David Peace - The Damned Utd

The end of anything good. The beginning of everything bad …

No afterlife. No heaven. No hell. No God. Nothing –

The end of anything good. The beginning of everything bad.

But today, for once in your life, just this once, you wish you were wrong .

* * *

The board have called me upstairs, upstairs to their Yorkshire boardroom with their Yorkshire curtains drawn, upstairs to break their bad news: ‘The FA have ordered Clarke to appear before the Disciplinary Committee, along with Bremner and Giles.’

‘For what?’ I ask them. ‘That’s unbelievable.’

‘It is a bit of shock,’ agrees Cussins. ‘But —’

‘It’s more than a bloody shock,’ I tell them. ‘It’s a fucking outrage and an injustice. I’m not having any Leeds players put on trial by television. He wasn’t even bloody booked, he wasn’t even fucking spoken to by the referee, so the only reason they’ve called him down there is because of them replaying his bloody tackle on Thompson, over and over again, morning, noon and fucking night.’

‘Brian, Brian, Brian,’ pleads Cussins. ‘Look, calm down —’

‘I won’t bloody calm down,’ I tell them. ‘I’ve only just got him fucking back so I’m buggered if I’m going to lose him again for another three or four bloody matches, just because of fucking television.’

‘Brian, Brian —’

‘No, no, no,’ I tell them. ‘If this is what’s going to happen, then I want the television cameras banned from the bloody ground, from Elland Road. If that’s what it fucking takes to stop this kind of operation against me then —’

‘I believe Mr Revie often felt the same way —’

‘Fuck Don bloody Revie!’ I shout. ‘Ban them! Ban the television!’

‘Those who live by sword,’ laughs Bolton, ‘die by sword.’

* * *

You are still in your tracksuit playing cards in the hotel bar in Turin, playing cards with the team — your team , your boys — twenty-four hours before the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup .

There was a magpie on your lawn when you left your house for the airport. There was also one on the tarmac as you got off the plane in Turin. Now one’s just flown into the window of the hotel bar. But you don’t believe in luck. In superstitions and rituals –

You believe in football; football, football, football .

Pete comes down the stairs, down the stairs in his tuxedo –

‘ You not ready yet?’ he asks. ‘The dinner’s in half an hour .’

‘ You go .’

‘ But it’s a bloody dinner for us,’ he says. ‘All the Italian and British jour nalists are going to be there. We’re the guests of fucking honour .’

‘ You go .’

‘ Brian, come on,’ he says. ‘You’re making a bloody speech .’

‘ You make it .’

‘ You what?’ he says. ‘I’ve never made a fucking speech in my life .’

‘ Now’s your chance then .’

‘ Come on, Brian,’ he says again. ‘You know I can’t .’

‘ No, I don’t .’

‘ We’re going to be late,’ he says. ‘Stop playing silly buggers, will you? ’

‘ You bloody go and you make the fucking speech for a change .’

‘ Don’t do this to me, Brian,’ he says. ‘Please —’

‘ You wanted your slice of fucking cake,’ I tell him. ‘Now here it is .’

‘ Fuck off .’

‘ No,’ you tell him. ‘You bloody wanted it. Now you’ve fucking got it .’

‘ Please don’t do this to me, Brian .’

‘ Do what?’ you ask him. ‘What? ’

‘ Don’t do this, Brian. Not in front of the team .’

‘ Why not?’ you ask him. ‘Don’t you want them to see you for what you really are? A big fat spineless fucking bastard who can’t go anywhere or do anything without me to hold his hand —’

Peter picks up a glass. Peter throws the whisky in your face –

‘ Fuck off! Fuck off! ’

You jump up. You lunge at him –

‘ You fuck off! You fat cunt! ’

The players leap up. The players pull you apart –

‘ Dinners. Speeches,’ you’re shouting. ‘This is what it’s all about. This is the fucking slice of cake you’re after. This is what you’re always going on about, fucking moaning on and on about. Now you run along. Don’t be late —’

He lunges at you again, tears down his cheeks –

‘ Go on then,’ you shout. ‘Go on then, if that’s what you want .’

‘ Fuck off! Fuck off! ’

You are in your tracksuit fighting with Peter in the hotel bar in Turin, your best mate, your only friend, your right hand, your shadow, fighting with Peter twenty-four hours before the first leg of the semi-final of the European Cup –

The blood of a dead magpie running down the windows of the hotel bar –

The blood of your best mate running down the knuckles of your hand –

The first time you’ve spoken to anyone since your mam passed on .

* * *

Three hours and three phone calls later, Mr Vernon Stokes, the chairman of the FA Disciplinary Committee, tells Manny Cussins that, on reflection, he has decided it wouldn’t be right to call Clarke of Leeds before the Committee as he was not cautioned during the match and, if he ordered Clarke of Leeds to appear, he would have to call up every player who committed a foul during the Charity Shield game.

I go downstairs to face the press, face the press with a smile on my face for once, with a smile on my face as they ask about the draw for the League Cup:

‘I would have felt much better had we been drawn to play Huddersfield at home. They had a fabulous result in the first round, which proves they are no pushovers. Bobby Collins has obviously got things well organized over there.’

‘Have you any further thoughts on your two games in charge so far?’

‘Listen to me,’ I tell them. ‘Leeds lost three matches in a fortnight while they were on the crest of a wave going for the title. This kind of thing has happened before.’

‘But you’ve said they play without confidence and yet they’re the League Champions; how is it they can lack confidence?’

Because Don Revie made them believe in luck, made them believe in ritual and superstition, in documents and dossiers, in bloody gamesmanship and fucking cheating, in anything but themselves and their own ability –

‘It’s a vicious circle,’ I tell them. ‘Once Leeds get back to their winning ways, then their confidence will return and then there’ll be no stopping them —’

‘In the race for the title?’ they ask.

‘Leeds will be there or thereabouts, just as they have been for the last ten years.’

‘But you said you wanted to win the title better,’ they remind me. ‘But the first time Leeds won the title in 1969 they lost only two matches the entire season.’

‘Is that a question or a statement?’ I ask them.

‘Up to you,’ they say.

‘Well, they’ll just have to win the next forty games then, won’t they?’

‘But how do you honestly feel?’ they ask. ‘Two games into the new season and with the League Champions still seeking their first point and their first goal.’

‘Birmingham City are also still looking for their first point.’

‘You’re suggesting Saturday is a relegation battle then?’

‘No.’

‘Can you tell us anything about the team for tomorrow?’

‘There’s no room for Bates, Cooper or Jordan, I can tell you that.’