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

call Peter; Pete busy packing his case, whistling, ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside …’

‘I can’t go through with it,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t, Pete.’

‘We’ve got a great deal,’ says Peter. ‘A better deal than the one we were on.’

‘It’s not about the money,’ you tell him. ‘I just can’t go through with it.’

‘Then we’re finished,’ he shouts, he screams, he rants and he raves –

‘That’s you and me fucking finished!’

Day Thirty-nine

Saturday’s come again, with Saturday’s stink again; the sweat and the mud, the liniment and the grease; the steam and the soap, the sewer and the shampoo. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear. The doubt and the fear –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

I know no one wants to play for me. To pull on a shirt for me. To put on their boots for me. To walk down that tunnel. To walk onto that pitch for me –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

Not Harvey or Stewart. Not Reaney or Madeley. Not Cherry or Yorath. Not Hunter or McQueen. Not Jordan or Jones. Not Cooper or Lorimer. Not Bates or the Grays. Not Giles or Bremner. Not Allan Clarke or Duncan McKenzie. Not even John McGovern or John O’Hare. Not these days. This Saturday –

Saturday 7 September 1974.

Under their feet and under their stand, through their doors and round their corners, I stay out of their dressing room, I stay out of their boardroom; down the corridors, I stay locked in my office with my ornamental animals and my pictures of birds, pouring my drinks and lighting my fags, listening for their feet, listening for their voices –

‘Some might say it’s their manager. Some might say it’s thee …’

I pour another drink and I light another fag; another drink, another fag; another drink, another fag. More feet and more voices, knocking on the door, rattling at the lock –

‘Boss,’ calls Jimmy. ‘Boss, the players are waiting for you in the dressing room.’

‘What the hell for?’ I answer. ‘To whisper and mutter behind my bloody back? To ignore and fucking mock me? To plot and to …’

‘They just want to know who’s playing,’ says Jimmy. ‘That’s all, Boss.’

‘Harvey. Reaney. Cherry. McGovern. McQueen. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. O’Hare. Giles and Madeley,’ I tell him. ‘With Yorath on the bench.’

‘You’re not coming down then?’ he asks. ‘Not even for a word?’

‘Not today,’ I tell him. ‘I’ll see you out there …’

The sound of Jimmy’s feet retreat and echo down the corridor and round the corner; retreat and echo and hide among the sound of thousands of other pairs of feet, climbing to their seats, taking their places for the showdown, this final exhibition –

‘Are you there, Brian? Are you still there?’

I finish my drink and put out my fag. I unlock the door and open it. I close and lock it again. I walk down the corridor and round the corner, past the dressing room and down the tunnel. The teams already out on the pitch. I walk into the light and the stadium. Into the silence. I make my way along to the dug-out. To that bench. To that seat. In that silence –

‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’

The 26, 450 Yorkshire zombies inside Elland Road silent today. The 26,450 Yorkshire zombies silent until some big black fucking dog barks, ‘Bugger off, Clough! You’re not the bloody Don and you never fucking will be.’

* * *

Last night Derby County were beaten by Sunderland. Beaten by a Vic Halom hat-trick. Beaten 3–0 and knocked out of the League Cup. Derby did not play particularly badly, Derby did not play particularly well; but the difference between Derby and Sunderland, according to the press, the difference was that Sunderland would do anything their manager asked of them –

Walk on water! Run through fire!

Anything bloody Bob fucking Stokoe asked of them; they hung on his every word, they lived by his every word, just like your team did, just like your boys –

But Derby County would not do what Dave Mackay asked of them. Derby County do not hang on Dave Mackay’s every word. They will not listen to Dave Mackay at all –

Now Derby County will not be at home to Liverpool in the next round –

The press are not impressed. The fans are not impressed –

‘Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie! Bring back Cloughie!’

But this morning you are not back in Derby. This morning you and Peter kissed and made up at East Midlands airport. Now you and Peter are down at the Goldstone Ground, Brighton; flown down first thing, met at the airport and driven to the Courtlands Hotel –

The champagne breakfast. The Rolls-Royce to the ground. The red carpet –

Now you are about to become the new manager of Brighton and Hove Albion FC; unveiled and announced. But there is still time, still time –

You loosen your tie. You undo your collar. You make some excuses. You walk down a corridor. Round a corner. You find a phone. You call John Shaw –

‘The whole of the bloody nation’s sporting fucking press are here,’ you tell him. ‘Should I sign or not, John? Should I sign or not?’

‘It’s your career,’ he tells you. ‘I can’t tell you what to do, Brian.’

‘But if I can get back,’ you tell him. ‘If I can get back …’

‘We’re doing our best,’ he says. ‘Doing our very best to make that happen.’

‘I know you are,’ you tell him. ‘I know you are.’

‘And if the team keeps getting results like last night, who knows?’

‘You’re right,’ you