Derby County and Brian Clough.
‘There were no congratulations from Revie,’ I tell the Turkish waiter over a very, very late breakfast. ‘It was always Leeds had lost the title, never Derby had won it.’
No congratulations. No well done. No nice one. No good for you, Brian …
‘I tell you, it still makes me seethe; the things they wrote in the papers, the things they said on the telly; that Derby had won the title by default. Default? Fucking idiots. How can you win a league fucking title by default? You tell me that, Mehmet?’
The waiter shakes his head and says, ‘You can’t, Mr Clough.’
‘Bloody right you can’t,’ I tell him. ‘You know that and I know that; you can’t win a title by default, not over forty-two fucking games, you can’t. We had a fine team who had achieved the best results over a season of forty-two games and so we were the Champions. Not Leeds. Not Liverpool. Not Manchester City –
‘Derby bloody County and Brian bloody Clough, that’s who.’
Just hard feelings. Ill will. Hostility and enmity –
And a police investigation.
‘Nothing was ever proved mind,’ I tell the waiter. ‘But where there’s smoke there’s fire, and old Don certainly knows how to light a fire.’
The waiter smiles and says, ‘Fires are dangerous things, Mr Clough.’
‘Exactly, Mehmet,’ I tell him. ‘But you’ve got to remember that Revie and Leeds only needed a point; just one single fucking point and that title was theirs. The league and cup double. They’d just won the cup, don’t forget that. Beaten Arsenal only forty-eight hours before. The bookies still had Leeds as 10–11 favourites for the title, Derby right out at 6–1. And don’t forget Liverpool; Shanks and Liverpool were still in the race. The atmosphere was white hot, apparently. The atmosphere at Molineux before the Wolves game. There were allegations of bribery, you know?’
The waiter looks confused. He asks, ‘That the bookies bribed the Wolves?’
‘No, no, no,’ I tell him. ‘It was in the Sunday People; Sprake, their own former fucking keeper, putting it about that former Leeds United players had been in the Wolverhampton dressing room, having a word or two, asking Wolves to go easy and throw the match for £1,000; having a word or two with the referee and all, offering cash in an envelope for a penalty in the Wolves box, and — this is the fucking irony of it all — Leeds actually had a decent penalty appeal turned down, apparently. Handball, clear handball. Bernard Shaw was the player’s name, I think. Blatant penalty, from what I hear. But you know what I think? I think all Don’s chickens came home to roost that night because of all the rumours and what-have-you, the rumours of a fix, they probably made the referee think twice before giving Leeds anything. Referee doesn’t want people saying that he turned a blind eye or gave a penalty for an envelope under the table, does he? But then, and this is what really got to me, then while the FA and the CID are sniffing around, the Director of Public fucking Prosecutions and all, while they’re all sniffing around, Don’s on the bloody box and in the fucking papers crying the bloody poor tale again; fixture congestion, injuries, suspension, bad refereeing and bad bloody luck –
‘Anything and anybody but themselves —’
‘It’s just too much. We should have had at least three penalties. When you get decisions like that going against you, what can you do?’
The waiter still looks confused. The waiter repeats, ‘Bad luck?’
‘Bad luck? Bad luck my fucking arse. There’s no such bloody thing as bad luck, bad luck or good, not over forty-two games. If Leeds United had been better than Derby County then Leeds United would have won that title and not Derby County. But Leeds lost nine games and we lost eight, so Leeds finished second and we finished first –
‘Champions! End of bloody story.’
Mehmet the waiter picks up my empty coffee cup and nods his head.
‘Last two seasons haven’t been much better for them, have they?’ I tell Mehmet. ‘In 1972–73 they lost to bloody Second Division Sunderland in the FA Cup final and then to AC Milan in the Cup Winners’ Cup final. They might have won the league last year but, since Revie took them over, they’ve lost three FA Cup finals and two semi-finals; three European finals and two semi-finals; and they’ve “just” missed out on the league eight bloody times, runners-up five fucking times. What do you say about that, Mehmet?’
Mehmet shrugs his shoulders and says again, ‘Bad luck?’
‘Bad fucking luck my arse,’ I tell the man again. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, shall I? It’s because they’ve been so fucking hated, so absolutely despised by everybody outside this bloody city. Everybody! Do you know what I mean?’
Mehmet shrugs his shoulders again, then nods again and says, ‘Everybody.’
‘Just think about it,’ I tell him. ‘All those bloody times Leeds “just” missed out on a league title or “just” lost a cup final, you know why? I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because every team they met, in every bloody match they ever played, they hated Leeds, they despised them. That Monday night at Molineux, that night in front of fifty-odd-thousand of their own supporters, there was no way Wolves were going to go easy on Leeds, no way they were going to throw the match; no way because they hated Leeds United, they despised Leeds United. Their keeper Parkes, players like Munro and Dougan, these players had the game of their lives and I’ll tell you why, shall I? Because there’s not a team in the country, not a team in Europe, who does not want to beat Don Revie and Leeds United. Not one. That’s all they dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United and beating Don Revie and Leeds United. That’s all I dream about, playing Don Revie and Leeds United, beating Don Revie and Leeds United –
‘You’d be the bloody same, Mehmet, if you were me.’
Mehmet the waiter looks confused. Mehmet the waiter shakes his head and says, ‘But you’re the manager of Leeds United now, aren’t you, Mr Clough?’
Day Twenty
You have won the 1971–72 League Championship; you have beaten Shanks and Liverpool; you have beaten Revie and Leeds –
You are the Champions of England.
The summer months see the builders back to the Baseball Ground, now you’re in the European Cup; there has been work on the Osmaston End and on the Normanton Stand; new, pylon-mounted floodlights are also erected, now your games will be shown in colour at home and abroad –
Now you are the Champions.
But all your dreams are nightmares and all your hopes are hells, the birds and the badgers, the foxes and the ferrets, the dogs and the demons, the wolves and the vultures, all circling around you, the clouds and the storms gathering above you, above the new pylon-mounted floodlights, your pockets filled with lists, your walls defaced with threats, your cigarettes won’t stay lit, your drinks won’t stay down.
The parties and the banquets, the civic receptions and the open-top bus tours, the parades and the photographs; the Championship dinner that no other club dare attend; the Charity Shield you’ll never defend –