Day Forty-four
It is Sunday 21 July 1974, and your plane is late, your luggage lost. A silver Mercedes is waiting in the rain. A small man under a big umbrella. A small man with white hair and dark glasses. A small man with a cashmere coat and a Cuban cigar –
‘Mr Clough?’ says Manny Cussins, the chairman of Leeds United AFC Limited. ‘How do you do?’
You shake his hand. You ask him, ‘They brought back rationing yet?’
‘Not in Yorkshire,’ he says.
You follow the Leeds United chairman into the back seat of his silver Mercedes. You accept his cigars. You accept his brandy.
‘Of course,’ says Cussins, ‘your chairman is still playing silly beggars.’
You smile and raise your glass. ‘As is his right.’
‘Expects us both in Brighton tonight. To buy him his dinner at his own hotel.’
‘He’s disappointed,’ you tell him. ‘He’s losing me, isn’t he?’
‘Not just you either,’ says Cussins. ‘Peter Taylor too.’
You glance at your watch and you finish your brandy.
‘I told him, it’s both of you or neither of you.’
You look at your watch again. You hold out your glass.
* * *
‘Not a penny more,’ I tell them. ‘And not a penny less.’
‘£25,000 for forty-four days’ work?’ shouts Bolton. ‘That’s daylight bloody robbery.’
‘That’s not all,’ I tell him. ‘I also want an agreement that Leeds United will pay my income tax for the next three years.’
‘What?’
‘Plus the Mercedes.’
‘Bugger off!’ shouts Bolton. ‘Who the bloody hell do you think you are?’
‘Brian Clough,’ I tell him. ‘Brian Howard Clough.’
* * *
Beside the seaside. You are in the toilets of the Courtlands Hotel, Hove. The directors of two football clubs are waiting for you in the bar. Slim Whitman singing ‘Happy Anniversary’. You have your partner. Your only friend. Your right hand. Your shadow. You have him by his throat in the toilets of the Courtlands Hotel, Hove –
‘It’s not getting older, just much better …’
‘We’ll be fine,’ he is trying to say. ‘Let’s stay put. Give it another year.’
‘You bring me so much happiness each day …’
‘It’s the Third Division, Pete. We only fucking won twelve games last season.’
‘Everything you are, keeps me so in love …’
‘But don’t forget who it was who came in for us when we were out of bloody work, when you could have been fucking suspended. Who it was while everyone else was hedging, not returning your calls. Who it is who’s backed us all the way. No interference. Full support. Cash for transfers —’
‘I thank the heavens that you came my way …’
‘Aye, and the players you’re saddling me with down here can’t fucking play —’
‘Let us stop and count our many blessings …’
‘Give it time, Brian. Give it —’
‘Because a love like ours doesn’t happen every day …’
‘You never see them bloody play —’
‘And year after year we’ll keep remembering …’
‘Best hotels. New Mercedes coach for team travel. What more do you want?’
‘Our anniversary in our special way …’
‘The First Division, Europe; I want another crack at the European Cup.’
‘So, darling, happy anniversary …’
‘Another season,’ he says. ‘Just one more.’
‘Another year of love has gone by …’
‘The offer’s here,’ you tell him. ‘Let’s go to Leeds.’
‘Thank you for each day you’ve given to me …’
He closes his eyes. He shakes his head. He opens his mouth –
‘My darling, happy anniversary …’
‘Not this time, Brian,’ says Peter. ‘This time you’re on your own.’
* * *
They love me for what I’m not. They hate me for what I am. They love me. They hate me. In the shadow of the stands. On the steps of Elland Road. In the lights of the cameras and the spits of the rain, Manny Cussins is searching for the words, trying to find the words –
‘Mr Brian Clough and Leeds United have come to a mutually agreeable arrangement to terminate his employment effective as from tonight …What has been done is for the good of Leeds United. The club and the happiness of the players come first. Nothing can be successful unless the staff is happy …The majority of the players found it difficult to work with the new manager. They seemed to criticize the tactics, the training and so forth of Mr Clough …And there had been a little bit of discontent …But I feel we are big enough to say we can be wrong …Mr Clough has received a reasonably substantial golden handshake but both Leeds United and Mr Clough have agreed not to reveal the actual figure …It was a moral agreement which we have decided to honour … And we hope to announce the name of the new manager tomorrow.’
‘But why is he going?’ ask the press. ‘There is no answer to our question.’
‘Perhaps because we have been spoilt by Don Revie … For a new manager to come in after thirteen or fourteen years of success … It’s a very difficult act to follow …’
‘And how do you feel, Brian?’ they ask. ‘About Leeds United and Mr Cussins?’
In the shadow of the stands, on the steps of Elland Road. I love them, I hate them. In the spits of their rain and the lights of their cameras, I find the words to tell them –
‘We are all parting on the best of terms and so I am feeling very friendly towards Mr Cussins. Everything is fine but I think it is a very sad day for Leeds and also a slightly sad day for football. So everything is a little bit sad at the moment … I do not think there was any trouble with the players. It is very important for them to get on with the job. It is important for them to win the league, the European Cup and the FA Cup. If they can do this it will be good for football … But, whatever happens in the next few weeks, Mr Cussins has been absolutely superb in my dealings with him … I have only been here seven weeks, but it seems like seven years …And I hope the guy who takes my position finds it much smoother …Two or three players have been to see me in my office today and they expressed 100 per cent support. I was not fired by the players … I feel terrible about being fired by Leeds United. But the accumulation of every single thing has caused it: injuries, suspensions, bad results, the board of directors, a couple of players and so on … But anyone who took over from Don Revie would have met resentment from the players. If they are the best team in the country, they have fallen down on this … But I still believe they got the best man to replace Revie …’
‘How shall we live, Brian? How shall we live?’
‘And I hope to be back in football in four or five days’ time.’
‘But have you got all you really wanted, Brian?’ they ask me.
* * *
Talks back and forth. Fuck him. Extra time. The spanner in the bloody works. Judas. Break for dinner. You loosen your collar. Undo your tie. You make an excuse. You take your chance. You get to the phone. You make your calls. You spike their guns. Fuck him. Fuck them all. This is one bloody chance that’s not going to get away. No fucking chance. Not this time. Past midnight. Six hours back and forth. No result. Adjourn to the bar. Out of the basement. Up to the lounge. Cussins and Bob Roberts walking up the stairs ahead of you, wringing their hands and shaking their heads, whispering to each other about unexpected complications, muttering about how they wanted both Clough and Taylor, and now they’re not so sure; Revie on the radio, Revie on the telly, calling Clough a daft bloody choice, calling for protest groups and petitions, calling for the appointment of Johnny fucking Giles instead of you. You push past Cussins and Roberts, past Bamber and Taylor. You take the stairs two at a time. Into the lounge. The press and TV waiting. Tipped off. Their cameras flash, their microphones on –