David Peace - The Damned Utd

Bang and bang and fucking bang again –

‘Who is it?’ shouts Duncan McKenzie. ‘It’s one o’clock in the morning.’

‘It’s Cloughie,’ I tell him. ‘I want to see you down in reception.’

He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will come .

‘Give us five minutes then,’ he shouts back. ‘I need to get dressed, Boss.’

‘Don’t make it any bloody longer then,’ I tell him.

Reception is deserted but for a terrible fucking draught and some horrible bloody music which the receptionist can’t seem to turn off. I have an argument about the music and the bar being closed but I still manage to order a pot of tea and then sit down with my feet up to wait for McKenzie –

‘Took your bloody time,’ I tell him. ‘Worse than a fucking woman.’

McKenzie sits down. McKenzie takes out his fags.

‘Don’t ever let me see you get off a plane in that condition again,’ I tell him.

‘What do you mean? What condition?’

‘Don’t play daft with me, lad. You were fucking rat-arsed!’

‘But I don’t drink, Boss,’ he says. ‘I’d only had a couple of tonic waters.’

‘Good job I’ve only ordered you a cup of bleeding tea then, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Boss,’ he says and puts out one cig and lights another –

‘And give us one of them while you’re at it,’ I tell him.

He hands me a cigarette and holds up a light –

I take a drag and ask him, ‘Who were you sat with on the plane back?’

‘I can’t remember now,’ McKenzie says. ‘Trevor Cherry, I think.’

‘What did he say about me?’

‘Pardon?’

‘Come on,’ I tell him. ‘What was bloody Cherry saying about me?’

‘We didn’t talk about you,’ he says. ‘Just small talk. Mutual friends.’

I know he’s lying. I know they talked of nothing but Cloughie.

‘You’ve settled in well,’ I tell him. ‘They trust you. Now what are they saying?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You’re supposed to be my eyes and ears in that bloody dressing room. Now what are they fucking saying about me?’

‘Nothing. Honest, Boss,’ he pleads. ‘Just worried about their futures. Nervous —’

‘Course they’re all fucking nervous,’ I tell him. ‘They’re all fucking old men; over thirty the bloody lot of them.’

‘They just want to play well —’

‘Fucking shut up about them, will you?’ I tell him. ‘What about me? No one understands my position. No one understands the mess Revie left them in and put me in; no contracts, over-the-hill the lot of them. Team had shot it and he knew it. No chance in hell they can win the European Cup. That’s why he fucked off and took the England job. You think he’d have walked out on a team that he thought was going to win the European Cup? The fucking European Cup? That man? Never in a month of bloody Sundays. They’ve fucking shot it; he knew it and I know it. Half them bloody players fucking know it and all; know it in their boots; know it in their hearts. But now it’s my job to tell them, tell them what they already bloody know but don’t want to fucking hear.’

He’s a good lad is Duncan. Duncan won’t argue. Duncan will nod .

‘Thank Christ I got you,’ I tell him. ‘Now bugger off.’

Duncan stands up. Duncan smiles. Duncan says, ‘Goodnight, Boss.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘Before I give you a bloody kiss goodnight.’

But Duncan doesn’t move. ‘Boss, can I ask you one question?’

‘If you give us another fag.’

Duncan hands me one, then asks, ‘What did you think of my goal?’

‘It was good,’ I tell him and Duncan smiles –

A right broad Cheshire Cat of a grin –

Just like my eldest. Just like my youngest –

‘Almost bloody good enough to make up for the other hundred fucking sitters you missed. Now get off to bloody bed, you’ve got fucking training tomorrow morning!’

* * *

It is the early hours of Saturday 9 January 1971. You are home to Wolves this afternoon. You are lying awake next to the wife –

You cannot sleep. You cannot dream –

You thought things had been on the up again; the draws with Liverpool and Manchester City, the wins over Blackpool and Forest. But then you lost at home to West Ham and away at Stoke, drawing 4–4 with Manchester United at home on Boxing Day –

4–4 when you’d been leading 2–0 at half-time; you blame Les bloody Green for that. Blame fucking Pete; it was Peter who brought him from Burton Albion with him; Taylor who’s kept defending him, paying off his gambling debts, fending off the paternity suits, lending him money and keeping him in the side when he’s cost you games .

You hear the phone ringing. You get out of bed. You go downstairs –

‘ You won’t see me today,’ says Taylor. ‘I’ve not slept a bloody wink. I feel like fucking death. I think I’ve got cancer .’

‘ Be at the ground in half an hour,’ you tell him .

‘ It’s no good,’ he says. ‘I’ve had it .’

‘ I want you there not later than nine,’ you tell him and hang up –

I feel like death. I feel like death. I feel like death.

You get out your address book and the phone book and you start to make the calls; to call in favours, to trade on your fame; to pull strings, to get what you want –

The best possible care for Peter .

You get the X-ray department of your local hospital to open on their weekend. You get the best doctor in Derby to come in, to bring a cancer specialist with him .

You pick Pete up at the ground. You drive him to the hospital –

And then you wait, wait in the corridor, wait and pray for Pete .

‘ He’s had a heart attack,’ the doctor says. ‘Probably about eight weeks ago .’

‘ The Arsenal game,’ you tell Pete. ‘Remember how you were? ’

‘ When was that?’ asks the doctor .

‘ October thirty-first,’ I tell him. ‘We lost 2–0 .’

‘ Well, that certainly fits,’ says the doctor. ‘Now you need to drive him home slowly and make sure he stays there .’

‘ We’ve got a match against Wolves this afternoon,’ says Pete. ‘I can’t .’

‘ You’ve got no match. Nor will you have for several weeks,’ the doctor tells Pete. ‘It’s important that you rest completely .’

You both thank the doctor, the consultant, the specialist and the X-ray department. Then you drive Pete home slowly and see him into his house, making sure he stays put .

Back at the ground, you drop Peter’s old mate Les Green; drop him after 129 consecutive league and cup appearances; drop him and tell him he will never play for Derby County or Brian Clough again –

You play Colin Boulton in goal. You lose 2–1 –

It’s your twelfth defeat of the season .

I wake up in my modern luxury hotel bed in my modern luxury hotel room with an old-fashioned fucking hangover and no one but myself to blame –

No one but myself and Harvey, Stewart, Lorimer, the Grays, Bates, Clarke, Hunter, McQueen, Reaney, Yorath, Cherry, Jordan, Giles, Madeley, Bremner, Cooper, Maurice bloody Lindley and Sydney fucking Owen .

Two wins, one draw and one defeat (on penalties) and I should be happy; if this was for real, Leeds would have five points from four games, four games away from home, and I would be happy; not ecstatic, not over-the-moon but not gutted; not sick-as-a-parrot, just happy. But this is not for real –