To say farewell. To say goodbye –

To say, this is the end, and then let go.

* * *

Round the corner. Down the corridor. There is a pile of letters and a list of phone calls on the desk in the office. I sweep them off the top into the bin and pour myself another large drink. I tilt the chair back on two legs and light another fag; the fortieth of the day –

There are voices. There are voices. There are voices in the corridor –

Don’s voice; I swear it sounds like Don’s voice in the corridor –

I sit forward. I put down my drink. I open the door –

The voices are gone, but the echo still here –

‘Are you there, Brian?’

* * *

Last thing tonight, with a head full of champagne and a chest full of cigarettes, you pick up the phone and Keeling tells you, ‘They tried to get Bobby Robson.’

‘Bobby Robson?’ you ask him. ‘You’re fucking joking?’

‘Longson and Kirkland approached Ipswich first thing this morning.’

‘He’d never take the job,’ you tell him. ‘Not Bobby.’

‘Sounds like you’re right.’

‘So who’s next on their list?’ you ask him again. ‘Alf Ramsey?’

‘I wouldn’t be surprised,’ laughs Keeling. ‘Alf or Pat Saward.’

‘Pat who?’ you ask Keeling.

‘Pat Saward,’ laughs Keeling again. ‘Brighton sacked him this afternoon.’

‘Brighton?’ you ask him. ‘What fucking division are they in?’

Day Thirty-five

Jimmy picks me up this morning, picks me up in his brand-new Vauxhall Victor 1800, courtesy of Wallace Arnold Sales and Service Limited and Leeds United AFC –

‘McQueen and Hunter got Magnums, Bates the Magnum Estate,’ Jimmy gushes. ‘Reaney, Jones, Stewart and Duncan all got the Victor 2300; that’s the one your Irish mate drives. Bremner, Lorimer, Harvey and Joe Jordan already have the VX 4/90s. Trevor Cherry, Terry Cooper, Madeley and Clarkey all went for this one, same as me.’

‘That’s lovely,’ I tell him. ‘All one big happy family, eh?’

‘Fuck off,’ he laughs. ‘You’ll be getting yours and you bloody know it.’

‘Is that right?’ I ask him. ‘So what did John McGovern and John O’Hare get then?’

Jimmy stops laughing. Jimmy says, ‘They weren’t there.’

‘I told you,’ I tell him again. ‘They hate us.’

‘Who hates you?’ asks Jimmy. ‘Come on, who hates you?’

‘The players, Syd Owen and Lindley, all the other coaches and trainers, the board, the ground staff, the medical staff, the office staff, the cleaners, the cooks; you bloody name them and they fucking hate us, hate and despise us.’

‘So how come I got a car, then?’ asks Jimmy.

‘Must be something about you I don’t know and they do.’

‘Now you are being paranoid,’ he says. ‘Just being paranoid, Boss.’

* * *

First thing this morning, with a head full of aches and a chest full of pains, you pick up the phone and Keeling tells you, ‘They’re trying to get Dave Mackay.’

‘Dave Mackay?’ you repeat. ‘You’re fucking joking with me?’

‘I wish I were, Brian. I wish I were.’

‘He’ll never take the job,’ you tell him. ‘Not Dave.’

‘Well, Longson went all the way to Northampton to see him last night.’

‘Northampton?’

‘Mackay was there watching the Forest youth team.’

‘He’ll never take it,’ you tell him again. ‘Not Dave. Not Derby.’

‘It sounds like he’s already as good as taken it, Brian.’

‘You’re fucking joking?’ you ask him again. ‘Not Dave Mackay.’

‘Yes,’ says Keeling. ‘Dave Mackay.’

* * *

Under the stands, deep under those stands, through the doors, right through those doors, round the corner, right round that corner and down the corridor, down and down and down that corridor, I sit in the office and I open another bottle. I open another bottle and I light another fag. I light another fag and I tilt the chair back on two legs. I tilt the chair back on two legs and I close my eyes. I close my eyes and I tilt the chair back –

Further and further and further …

I tilt the chair back and then I feel the legs begin to give. I feel the legs begin to give until they finally go. They finally go and I fall backwards. I fall backwards and I bang my head on the wall behind the desk. I bang my head and I lie on the floor