The Damned Utd

You beat Fulham 1–0 and you beat Bolton 5–1 –

You are guaranteed promotion with four games still to go, four games that could also see you promoted as Second Division Champions, four games starting with a 1–0 victory over Sheffield United, a 1–0 victory that opens up a seven-point lead over Crystal Palace and means Palace need to win all of their final four games while you need just two points from your last three games to be Champions, two points from your last three games starting today –

Saturday 12 April 1969.

You and the team are back down in London. Back down on your luxury team coach to one of the capital’s finest hotels, back down to your breakfasts in your beds and another splendid reception from your travelling fans, this time on Cold Blow Lane, this time outside the Den –

There is a moment of panic, a moment of doubt, when it turns out you’ve brought the wrong kit, when it turns out you’ll have to play in the Millwall away kit –

‘It’s a bloody omen,’ says Jack Burkitt. ‘A bad bloody omen.’

‘Bollocks,’ you tell him. ‘You’re talking fucking bollocks.’

You run out onto the pitch at the Den in the Millwall away kit and the Millwall players line up to applaud you, applaud your promotion –

But it’s not promotion you’re thinking about today –

Two bloody points and that fucking title is all you’re thinking about today and from the kick-off you control the match, you take it by the scruff of its bloody neck and never let it fucking go, not to Millwall, not to their fans, not to the bloody acrobatics of their keeper King, not to the fucking dust and wind that bellows round Cold Blow Lane –

Nothing is going to stop you. No way. Not today. Bloody nothing –

Not Millwall. Not their fans. Not their keeper –

Not the dust and not the wind. Not today:

Mackay rolls a short free-kick to Webster. Webster runs down the right wing. Webster crosses to McFarland. McFarland heads it back across their goal to Carlin and Willie nods it home to score the only goal of the game –

Short, sweet, simple fucking football and you are the Champions –

The Champions of Division Two –

You are the Champions.

* * *

Leeds will stay at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington tonight and so we are due to leave Elland Road for London this afternoon. But the team still trains this morning while I do contracts; Madeley, Allan Clarke and Frankie Gray. The only two contracts not yet signed are those for Giles and Yorath. Then there is the press conference –

That length of rope with which to hang yourself. That knife. That gun …

‘There have been no moves whatsoever for Shilton,’ I tell the pens and the pads. ‘I’ve made no offer and no enquiry and, although I’ve contemplated buying Peter Shilton a million times before, I have not done so while I have been at Leeds.’

They chew the ends of their biros and they ask, ‘What about all the rumours?’

‘Nobody is going from this club in exchange deals or any other deals until I have been here a very long time. Nobody has asked for a transfer, nobody wants to go and nobody is going. I have two goalkeepers with whom I am delighted.’

They scratch their chins and they ask, ‘Why hasn’t Giles signed his contract yet?’

‘I have not yet seen him about his contract,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all there is to it.’

They blow their noses and they ask, ‘What are your feelings about tomorrow?’

‘The game gives us a terrific chance to get away to a good start,’ I tell them. ‘You cannot have tougher opposition than Bill Shankly and Liverpool, and everybody will be going like bombs. We have trained hard all week, got on with our jobs, made a signing and are all now looking forward to the match.’

Liar, liar, I’m thinking. They’re thinking, Your whole body’s on fire.

The press conference over, I show my face to the directors then I change my gear, get my suitcase from the office and go out to the coach. They are all sat there in their Sunday best, smoking and sulking, whispering and waiting for me, with their paperback books and their packs of cards. I make Sniffer shift again so I can sit next to Bremner again. Billy rolls his eyes and lights another fag –

‘You don’t fucking give up, do you?’ he says.

‘Never,’ I tell the man –

This the man I watched and commentated on for ITV at the World Cup this summer, captaining his country, beating Zaire 2–0, drawing with Brazil, drawing with Yugoslavia, sticking it up the press boys, this the man who was Scotland, this man who sits beside me now and stares out of the window at the rain and the motorway, this man who Revie thought of as a second son, this man who would run through fire for Don, who walks on water for the people of Leeds, the people of Scotland, this man beside me now, lighting another fucking fag and pretending to read a bloody paperback book until he turns to me, until he finally turns to me and asks –

‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’

The cunt. Cunt. Cunt –

Halfway down the M1, the coach stops at a service area. Everyone gets off for a coffee and a piss. It’s raining hard as I walk across the car park to the foyer –

The fucking cunt. Cunt. Cunt –

I come out of the toilets and they’re all stood around the one-arm bandits, signing autographs and getting kisses off the waitresses –

The cunts. Cunts. Cunts –

‘Come on,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s all go for a walk around the car park.’

‘Walk?’ spits Bremner. ‘I’ve never been for a fucking walk in my life.’

‘Get going,’ I tell them. ‘Stretch your legs, you lazy buggers!’

They stare at me and, for one moment, they look like they won’t go. But then Captain Bremner opens the door and leads them one by one out into the rain and the car park, leads the League Champions around the service-station car park –

In the rain. In their Sunday best. In the rain. In their polished shoes –

‘Good man, Billy,’ I tell him as I catch him up. ‘Stretch them legs.’

‘Fuck off,’ he hisses at me. ‘I’m getting bloody soaked here.’

‘I thought you lot bloody loved these kinds of communal activities,’ I tell him. ‘Round of golf. Bit of bingo. Carpet bowls. Thought that was all part of Don’s appeal? Togetherness. One for all and all for one. One big happy family.’

‘You’re right,’ says Bremner. ‘One big happy family; till you fucking turned up.’

* * *

The very last game of the season. The very last game in the Second Division –

Saturday 19 April 1969 –

Home to Bristol City. Home in front of 31,644 fans. Home as Champions.

You’ve had your hair cut, your suit pressed and your shoes shined –

The players, your players, do a lap of honour while Bristol stand on the pitch and wait for the game to begin, the mauling to begin –

The midfield of John McGovern, Alan Durban and Willie Carlin are in their element with a first-half hat-trick from Durban, plus one from Kevin Hector, and then one from Alan Hinton which is the pick of the five –

Dave Mackay clips the ball forward to Willie Carlin. Carlin takes the ball into the box then back-heels the ball to Alan Hinton. Hinton runs onto the ball and never stops, never breaks stride, just lashes it with his left foot into the bottom corner of the net –