by David Peace
His chair. His desk. His office. His secretary –
‘They are waiting for you,’ says Mrs Jean Reid again.
‘Let them wait,’ I tell her. ‘Now how about that cup of tea, duck?’
Mrs Jean Reid just stands and stares at the soles of my shoes.
I knock on the desk. Don’s desk. I ask, ‘Whose is this desk, love?’
‘It’s yours now,’ whispers Mrs Jean Reid.
‘Whose was this desk?’
‘Mr Revie’s.’
‘I want it burnt then.’
‘Pardon?’ exclaims Mrs Jean Reid.
‘I want this desk burnt,’ I tell her again. ‘The chairs and all. The whole bloody lot.’
‘But …’
‘Whose secretary are you, duck?’
‘Yours now, Mr Clough.’
‘Whose secretary were you?’
Mrs Jean Reid bites her nails and stems her tears, inside her resignation already penned, just waiting to be typed up and signed. On my desk by Monday –
He hates me and I hate him, but I hate him more, more and more –
‘Change the locks as well,’ I tell her on our way out, the boys with their eyes on the floor and their hands in their pockets. ‘Don’t want the ghost of troubled Don popping in now, do we? Rattling his chains, scaring my young ones.’
* * *
The scenery changes. The pain remains. Stagehands bring on the furniture in boxes. Bring you home in an ambulance. In on a stretcher. You have suffered a complete tear of the cruciate and medial ligaments. More serious than a broken leg. There is no satisfactory operation. For three months you lie at home on your red G-Plan settee with your knee bent in plaster and your leg up on the cushions, smoking and drinking, shouting and crying –
You are afraid, afraid of your dreams; your dreams which were once your friends, your best friends, are now your enemies, your worst enemies –
This is where they find you, in your dreams. This is where they catch you –
The birds and the badgers. The foxes and the ferrets. The dogs and the demons.
Now you are frightened. Now you run –
Laps of the pitch, up and down the steps of the Spion Kop. The fifty-seven steps. Thirty times. Seven days a week from nine in the morning. But you keep your distance from the dressing room. The fifty-seven steps. You prefer the beach at Seaburn. Thirty times. The beach and the bar. Seven days a week from nine in the morning. Running –
Scared. Frightened –
Scared of the shadows. The figures without faces. Without names –
Frightened of the future. Your future. No future.
But day by day you find your feet again. You cannot play, not yet. You cannot play, so you coach. For now. The Sunderland youth team. It keeps you out of the pubs and the clubs, out of bed and off the settee. Keeps your temper too. Coaching. Teaching. Five-a-sides. Six-a-sides. Crossing and shooting. You love it and they love you. They respect you. The likes of John O’Hare and Colin Todd. Young lads who hang on your every word, every one of them, every single word. You take the Sunderland youth team to the semi-finals of the FA Youth Cup. You pass the FA coaching examination. You bloody love it –
But it’s no substitute. It’s still second best –
Your future. Still second best.
* * *
Round the corner. Down the corridor. Up the stairs. To the boardroom. The battlefield. The wooden double doors. There are windows here, behind these doors, but only here. Matching curtains and carpets. Matching blazers and brass:
Manny Cussins. Sam Bolton. Bob Roberts. Sydney Simon. Percy Woodward; Alderman Percy Woodward, the vice-chairman –
Half Gentile, half Jew; a last, lost tribe of self-made Yorkshiremen and Israelites. In search of the promised land; of public recognition, of acceptance and of gratitude. The doffed cap, the bended knee, and the taste of their arses on the lips of the crowd –
The unwashed, applauding them – not the team, only them – them and their brass.
Keith Archer, the club secretary, is hopping from foot to foot, clapping his hands. Patting my lads on their heads, ruffling their hair.
Cussins and Roberts, smiles and cigars, and would you like a drink?
‘Bloody murder one,’ I tell them and plonk myself down at the head of the table, the top table.
Sam Bolton sits down across from me. Bolton is an FA councillor and vice-president of the Football League. Plain-speaking and self-made, proud of it too –
‘You’ve probably been wondering where your trainer is?’
‘Les Cocker?’ I ask and shake my head. ‘Bad pennies always turn up.’
‘Not this one,’ says Bolton. ‘He’ll be joining Mr Revie and England.’
‘Good riddance to bad rubbish,’ I tell him.
‘Why do you say that, Mr Clough?’
‘He’s a nasty, aggressive little bugger and you’ve still got plenty to go round.’
‘You’ll be needing a trainer though,’ says Bolton.
‘Jimmy Gordon will do me.’
‘Derby will let him go, will they?’
‘They will if I ask for him.’
‘Well, you’d better bloody ask them then, hadn’t you?’
‘I already have,’ I tell him.
‘Have you now?’ asks Bolton. ‘What else you been up to this morning?’
‘Just looking and listening,’ I tell him. ‘Looking, listening and learning.’
‘Well, Clough, you’ve also got eight contracts to look at.’
‘You what?’ I ask him. ‘Revie’s left me eight bloody contracts?’
‘He has that,’ smiles Bolton. ‘And one of them is for Mr John Giles.’
They all sit down now; Cussins, Roberts, Simon and Woodward.
Woodward leans forward. ‘Something you should know about Giles …’
‘What about him?’ I ask.
‘He wanted your job,’ says Woodward. ‘And Revie told him it was his.’
‘Did he now?’
‘Too big for his boots,’ nods Woodward. ‘The pair of them; him and Revie.’
‘Why didn’t you give it to him?’ I ask them. ‘Done a good job with the Irish.’
‘It wouldn’t have gone down well with Bremner,’ says Cussins.
‘I thought they were mates?’ I ask them. ‘Thick as thieves and all that.’
They all shake their heads; Cussins, Roberts, Simon and Woodward –
‘Well, you know what they say about honour and thieves?’ laughs Bolton.
‘Bremner’s the club captain,’ says Cussins. ‘Ambitions of his own, no doubt.’
I help myself to another brandy. I turn back to the table –
I clear my throat. I raise my glass and I say –
‘To happy bloody families then.’
* * *
This is the last goal you will ever score. September 1964. Eighteen months since your last. Sunderland are now in the First Division. Home to Leeds United. You put the ball through the legs of Jackie Charlton and you score –
The only First Division goal of your career –
The last goal you will ever score.
Your sharpness gone. You cannot turn. It’s over. The curtain down. You are twenty-nine years old and have scored 251 league goals in 274 games for Middlesbrough and Sunderland. A record. A bloody record in the Second Division. Two England caps. In the fucking Second Division –
But it’s over. It’s over and you know it –
No League Championships. No FA Cups. No European Cups –
The roar and the whistle. The applause and the adoration –
Finished for ever. Second best. For ever.
Sunderland Football Club get £40,000 in insurance as compensation for your injury. You get £1,500, the sack from coaching the youth team, and an education that will last you a lifetime –
You have a wife. Two sons. No trade. No brass –
That’s what you got for Christmas in 1962. You got done –
> Finished off and washed up, before your time –
But you will never run a pub. You will never own a newsagent’s shop –
Instead, you will have your revenge –
That is how you shall live –
In place of a life, revenge.
* * *
These are the studios of Yorkshire TV. Of Calendar. Of their Special –
Clough Comes to Leeds.
Austin Mitchell is in a blue suit. I’m still wearing my grey suit but I’ve changed into a purple shirt and a different tie; always pack a spare shirt, your own Brylcreem and some toothpaste. Television has taught me these things.
Austin looks into the camera and says, ‘This week we welcome Brian Clough as manager of Leeds United. How will his outspoken personality fit in with Leeds, and what can he do for this team, this team that has won just about everything?’
‘Leeds United have been Champions,’ I tell him and every household in Yorkshire. ‘But they’ve not been good Champions, in the sense of wearing the crown well. I think they could have been a little bit more loved, a little bit more liked, and I want to change that. I want to bring a little bit more warmth and a little bit more honesty and a little bit more of me into the set-up.’
‘So we can expect a bit more warmth, a bit more honesty and a bit more Brian Clough from the League Champions,’ repeats Mitchell.
‘A lot more Brian Clough actually,’ I tell him. ‘A lot more.’
‘And hopefully win a lot more cups and another title?’
‘And win it better, Austin,’ I tell him. ‘I can win it better. You just watch me.’
‘And the Leeds set-up? The legendary back-room staff? The legacy of the Don?’
‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing: I had great fears of that lucky bloody suit of his, in the office when I walked in. You know, the one he’s had for thirteen years? I thought, if that’s there, that’s going straight in the bin because not only will it be old, it’ll smell …’
‘You’re not a superstitious man then, Brian?’
‘No, Austin, I’m not,’ I tell him. ‘I’m a socialist.’
Day Two
September 1965. The Chase Hotel, York. Five pints and five whiskies playing hide and seek in your guts. Jobless and boozing, fat and fucked, you are in hell. You’ll play one more match for Sunderland. Your testimonial in front of a record 31,000 fans. Ten grand in your pocket. But it won’t last. Jobless and boozing. Not at this rate. Fat and fucked. Not unless Peter says yes –
Peter Taylor. The only friend you’ve ever had. Peter Taylor –
He was a Probable and you were a Possible for Middlesbrough back in 1955. Their second-choice keeper and their fourth-choice striker –
But he liked you then. He believed in you then. He talked to you about football. Morning, noon and night. Taught you about football. He brought out the best in you. Moral courage. Physical bravery. The strength to run through brick walls. He brought out the worst. The arrogance. The selfishness. The rudeness. But he still liked you when you became club captain. Believed in you when the rest of the team despised you, when they plotted and petitioned the club to get rid of you –
And you need him now. That belief. That faith. More than ever –
‘I’ve been offered the manager’s job at Hartlepools United,’ you tell Peter. ‘And I don’t much fancy the place, the club or the man who’s offered me the bloody job but, if you come, I’ll take it.’
But Peter is the manager of Burton Albion. Burton Albion are top of the Southern League. Peter has his new bungalow. His wife and kids settled. Peter is on £41 a week and a three-year contract. His wife shakes her head. His kids shake their heads –
But Peter looks at you. Peter stares into those eyes –
That desire and ambition. That determination and arrogance –
Peter sees the things he wants to see. Peter hears the things he wants to hear –
‘You’ll be my right arm, my right hand. Not an assistant manager, more a joint manager. Except they don’t go in for titles at Hartlepools, so we’ll have to disguise you, disguise you as a trainer.’
‘A trainer?’ he asks. ‘I’ll drop down from being a manager to a trainer?’
‘Aye,’ you tell him. ‘And the other bad news is that they can’t afford to pay you more than £24 a week.’
‘£24 a week,’ he repeats. ‘That means I’ll lose £17 a week.’
‘But you’ll be in the league,’ you tell him. ‘And you’ll be working with me.’
‘But £17 is £17.’
The five pints find the five whiskies. The five pints catch the five whiskies –
You put £200 on the table and tell him, ‘I need you. I don’t want to be alone.’
You’re going to spew if he refuses. You’re going to die if Pete says no.
‘I’ll come then,’ he says. ‘But only because it’s you.’
Peter Taylor. The only man who ever liked you. Ever got on with you –
Your only friend. Your right hand. Your shadow.
* * *
They are waiting for us again. My youngest lad and me. The crows around the floodlights. The dogs around the gates. They are waiting for us because we are late again, my youngest lad and me –
Thursday 1 August 1974.
Bad night, late dreams; faceless, nameless men; red eyes and sharpened teeth.
Half an hour arguing with my boys over breakfast; they don’t want to go to work with me today. They didn’t like it there yesterday. But my youngest lad feels sorry for me. My youngest lad gives in. My wife takes the eldest and my daughter into Derby to get their new school shoes. I have a slice of toast and don’t answer the telephone. Then my youngest lad and me get in the car and drive up the motorway –
The boots and the blades that marched up and down this route …
To the crows around the floodlights. Dogs around the gates –
Roman legions and Viking hordes. Norman cunts and royalist whores …
The press. The fans. The steady, grey rain. The endless, grey sky –
The emperors and the kings. Oliver Cromwell and Brian Clough.
I park the car. I get out. I do up my cuffs. I don’t look at my watch. I get my jacket out of the back. I put it on and ruffle my youngest lad’s hair. He’s looking across the car park –
Up the banking. To the training ground –
Hands on their hips in their purple tracksuits, waiting. Their names on their backs, whispering, whispering, whispering –
Bastards. Bastards. Bastards.
Jimmy Gordon comes down the steps. Jimmy says, ‘Can I have a word, Boss?’
I’ve known Jimmy Gordon since I was a player at Middlesbrough. Doesn’t work hard enough on the field, he once wrote in a report on me. Jimmy didn’t like me much then. He hated me. Thought I was a right bloody show-off. Big-headed. Selfish. He once told me, Instead of scoring thirty goals a season, why don’t you score twenty-five and help someone else to score fifteen? That way the team’s ten goals better off. I didn’t listen to him. I wasn’t interested. But I was when I went to Hartlepools. First job I had, I tried to get Jimmy to come and coach for us. But Jimmy wasn’t interested. That changed when we got to Derby. I spent five hours round his house –
He said, ‘Why me? All we do is argue.’
‘That’s why I want you,’ I told him.
Five hours later, Jimmy still didn’t like me. But he had his price. Everybody has. So I found him a house and I got the chairman to pay a £1,000 interest-free deposit on it –
But Jimmy still didn’t like me much then. Jimmy still doesn’t like me much now. Jimmy looks around the room –
‘What the bloody hell are we doing here?’ he asks me –
I’m sat in that office. Don’s office. In that bloody chair. Don’s chair. Behind that fucking desk. Don’s desk. My youngest on my knee. To cheer me up. A brandy in my hand. To warm me up –
‘They’ll never forgive you,’ says Jimmy. ‘Not afte
r all the things you’ve said. They never forget. Not round here.’
‘That right, is it?’ I laugh. ‘So why did you agree to come and join me then?’
‘Much as I don’t like you,’ he smiles, ‘I don’t like to think of you in trouble.’
I finish my brandy. I ask him, ‘You want a lift tomorrow morning?’
‘So I can drive you back?’
I pick my lad up off my knee. I put him down. I wink at Jimmy –
‘Best not keep them waiting any longer,’ I tell them both.
* * *
Welcome to the edge of the world. To Hartlepools –
You can drop off the edge of the world at Hartlepools. On the beach at Seaton Carew. Bottom of the entire Football League and up for re-election again –
Many men will never know. Many men will never understand –
Heaven is here. Here where the Victoria Ground was cursed by a Zeppelin bomb, here where the roofs now leak and there are buckets in the boardroom to catch the rain, where the stand is made of wood and the terraces are covered in chicken feathers, where the chairman is a five-foot millionaire who made his money as a credit draper and who bugs your office and your house, and where the players are adulterers, drunks, thieves and gamblers who play in their street socks. This is heaven here –
For you and Pete, together again and working again –
The youngest manager in the Football League –
You on £40 a week, Pete on £24 –
The bucket-and-sponge man –
‘We’re in the shit good and proper, make no mistake,’ says Pete. ‘We’ll be asking for re-election at the end of the season. Bound to finish bottom. Lower if we could. Something’s got to be done about this lot and done fucking quick.’
But it’s you who paints the stand. Who unblocks the drains. You who cuts the grass. Who empties the rainwater from the buckets. You who goes round the colliery clubs. Who sits in committee rooms and stands on stages, asking for donations. You who borrows hand-me-down training kits from Sheffield Wednesday. Whose wife does the typing. You who takes your Public Service Vehicle Licence so you can drive the team bus. Who organizes the cars to Barnsley when you can’t afford a coach. You who buys the team fish and chips. Who goes without wages for two months –
