David Peace - The Damned Utd

In the sky over England, up among the bloody birds and the clouds, no one feels invincible. Not up here. Not even me. Not without a drink or a fag in my hand. Up here everybody’s mortal, full of regret, wishing they were back down there with their feet upon the ground, making things right, making things good, making things better –

They’ll be having their tea, my wife and my kids, watching a bit of telly …

Never flew with Middlesbrough. Never flew with Sunderland –

Then it’ll be bathtime and bedtime, a story if they’re good …

Never would have if we’d stayed at bloody Hartlepools –

Goodnight, sleep tight; lights out and sweet dreams …

Never would again if I had my way. Never would again –

Sweet, sweet dreams .

* * *

Observe. Expose. Replace. Observe. Expose. Replace –

This is what Peter does; what Peter does for his money; does to feel worthwhile; to feel needed; important. Stuart Webb’s been in Peter’s ear; he’s been telling him about this lad at his old club; this young Scot at Preston North End. So Peter goes to see Archie Gemmill and ninety minutes later Peter is on the telephone to the Baseball Ground –

‘ I’ve seen one,’ he tells you. ‘Get Longson’s cheque book up here fast .’

You drive up to Preston. You meet Alan Ball, father of England’s Alan Ball, the manager of Preston North End. You agree to pay £64,000 for Gemmill –

If Gemmill will agree to join you (which he will; they always do) .

Peter goes back home now, needed and important, his job done –

Now your job starts. You go round to Gemmill’s house. Two minutes inside this house and you know your work has only just begun; you can sense another club, the League Champions Everton, are in here; you can hear it in Gemmill’s voice, see it in his eyes, smell it on his clothes. And then there’s Gemmill’s wife; Betty’s seen you on the telly and she’s not keen on what she’s seen, that mouth, those opinions. Betty’s also pregnant and against any other changes in her life –

Two minutes in here and you know you’ll not be going home tonight. So you roll up your sleeves, march into their kitchen and get stuck into the washing-up .

‘ I’d like to sleep on it,’ says Archie Gemmill .

‘ Good man,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll kip in your spare room, if you don’t mind .’

The next morning Betty cooks you bacon and eggs while Archie signs the contract between the marmalade and the ketchup –

A job well done, that’s you .

You go back to the Preston ground. You break the news to Ball; Ball doesn’t look too sad. Ball thinks he’s pulled a fast one –

‘ He’s not the player you think he is,’ says Ball. ‘Your mate’s fucked up .’

You don’t listen to him; you don’t give a fuck. You and Peter, you know players. Nobody else knows players, just you and Peter –

‘ You’re not making any friends, you and your mate,’ says Ball –

You don’t bloody listen; you don’t give a flying fuck –

It’s all water off a duck’s back to you .

You go back to Derby. You sell Willie Carlin to Leicester. You let Peter tell him. Hold his hand. Hold his heart –

Inject it full of cortisone. Dry his tears –

All water off a duck’s back .

* * *

There are 15,000 at the Dell for this bloody Ted Bates testimonial match; the last of these fucking dress rehearsals. Clarke, Madeley and Yorath haven’t made the trip and so I play Terry Cooper and Eddie Gray from the start to see how they’ll hold up for Saturday. I also play Hunter in the first half as well, even though he’s suspended for Saturday, play him because I’ve got a couple of prospective clubs in the stands here to have a look at him, Cherry, Cooper and Harvey. Flog those four for starters, get shot of the Irishman, buy Shilton, Todd, McGovern and O’Hare and then I’ll be halfway there –

But now I’m still back in the stalls; back in the stalls with the season four days off.

In the dug-out, under his breath, Jimmy Gordon asks, ‘What’s wrong, Boss?’

‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘You’re not even watching them,’ he says. ‘Eyes are on the roof of the stand.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You do your job and I’ll do mine.’

There are just two good things about this game: the behaviour of the players, for bloody once, and Duncan McKenzie’s first goal for the club, a fifteen-yard shot inside the far post. He also misses a hatful of chances, but at least he’s got one under his belt –

Just two good things in ninety fucking minutes of football –

It’s not enough. Jimmy knows it. I bloody know it –

There is something wrong.

The players know it too. They feel it in their boots –

The season starts in four days. The season starts away from home.

* * *

It is Halloween 1970, and Peter looks like death. You know how he feels :

You have played fourteen games so far this season and won just four of them. You have been beaten at home by Coventry, Newcastle, Chelsea and Leeds –

Leeds, Leeds, Leeds :

You never had a kick, never had a bloody touch. Never had any fucking confidence either. Just cortisone. Norman Hunter man of the match, a colossus, the Leeds defence outstanding, with goals from Sniffer Clarke and Peter Lorimer –

Leeds went two points clear at the top. You dropped four places down –

Now you’ve just lost 2–0 to Arsenal. Now you are twentieth in the league .

Peter is stretched out on the treatment table at Highbury. He looked terrible on the coach here from Paddington and looked no better in the dug-out next to you –

‘ I’d give anything to stay here,’ he tells you .

‘ Come on,’ you tell him. ‘You’re taking the team to Majorca tomorrow .’

Peter opens his eyes. His bloodshot eyes. Peter looks up at you –

You’re not going to Majorca. Not this time. It’s half-term holidays for the kids and you’re going to spend the week with them and your wife .

You’ll not be going home to pack; you’ll not be driving back down to Luton Airport; you’ll not be flying to Majorca at three in the morning –

That’ll be Peter, with his pains in his chest, with his doubts and his fears –

Not you. Just Peter. Peter and the team .

* * *

I’m first on the coach. The coach back to the airport. Least there’ll be drink on this plane. The plane back to Leeds –

Leeds, Leeds, fucking Leeds .

I’m first off when it lands. First back on the coach to Elland Road. First off again. The players stumbling back to their cars in the dark, them that can still walk. But there’s no car and no walking for me; a taxi waiting outside Elland Road to take McKenzie and me back to the Dragonara Hotel –

Situated next to Leeds City Station and the closest modern luxury hotel to the Leeds United ground. For party rates please contact the sales manager …

Part of the Ladbroke Group .

I sit on my modern luxury bed in my modern luxury hotel room. I stare out of the modern luxury window at the modern concrete city of Leeds –

Motorway City, City of the Future .

I reach over the modern luxury bed and I switch on the modern luxury radio. But there’s no Frank Sinatra. No Tony Bennett. No Ink Spots and no more bloody brandy either. I get off my modern luxury bed and walk down the modern luxury corridor and bang on the door of a modern luxury footballer –