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

not even want to be the manager of England –

You want to be the manager of Derby County. That’s the job you want –

The Derby job, that’s the only job you want. Your old job –

Your old job back, that’s what you want, all you want –

All you ever wanted and all you want now –

Now you have no job, now it’s too late –

The clock ticking and ticking –

Now you’re unemployed –

Unemployed, again.

Day Thirty-seven

I still can’t sleep so I open my eyes again; I am still in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room, with an old- fashioned hangover and an old-fashioned headache, my modern luxury phone ringing and ringing and ringing –

‘Love? Is that you, love?’ I ask. ‘What time is it?’

‘I’m not your wife or your bloody fancy piece,’ laughs the voice on the other end. ‘And it’s time you were at fucking work, you lazy sod. I know I bleeding am –’

Alan Brown, manager of Nottingham Forest. Alan Brown, friend of Peter –

‘Alan?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for?’

‘Well, I didn’t get that much of a chance to speak to you last night,’ says Alan. ‘Not with your directors dropping like flies, but I liked what I saw on the pitch.’

‘Who did you like?’

‘Terry Cooper,’ says Alan. ‘He would do very nicely for us, assuming …’

‘Assuming bloody what?’

‘Assuming his leg’s fully mended and the price is right, that’s what.’

‘Don’t you worry about his bloody leg,’ I tell him. ‘And don’t you worry about that fucking price either.’

‘Right then,’ says Alan. ‘I’ll be hearing from you later then, will I?’

‘I’ll talk to the board,’ I tell him. ‘Then phone you back with the numbers.’

‘Look forward to hearing them, Brian,’ he says. ‘Look forward to hearing them.’

I hang up my modern luxury telephone. I get out of my modern luxury bed. I go into my modern luxury bathroom and I turn on the modern luxury taps of my modern luxury bath just as my modern luxury bloody phone starts ringing and ringing and ringing again. So I wrap one of them modern luxury towels around myself and pad back across the modern luxury carpet to pick up that modern luxury phone again –

‘Don’t tell us they’ve fucking sacked you already?’

Freddie Goodwin, manager of Birmingham and fellow struggler –

‘Freddie?’ I ask him. ‘What can I do you for this fine Yorkshire morning?’

‘You can sell us Joe Jordan,’ he says. ‘That’s what you can do for me.’

‘Consider it done.’ I tell him. ‘Consider it done.’

I leave that modern luxury phone off the hook and walk back to the modern luxury bathroom to soak in my freezing cold modern luxury fucking bath –

Thirteen days before the first round of the European Cup –

Leeds United fourth from the foot of Division One.

* * *

You and Peter are watching Derby County play West Ham United. Not from the bench. Not from the dug-out. Not from the directors’ box. You and Peter are not even in Upton bloody Park. You and Peter are watching Derby play West Ham from the studios of London Weekend fucking Television.

It’s almost half-time and Derby have given a positive performance, have made most of the running against a very fallible-looking West Ham defence. Roger Davies has had a lot of room in which to collect and distribute the ball, and, from one of his headers, a little nod on from a Boulton punt, Hector is away with only Mervyn Day to beat, but the shot’s stopped and the ball bobs away past a post and you and Peter are back down in your seats. Back at your desks. Not at Upton Park. Not in the dug-out. Not on the bench.

You look down at the team sheet: Boulton, Webster, Nish, Newton, McFarland, Todd, McGovern, Gemmill, Davies, Hector, Hinton. Sub.: O’Hare. Manager: Mackay –

You’re not at Upton Park. You’re not in the dug-out. Not on the bench –

You are here in the studios of London Weekend Television.

You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You still can’t breathe. You get up from your desk. You tell them you are off for a pee. You go out of the studio. You go down a corridor. Round a corner. Down some stairs. Out through a door to find a phone box –

‘Listen, Mike,’ you tell Mike Keeling. ‘Can you track down Mike Bamber for us. The Brighton chairman. Not a bloody clue where he is, but I need to speak to him …’

* * *

Leeds United is in mourning. Their suits dark, their ties black, their flag at half mast. The board too busy grieving to see me. Their doors shut, their lips sealed –

But not the Irishman. The Irishman winks. The Irishman asks, ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Like a hole in the top of my skull.’

The Irishman smiles. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment, Mr Clough.’

‘Take it as a reference if you want.’

The Irishman laughs. ‘I’ll be sure to pass it on to the Spurs.’

‘They still want you then, do they?’

The Irishman shrugs. ‘Early days yet, Mr Clough. Still early days.’

‘But you want the fucking job, don’t you?’

The Irishman shrugs again. The Irishman asks, ‘Who’s to say?’

‘There’s nothing for you here. You know that?’

The Irishman gets to his feet. ‘I’ll be seeing you, Mr Clough …’

* * *

Mike Keeling tracks down Mike Bamber. Bamber is in the directors’ box at Hereford. He is watching Hereford United beat Brighton and Hove Albion 3–0. Mike Bamber leaves the directors’ box. Runs from the box. Bamber takes the call from Keeling –

‘Brian told me to tell you to get the team coach to come through London on your way back