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

tell him. ‘Who knows? It could be only a matter of time …’

‘That’s the only problem,’ says John Shaw. ‘Knowing how long it’ll take –’

‘Right then,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll sign, but I’ll be back for the meeting tonight.’

‘See you then, then,’ says John. ‘See you then.’

You put down the phone. You find a mirror. You straighten your collar and tie; you’ve got on your World of Sport tie, a smile on your face, and some quotes ready for the cameras and the microphones, for your audience:

‘This is the greatest thing ever to happen to Brighton,’ Mike Bamber is saying. ‘Now we can really go places …’

‘And let me say this,’ you interrupt. ‘This chairman and his directors did a better job of selling Brighton to me than I did trying to sell Derby County …’

‘You’ve done it before,’ the press tell you. ‘Are you sure you can do it again?’

‘I am anxious to get started,’ you tell them. ‘Because I understand there is quite a bit of work to do and I know it’ll be tougher here than even at Hartlepools; tougher here because they didn’t expect anything at Hartlepools. Tougher here than Derby too because they had the tradition. The history. Now Peter and me have a reputation, now there are expectations, but there are no fairies at the end of Brighton pier …’

‘What is your opinion of the Brighton squad?’ they ask you.

‘There are only sixteen professionals here. Only one goalkeeper, only one trainer, only one secretary, only one groundsman; in fact, only one of everything. So that puts Peter and me in the majority for once, for they’ve got two bloody managers.’

‘What kind of staff and players will you be looking to bring in?’

‘Cheap ones,’ you tell them. ‘With some bloody coal on their faces.’

‘What’s your response to people who say that fetching Clough and Taylor to Brighton is like engaging McAlpine to decorate your roadside café?’

‘What’s wrong with a roadside café?’ you ask them. ‘You lot can stuff your Ritz. You can stuff your Savoy. You get your best bloody food in Britain at a roadside café.’

And you’re still the best bloody manager in Britain, the cameras and the microphones still bloody know it, the cameras and the microphones still bloody love you, still adore and applaud you as you take your bow, make your exit …

Mike Bamber drives you and Peter to meet the Brighton team at a hotel in Lewes. The team are nervous. The team are afraid –

Nervous and afraid of you.

They hide their nerves and their fears behind their jokes and their bravado, their casual jokes, their casual bravado. You hate them. You despise them. Their nerves and their fear, their jokes and their bravado –

You take off your jacket. You stick out your chin –

‘Go on, punch it!’ you tell them. ‘Show me you’ve got some fucking balls!’

* * *

I am not Don Revie and John McGovern is not Billy Bremner. The crowd are baying for my blood and the crowd are baying for John McGovern’s blood –

‘Take the bloody lad off,’ says Jimmy. ‘He’s fucking suffered enough.’

‘I wouldn’t take him off if we were losing 5–1,’ I tell him –

But Leeds are not losing 5–1 to Luton. Leeds United are drawing 1–1 with Luton; newly promoted Luton Town; Luton who are two places above Leeds on goal average. But 1–1 is not good enough. Not against Luton Town. The Leeds players, his players, know that. The fans and the press know that. Cussins, Bolton and the whole of the Leeds board bloody know that and, most of all, I fucking know that –

The whistle blows. The final whistle. The match ends –

The curtain comes down to the jeers and the boos of 26,450 Yorkshire zombies, drowning out the loudspeaker –

The loudspeaker which is playing ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’

I get up off that bench. I leave that dug-out. I make my way along to the tunnel, the dressing-room doors, the corridor and the press; the press, press, press, press, press, press, press –

‘Who’s sorry now, who’s sorry now …’

‘Our performance was just a yard short of a superb performance,’ I tell them –

‘Whose heart is achin’ for breakin’ each vow …’

‘It was a question of confidence and the confidence is down to me –’

‘Who’s sad and blue, who’s cryin’ too …’

‘I instil or destroy it and, as yet, I have not been able to instil it.’

‘Just like I cried over you …’

‘If we’d stayed 1–0 for a time and got another, we would have blossomed.’

‘Right to the end, just like a friend …’

‘I swear to you it was that much away,’ I tell them, indicating half an inch with my finger and thumb. ‘I swear to you, just that much. I swear …’

‘I tried to warn you somehow …’

‘I am not concerned about the overall situation at all.’

‘You had your way, now you must pay …’

‘You are only concerned if you can’t see any way it can improve.’

‘I’m glad that you’re sorry now …’

‘I am glad I am the manager of Leeds instead of Luton.’

‘Right to the end, just like a friend …’

‘I am glad I am the manager.’

‘I tried to warn you somehow …’

‘I am the manager …’

‘You had your way, now you must pay …’

‘Upstairs with you,’ bellows Bolton down the corridor. ‘Now!’

‘I’m glad that you’re sorry now. I’m glad that you’re sorry now. I’m glad …’

THE SEVENTH AND FINAL RECKONING

First Division Positions, 8 September 1974

    P W D L F A Pts 1 Liverpool 6 5 1 0 14 4 11 2 Ipswich Town 6 4 1 1 9 3 10 3 Man. City 6 4 1 1 11 8 9 4 Stoke City 6 3 2 1