David Peace - The Damned Utd

In and out. In and out. In and out –

Something in their eyes again –

Carcasses, cadavers and death.

* * *

The day after your resignation from Derby, the England team are out on the pitch, warming up in the Wembley night, waving to their families and friends, posing for the official photographs, steadying their nerves, their stomachs and their bowels .

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, to the centre circle, to Roy McFarland, to David Nish, to Colin Todd, to Kevin Hector, and you stick out your hand and tell them, ‘Don’t worry, lads. It’ll all work out .’

And they shake your hand four times but look at you in confusion and in despair, doubt and fear, with worry in their wide eyes, worry on their open mouths, for the things they’ve seen, the things they’ve heard –

The things they feel but do not understand .

But then you’re gone. Back across that pitch, that hallowed turf, up into your gantry to sit and stare down in judgement on them –

On England and on Alf Ramsey .

But tonight as you sit and stare down on Alf Ramsey, you feel regret, regret for all the things you’ve said, you’ve said on television, on panels such as this one, all the things you’ve said that have hurt Alf, hurt him and you know it –

‘How is it he can’t pick a team from 2,000 players?’ you asked on television, on a panel such as this, after England had lost in Italy last year –

These things that have hurt him, hurt him and stripped him and left him bare; bare and raw to the whispers and rumours that say you should be the next manager of England, that say it is only a matter of time, should the unthinkable occur, should England lose, should England draw –

Should England not qualify –

Then would be your time. Then would be your hour, should England lose. England draw. England not qualify for the World Cup finals –

That hope you’d never dare to utter. This hope you’d never dare to say:

‘ England will walk it,’ you assure the whole nation on Independent Television. ‘That Polish keeper’s a clown, an absolute clown .’

England do dominate the first half, camped in the Polish half of the pitch, but that clown, that absolute clown, makes save after save after save from Madeley, from Hughes, from Bell, from McFarland, from Hunter, from Currie, from Channon, from Chivers, from Clarke and from Peters .

Then, ten minutes into the second half, Poland finally get out of their own half and break upfield. Hunter misses his tackle and Lato is away down the left, away down the left and free to cross the ball to Domarski, who shoots straight under Shilton –

And there is silence, absolute silence. In the stands and on the pitch, silence –

Except for you up in your gantry, on the television, on your panel, your mouth opening and closing. But no one is listening. Not even to you –

Up in the gantry. In judgement on England. In judgement on Alf Ramsey –

Ramsey rocking back and forth on the bench down below .

But ten minutes later England have equalized after Peters was fouled and Clarke coolly converted the most important penalty in the history of English football. But England still need to score again, score again to win, to win and to qualify, and so Alf, rocking back and forth below, Alf brings on Hector. Hector on his début for those final two minutes. Hector whose shot is cleared off the line and then hears the final whistle –

That final, final whistle and the end of an era .

It is the first time that England have failed to qualify for the World Cup since they first entered the competition in 1950. The first time since 1950 that England won’t be at the World Cup, won’t be in West Germany. Not in 1974. Not after this night –

This night that ends everything. Ends everything. Everything .

From up in the gantry you sit and stare down as Bobby Moore walks across the pitch to put an arm around Norman Hunter, Norman Hunter who blames himself, and you watch as Harold Sheperdson does the same and leads Hunter from the pitch –

‘ Hunter lost the World Cup! Hunter lost the World Cup! ’

And then you see Ramsey and you watch Ramsey, watch him walk away down that long, long tunnel into that long, long night and again you feel regret –

Regret. Regret. Regret –

Regret not only for the things you’ve said, the things you’ve said on television, those things you know have hurt him, but also for those things you’ve thought –

Those things you’ve thought and dreamed of, dreamed and dared to hope for –

For England to lose. For England to draw. England not to qualify –

For Alf Ramsey to lose his job as England manager –

For you to take his job as England manager .

But now, this night, you feel regret, regret and hate, hate for yourself .

You walk down from the gantry, across the pitch, that hallowed turf, down that tunnel and into the England dressing room .

‘ For what it’s worth,’ you tell Alf, ‘you must be the unluckiest man in football, because you could have done that lot six or seven .’

But when Ramsey looks up at you, stares up at you from the dressing-room floor, there is no recognition in his eyes, only hurt –

Hurt and fear .

* * *

Never learn; never bloody learn. Never did and never fucking will. The piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, two in the morning, drunk as fuck; drunk as fuck with the gentlemen of the local press; those scumbags and hacks, Harry, Ron and Mike –

Something in their eyes again …

Harry, Ron and Mike were there at training; Harry, Ron and Mike there at lunch; Harry, Ron and Mike still here with me now at two in the morning in the piano bar of the Dragonara Hotel, listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes, and pouring my drinks –

Something in their eyes .

I stand up. I sit down. I stand up again. I point my glass across the bar and shout, ‘Don’t you have a fucking home to go to?’

But Bert the Pianist just smiles and segues straight into ‘It’s a Lonesome Old Town’.

‘I never knew how much I missed you,’ I try to sing but shout –

Harry pulling me back down onto the sofa.

But I get back to my feet and point and shout, ‘Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry”! Play “Hang My Tears Out to Dry” or you’re fucking sacked!’

‘Sit down,’ Ron is saying. ‘Come on, Brian lad, sit down …’

‘So make it one for my baby,’ Mike is singing. ‘And one more …’

‘Shut up!’ I tell him, tell them all. ‘That’s the wrong fucking song.’

‘Brian,’ they’re saying. ‘Brian, please —’

‘I want “I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”,’ I tell the bar, the hotel, the whole of Leeds. ‘That’s all I want. “Guess I’ll Hang My Tears Out to Dry”. Fucking wankers, the lot of you!’

But there’s no one here. No one in the piano bar –

Harry, Ron and Mike have all gone home –

Bert the Pianist has gone home too –

No one here but bloody me –

Only fucking me now –

Cloughie .

The barman takes my legs, the waiter takes my arms, but no one takes me home.

England have drawn. England are out of the World Cup. The press and the television want Ramsey out. The press and the television want you in. But all you want this morning is company. Not to be on your Jack Jones in a posh London hotel. Not today; Thursday 18 October 1973 .