David Peace - The Damned Utd

‘ I can’t promise,’ he says. ‘But I really think we have a chance, yes .’

‘ So what can I do to help you?’ you ask him. ‘To help you make it happen? ’

‘ An olive branch, Brian,’ he says. ‘Some kind of olive branch would help .’

‘ Well, I’ve been thinking,’ you tell him, ‘thinking that if they’ll take me back, and when I say they, I’m not talking about that bastard Longson, but if the board will take me back, me and Peter, then I’d be willing to jack in all the telly and the papers .’

‘ Really? You’d give all that up? The television and the papers? ’

‘ Course I bloody would,’ you tell him. ‘If it meant I could get my real job back .’

* * *

I finish my drink. I finish my fag. I leave the office. I lock the door. I double check it’s locked. I walk down the corridor, round the corner, up the stairs, round another corner, down another corridor towards the doors to the directors’ dining room. I can already hear their Yorkshire voices behind the doors, their raised Yorkshire voices –

I can hear my name, hear my name, and only my fucking name …

I light another fag and I listen. Then I open the doors to the dining room and their Yorkshire voices suddenly fall. The dining room silent. Their eyes on their plates. Their knives and their forks.

Sam Bolton looks up from his. Sam Bolton has his knife in his hand as he asks me, ‘What the bloody hell is going on with John Giles and Tottenham bloody Hotspur?’

‘What you all so bothered about?’ I ask him, all of them. ‘Not two bleeding minutes ago you wanted the bugger gone, didn’t you?’

They’ve still lost their Yorkshire voices, rest of them. Eyes still on their plates. Their knives and their forks.

‘So let’s get them bloody fingers crossed,’ I tell them –

But no one laughs. No one smiles. No one says a fucking word.

I put down my drink. I put out my fag. I turn back towards the doors. The exit –

‘One last thing,’ says Bolton. ‘We don’t much care for being third from bottom.’

‘Fourth from bottom,’ I correct him.

‘Nor do we much care for managers who clutch at straws, Clough.’

* * *

You take your wife and your kids to the Newton Park Hotel near Burto n- upon-Trent. You take your wife and your kids to meet the Derby players , your players, and their wives and their kids. Peter and Lillian come too. It is supposed to be a farewell dinner, that’s how you sold it to your wife and your kids, to Peter and to Lillian –

But no one wants to say farewell. No one wants to say goodbye .

So the champagne flows, all thirty bottles of it, all paid for by you, as the kids run riot and the wives wilt, as the jokes and the stories start, the memories and the tales –

The jokes and the stories, the memories and the tales of the games and the cups; the games and the cups you’ve won; the memories and the tales no one wants to end .

‘ If I’m not playing for the Boss,’ says someone, ‘I don’t want to bloody play .’

‘ Me and all,’ says everyone else. ‘Me and all .’

‘I reckon we should all boycott the fucking club,’ says someone –

Then someone else, ‘Let’s bloody train in the fucking park with the Boss.’

‘We should all get on a plane and bugger off to Majorca,’ says another, probably you as you open one more bottle and order another, drink one more drink and pour another, put out one more fag and light another –

‘ Let’s bloody do it,’ says everyone else. ‘Come on, let’s fucking do it! ’

Every player on his feet now. Every player halfway to Spain –

‘Y viva España,’ everyone sings. ‘We’re all off to sunny Spain …’

But then the wives get to their feet and sit their husbands back down, calming them down and squeezing their hands, tighter and tighter –

Your own wife squeezing your hand the tightest of all .

* * *

The press conference is late. The press conference is about the Irishman and Tottenham Hotspur. The press conference is not about the Manchester City game; not about the chances Leeds missed; the position Leeds are in. But Manny Cussins has still come along; to show his support for me; his confidence in me.

But the press don’t want to know about Manchester City. The press don’t want to know why the League Champions are just one place and point above the relegation zone. The press just want to know about the Irishman and Tottenham Hotspur –

Thank fucking Christ for Johnny fucking Giles .

‘As far as I am personally concerned, I think we should all be very sorry to lose him for his playing ability,’ says Manny Cussins. ‘We all value him for his wonderful service with us but would give fair consideration to anything that concerns his future.’

‘Have Leeds United had an enquiry or an offer from Tottenham about Giles?’

‘We’ve had no communication from anyone at Tottenham,’ says Cussins, glancing at me. ‘I think Mr Clough would have told us, had Giles been approached.’

‘Is that right, Brian?’ they ask me. ‘You’ve had no contact with Tottenham?’

* * *

You are stood in the car park of the Newton Park Hotel with the Derby players, your players, the Derby players and their wives and their kids, your own wife and your own kids –

No one wants to get into their car. No one wants to go to their home –

No one wants to say goodnight. To say farewell. To say goodbye –

To say, this is the end, and then let go .

* * *

Round the corner. Down the corridor. There is a pile of letters and a list of phone calls on the desk in the office. I sweep them off the top into the bin and pour myself another large drink. I tilt the chair back on two legs and light another fag; the fortieth of the day –

There are voices. There are voices. There are voices in the corridor –

Don’s voice; I swear it sounds like Don’s voice in the corridor –

I sit forward. I put down my drink. I open the door –

The voices are gone, but the echo still here –

‘ Are you there, Brian ?’

* * *

Last thing tonight, with a head full of champagne and a chest full of cigarettes, you pick up the phone and Keeling tells you, ‘They tried to get Bobby Robson .’

‘ Bobby Robson?’ you ask him. ‘You’re fucking joking? ’

‘ Longson and Kirkland approached Ipswich first thing this morning .’

‘ He’d never take the job,’ you tell him. ‘Not Bobby .’

‘ Sounds like you’re right .’

‘ So who’s next on their list?’ you ask him again. ‘Alf Ramsey? ’

‘ I wouldn’t be surprised,’ laughs Keeling. ‘Alf or Pat Saward .’

‘ Pat who?’ you ask Keeling .

‘ Pat Saward,’ laughs Keeling again. ‘Brighton sacked him this afternoon .’

‘ Brighton?’ you ask him. ‘What fucking division are they in? ’

Jimmy picks me up this morning, picks me up in his brand-new Vauxhall Victor 1800, courtesy of Wallace Arnold Sales and Service Limited and Leeds United AFC –

‘McQueen and Hunter got Magnums, Bates the Magnum Estate,’ Jimmy gushes. ‘Reaney, Jones, Stewart and Duncan all got the Victor 2300; that’s the one your Irish mate drives. Bremner, Lorimer, Harvey and Joe Jordan already have the VX 4/90s. Trevor Cherry, Terry Cooper, Madeley and Clarkey all went for this one, same as me.’