The Damned Utd

‘He’s not the player you think he is,’ says Ball. ‘Your mate’s fucked up.’

You don’t listen to him; you don’t give a fuck. You and Peter, you know players. Nobody else knows players, just you and Peter –

‘You’re not making any friends, you and your mate,’ says Ball –

You don’t bloody listen; you don’t give a flying fuck –

It’s all water off a duck’s back to you.

You go back to Derby. You sell Willie Carlin to Leicester. You let Peter tell him. Hold his hand. Hold his heart –

Inject it full of cortisone. Dry his tears –

All water off a duck’s back.

* * *

There are 15,000 at the Dell for this bloody Ted Bates testimonial match; the last of these fucking dress rehearsals. Clarke, Madeley and Yorath haven’t made the trip and so I play Terry Cooper and Eddie Gray from the start to see how they’ll hold up for Saturday. I also play Hunter in the first half as well, even though he’s suspended for Saturday, play him because I’ve got a couple of prospective clubs in the stands here to have a look at him, Cherry, Cooper and Harvey. Flog those four for starters, get shot of the Irishman, buy Shilton, Todd, McGovern and O’Hare and then I’ll be halfway there –

But now I’m still back in the stalls; back in the stalls with the season four days off.

In the dug-out, under his breath, Jimmy Gordon asks, ‘What’s wrong, Boss?’

‘What do you mean? What are you talking about?’

‘You’re not even watching them,’ he says. ‘Eyes are on the roof of the stand.’

‘Fuck off,’ I tell him. ‘You do your job and I’ll do mine.’

There are just two good things about this game: the behaviour of the players, for bloody once, and Duncan McKenzie’s first goal for the club, a fifteen-yard shot inside the far post. He also misses a hatful of chances, but at least he’s got one under his belt –

Just two good things in ninety fucking minutes of football –

It’s not enough. Jimmy knows it. I bloody know it –

There is something wrong.

The players know it too. They feel it in their boots –

The season starts in four days. The season starts away from home.

* * *

It is Halloween 1970, and Peter looks like death. You know how he feels:

You have played fourteen games so far this season and won just four of them. You have been beaten at home by Coventry, Newcastle, Chelsea and Leeds –

Leeds, Leeds, Leeds:

You never had a kick, never had a bloody touch. Never had any fucking confidence either. Just cortisone. Norman Hunter man of the match, a colossus, the Leeds defence outstanding, with goals from Sniffer Clarke and Peter Lorimer –

Leeds went two points clear at the top. You dropped four places down –

Now you’ve just lost 2–0 to Arsenal. Now you are twentieth in the league.

Peter is stretched out on the treatment table at Highbury. He looked terrible on the coach here from Paddington and looked no better in the dug-out next to you –

‘I’d give anything to stay here,’ he tells you.

‘Come on,’ you tell him. ‘You’re taking the team to Majorca tomorrow.’

Peter opens his eyes. His bloodshot eyes. Peter looks up at you –

You’re not going to Majorca. Not this time. It’s half-term holidays for the kids and you’re going to spend the week with them and your wife.

You’ll not be going home to pack; you’ll not be driving back down to Luton Airport; you’ll not be flying to Majorca at three in the morning –

That’ll be Peter, with his pains in his chest, with his doubts and his fears –

Not you. Just Peter. Peter and the team.

* * *

I’m first on the coach. The coach back to the airport. Least there’ll be drink on this plane. The plane back to Leeds –

Leeds, Leeds, fucking Leeds.

I’m first off when it lands. First back on the coach to Elland Road. First off again. The players stumbling back to their cars in the dark, them that can still walk. But there’s no car and no walking for me; a taxi waiting outside Elland Road to take McKenzie and me back to the Dragonara Hotel –

Situated next to Leeds City Station and the closest modern luxury hotel to the Leeds United ground. For party rates please contact the sales manager …

Part of the Ladbroke Group.

I sit on my modern luxury bed in my modern luxury hotel room. I stare out of the modern luxury window at the modern concrete city of Leeds –

Motorway City, City of the Future.

I reach over the modern luxury bed and I switch on the modern luxury radio. But there’s no Frank Sinatra. No Tony Bennett. No Ink Spots and no more bloody brandy either. I get off my modern luxury bed and walk down the modern luxury corridor and bang on the door of a modern luxury footballer –

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.’