David Peace - The Damned Utd

I sit back down. I light another fag. I pour myself another drink –

I listen for the sound of a pin drop, drop, dropping.

You have bought Dave Mackay to be your sweeper. You have bought Pete’s old mate Les Green from the Southern League to be your keeper. You know that this time the final pieces are in their places. You know that this time the traditional pre-season optimism is well-founded, built on bloody rock, rock, rock –

Rock, rock, rocks like Dave Mackay and Les Green .

You can’t wait for the first game of the new season, can’t fucking wait –

Away at Blackburn Rovers. Roy McFarland scores. But so do they –

You draw 1–1. One point. Away from home. Not bad .

Back at home you play Blackpool. John O’Hare scores. But so do they –

You draw 1–1 again. One point again. But at home. Not good .

You go to Bramall Lane. To Sheffield United. You don’t score. But they do –

You lose 2–0. No points. Bad, bad, bad; you are eighteenth in Division Two. Eighteenth again and on sinking shifting, fucking sand, sand, sands –

There are tears again and there are broken glasses. Then Peter puts out his fag and Peter gets out his little black book and Peter says –

‘ I know just the player. Just the club .’

* * *

Nothing is ever the way they say it is. Nothing is ever the way you want it to be. John Giles knocks on his door. John Giles sits down opposite my desk. He says nothing. He just sits. He just waits –

‘I’ve had Bill Nick on the phone this morning,’ I tell him.

The Irishman smiles, brushes the tops of his trouser legs and asks me, ‘You sure now you didn’t call him?’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘Because you want me gone,’ he smiles.

‘Why would I want you gone, John?’

‘Because you hate me,’ he smiles. ‘Can’t stand the sight of me.’

‘Look, what’s said is said,’ I tell him. ‘But the past is the past to me. Finished.’

‘That’d be very convenient for you,’ he says.

‘Look, I’ve told you before,’ I tell him again. ‘You have intelligence, skill, agility and the best passing ability in the game.’

‘But you’d still be glad to see the back of me, now wouldn’t you?’

‘Look,’ I tell him. ‘There are things I don’t like about your game and I’ve told you to your face what they are, but I’ve nothing against you as a person. I admire what you’ve done with Ireland and so does Bill Nicholson. That’s why he called.’

‘And so what did Mr Nicholson say?’

‘He said he’d like to talk to you about going to Spurs as assistant manager.’

‘Still playing as well?’

‘Yes.’

‘Nice to know someone thinks there’s life left yet in these old legs of mine.’

‘I’ve never said you’ve shot it,’ I tell him. ‘Never said that.’

‘It’s written all over your face, man.’

‘Are you interested in talking with Bill Nicholson or not?’

‘Of course I’m interested,’ he smiles. ‘Who wouldn’t be?’

‘How about this then?’ I tell him. ‘No need for you to travel with the team to Villa tonight. You stay up here and give Bill Nicholson a call. Have a chat with Bill and with your family. Arrange a time to go down and meet him, see the lay of the land.’

‘That’s very kind of you,’ he says. ‘But I’ll travel with you all the same tonight.’

* * *

You are in the dug-out at Leeds Road, Huddersfield. You are losing 2–0 again. You will have taken just two points from a possible eight. You are filled with doubts. Fucking racked with fear. But then something happens; something bloody special happens –

Your team are under pressure in their own six-yard area. The team look like conceding a third. The ball comes to Mackay. Mackay puts his foot on the ball –

‘ Kick it! Shift it!’ shouts Jack Burkitt beside you. ‘Get fucking rid! ’

‘ Shut up, Jack,’ says Peter. ‘This is what we bought him for. This is what we want him to do. To put his foot on it. To pass it out. To lead and teach by example —’

Mackay plays the ball out and defence becomes attack –

Defence becomes attack. Defence becomes attack –

‘ We’ll buy Carlin tomorrow,’ whispers Peter. ‘Then we’ll be on our way .’

* * *

I get on the coach last and make Allan Clarke shift so I can sit next to Billy Bremner again. I try and make chit-chat. To break the ice. But Billy Bremner doesn’t give a fuck about President Nixon or George Best. He’s not interested in Frank Sinatra or Muhammad Ali. He doesn’t want to talk about the World Cup, about playing against Brazil. Doesn’t want to talk about his holidays. His family full stop. Bremner just looks out of the window and smokes the whole way down to Birmingham. Then, as the coach pulls into Villa Park, he turns to me and he says, ‘If you’re looking for a pal, Mr Clough, you can count me out.’

* * *

When you went to Bramall Lane last week, when you went to Sheffield United and they beat you 2–0, you blamed it on Willie Carlin. You’ve had enough of going to places like Sheffield bloody United and losing 2–0 because of players like Willie fucking Carlin –

You’ve had enough of failure. Doubts. Had enough of disappointment –

Had enough of Willie fucking Carlin, hard little Scouse bastard –

Dirty little bugger of a bloke, had enough, enough, enough –

‘ But you’ll do for me,’ you tell him. ‘If you do as you’re bloody told .’

‘ I’d rather play for fucking Leeds,’ he tells you .

‘ You’d fucking fit right in and all,’ you laugh. ‘But they don’t bloody want you, do they, Willie? ’

‘ They bloody might,’ he says. ‘You don’t fucking know that .’

‘ Well, I don’t see Don fucking Revie sat here, do you? ’

‘ I don’t know what I see .’

‘ Well, I know what I see,’ you tell him. ‘I see a five-foot-four dirty little bastard who spends half the fucking match arguing with the referee and who’s been booked eighteen bloody times and sent off another three fucking times for his trouble. Now that won’t do for me because you’re no good to me suspended. But if you behave yourself and keep that great big bloody Scouse gob of yours shut, I’ll get you a bloody Championship medal to go with all your fucking bookings and sendings-off .’

‘ And what if I can’t behave myself? What if I don’t fucking want to? ’

‘ You will,’ you laugh. ‘Because I’m not asking you, I’m fucking telling you .’

* * *

I’m down in the dug-out for this game. This testimonial. This centenary game at Villa Park. Jimmy and me with Stewart, Cherry and Johnny fucking Giles for company –

My one and only plan before the game to make sure Johnny bloody Giles doesn’t get a fucking kick, but then Madeley has to come off and so on goes John –

Thank fuck for Allan Clarke, two great goals; one with his head from a Reaney cross, the other sliding into a low centre from the Irishman. The rest of the match is the same old dirty Leeds; McQueen gets booked, then Cooper gives away a penalty — saved by Harvey — then Hunter gives away another, but the Villa lad misses. Half-time I tell Jimmy to take off Harvey and Hunter and stick on Stewart and Cherry while I go for a drink and a chat in the top of the stands with Jimmy Bloomfield, the Leicester manager –

We talk about Shilton, swaps and trades. We talk about money –