by David Peace
Dirty, dirty Leeds, Leeds, Leeds …
His eyes in the stands. Behind my back. His eyes in that suit.
Bremner and Keegan walk along the touchline. It is a long, lonely walk to a deserted, empty dressing room. Bremner and Keegan strip off their shirts, the white number 4 and the red number 7; shirts they should be proud to wear, these shirts they throw to the ground –
This is what you think I am, says Bremner. This is who you say I am …
Shirts any lad in the land would dream of picking up, of pulling on –
Then this is what I am, shouts Billy. This is who I am.
But not Billy Bremner. Not Kevin Keegan –
His eyes in the stands, behind my back.
No one learns their lesson; Jordan fights with Clemence, and McQueen goes in to sort it out like a fucking express train. Dirty, dirty Leeds, Leeds, Leeds. To add injury to the insults, Allan Clarke is carried off with torn bloody ligaments –
His eyes in that suit, behind my back.
Ten minutes after that, Trevor Cherry heads home an equalizer; first right thing he’s done all afternoon. But no one’s watching. Not now; now minds are racing, events and pens. The game goes to penalties; the first time the Charity Shield has ever gone to penalties, no more Charity, no more sharing of the Shield. The penalties go to 5–5. Harvey and Clemence make a goalkeepers’ pact to each to take the sixth penalty for their side. David Harvey steps up. David Harvey hits the bar. Ray Clemence stays put –
Callaghan steps up. Callaghan converts the sixth penalty –
Liverpool win the 1974 Charity Shield –
But no one notices. Not now –
Now two British players have been dismissed from Wembley –
The first two British players ever to be dismissed at Wembley –
Now they’re going to throw the fucking book at them – at us – for this. The fucking book. Television and the Disciplinary Committee will see to that. You can forget Rattin. There will be those who want Leeds and Liverpool thrown out of the league. Their managers too. Bremner and Keegan banned for life –
Heavy fines and points deducted –
On the panels. In the columns –
In his eyes. In his eyes.
The stadium empties in silence. The tunnel. The corridors and the dressing rooms.
No one is sat next to Bremner on the coach out of Wembley. I sit down next to him. I tell him, ‘You’ll pay your own bloody fine out of your own fucking pocket and, if I had my bloody way, you’d fucking pay Keegan’s fine and all.’
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’
‘You can’t do that to me,’ says Bremner. ‘Mr Revie always paid all our fines.’
‘He’s not here now, is he?’ I tell him. ‘So you’ll pay it yourself.’
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’
Bremner looks at me now and Bremner makes his vow:
In loss. In hate. In blood. In war –
Saturday 10 August 1974.
Day Twelve
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’
You played there just the once. Just the once but you know it should have been a lot more, a lot, lot fucking more; you were sure it would have been and all, after Munich in 1958 and the death of Tommy Taylor, the effect it had on Bobby Charlton. You know it would have been a lot, lot more too, had it not been for your own bloody coach at Middlesbrough, your own fucking directors; everybody telling the selectors you had a difficult personality, that you spoke your mind, caused trouble, discontent. Still, they couldn’t not pick you, not after you played a blinder for England in a ‘B’ international against Scotland in Birmingham, scoring once and laying on two more in a 4–1 victory. You were bloody certain you would go to the World Cup in Sweden then, fucking convinced, and you were picked for the Iron Curtain tour of Russia and Yugoslavia in May 1958, just one month before the World Cup –
That number 9 shirt down to just Derek Kevan and you.
The night before the tour, you were that nervous that you couldn’t sleep. You got to the airport three hours early. You hung around, introduced yourself –
But no one wanted to know you. No one wanted to room with you –
‘Because he bloomin’ never stops talking football. Drives you bleeding barmy.’
But Walter Winterbottom, the England manager, sat next to you on the flight east. ‘I want you to play against Russia,’ he told you. ‘Not Derek. You, Brian.’
You believed him. But you didn’t play. England lost 5–0.
‘I want you to play against Yugoslavia,’ he told you the next day. ‘You, Brian.’
You believed him again. But again you didn’t play. This time England draw 1–1, thanks to Derek fucking Kevan.
After the Yugoslavia game, Walter sat you down and Walter spelt it out for you. ‘You won’t be going to the World Cup, Brian,’ he told you. ‘Not this time.’ You didn’t believe him. You had travelled to Russia. You had travelled to Yugoslavia. You hadn’t had a single kick. Not a touch. Not a single one –
‘I scored forty-two goals in the league and cup this last season,’ you told Walter. ‘They bloody count in the fucking matches we play for Middlesbrough but apparently it’s not enough for you lot, not nearly enough …’
The manager and the selectors shook their heads, their fingers to their lips –
‘Don’t burn your bridges, Brian. Bide your time and your chance will come.’
You’d bide your time, all right. You’d take your chances –
Five in the first match of the 1958–59 season; five against the League of Ireland for the Football League; four on your twenty-fourth birthday –
There was public clamour and press pressure now. But you still had to bide your time for another year until you finally got your chance –
Until you were picked to play against Wales at Cardiff.
You forgot your boots and spilt your bacon and beans all down you, you were that nervous, that nervous because that was what it meant to you, to play for your country –
And now that is all you can remember about your England début at Ninian Park; how bloody nervous you were, how fucking frightened –
But, eleven days later, you were picked to play against Sweden at Wembley –
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’
The dreams you’d had of that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that badge; the goals you’d score on that turf, at that stadium, in that shirt, for that badge, in front of your mam, in front of your dad, in front of your beautiful new wife, but that day –
28 October 1959 –
You hit the crossbar and laid on a goal for John Connelly, but it wasn’t enough. You were heavily marked and you couldn’t escape. You found no space –
‘His small-town tricks lost on the big-time stage of Wembley Stadium.’
On that turf, at that stadium. For that badge, in that shirt –
The Swedes took you apart; the Swedes beat you 3–2; it wasn’t enough –
Not enough for you. Not enough for the press. Not enough for Walter –
‘How can I play centre-forward alongside Charlton and Greaves?’ you told him. ‘We’re all going for the same ball! You’ll have to drop one of them.’
But Walter loved Bobby. Walter loved Jimmy. Walter did not love you –
Walter dropped you and so those two games, against Wales at Cardiff and Sweden at Wembley, those two games were your only full England honours –
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley, Mr Clough? You ever play at Wembley?’
Two-hundred and fifty-one bloody league goals and two fucking caps.
Twenty-four years old and your international career over, the next morning you boarded the train to Brighton with the rest of the Middlesbrough lads. You did not score in that game
either. The day after, Middlesbrough travelled up to Edinburgh to play the Hearts. For six hours you sat in a compartment with Peter and you analysed your England game. No cards. No drink. Just cigarettes and football, football, football –
Football, football, football and you, you, you –
Because you knew then you would return –
Return as the manager of England, the youngest-ever manager of England; because you were born to manage your country; to lead England out of that tunnel, onto that pitch; to lead them to the World Cup –
A second, a third and a fourth World Cup –
Because it is your destiny. It is your fate –
Not luck. Not God. It is your future –
It is your revenge.
Day Thirteen
Bed, breakfast and ignore the papers. Shower, shave and ignore the radio. Kit on, car out and ignore the neighbours. Goodbye family, goodbye Derby. Hello motorway, hello Monday fucking morning; the Monday fucking morning after the Saturday before –
Leeds and Liverpool disgrace Wembley; soccer stars trade punches …
Here comes that fucking book, thrown at them – at us all – with a vengeance. There’s even talk of fans having Bremner and Keegan charged with breach of the peace; all they need now is a willing bloody magistrate, a hanging fucking judge –
Well, here I bloody am; ready and more than fucking willing …
The players should have had the day off today. To recover from Saturday and to rest for Tuesday. But not after Saturday. Not after what they’ve put me through; the headaches they’ve given me and the headaches I’ve got coming; the board meetings and the press conferences; the bloody team to pick for tomorrow night and the fucking contract to write for that bloody Irish fucking shithouse –
I hate bloody Mondays, always fucking have.
* * *
Time does not stand still. Time changes. Time moves fast. Derby must not stand still. Derby must change. Derby must move fast –
The cast remains the same but the scenery changes and the Ley Stand goes up, towering over the Pop Side and the Vulcan Street terracing; it should be the bloody Brian Clough Stand because it would never have left the fucking drawing board had it not been for you, because it was you who raised the expectations of the town, who raised the demand for tickets in the first place. You who envisioned a new stand to take the capacity of the Baseball Ground to 41,000, who looked at the original plans and saw there wasn’t enough space. You who then went to see the managing director of Ley’s steel factory, who told him you wanted eighteen inches of his property for your new stand. You who promised to build him a new fence and move back his pylons, who told him to fuck off at the mention of compensation; that his compensation would be the name of the new stand and season tickets for life. You who’s still got plans to buy all the houses on the opposite side of the ground, because it’s only you who can see further than 41,000, who can see gates of 50,000, can see gates of 60,000, see the First Division Championship, the FA Cup, the European Cup …
It’s only you who has the stomach for this job, who has the balls –
No one else, not Peter, not Longson either, just you –
You and your stomach. You and your balls.
It’s been sixteen years since Derby were in the First Division and the expectations are such that the demand for tickets still cannot be met. Priority is given to folk willing to buy tickets for not one but two seasons. Behind the scenes there are some changes too –
Jimmy Gordon replaces Jack Burkitt as trainer and coach –
‘It’s a ready-made job,’ says Jimmy. ‘The players are here and the discipline is here. The Boss’s job is to determine the method of playing and my job is then to get it going on the field.’
Time does not stand still. Time changes. Time moves fast –
So Derby changes. Derby moves fast –
You pushing and pulling, pushing and pulling her all the way, all the way up the hill, up the hill to the very top, and you’ll never forget those first few weeks at the top, those first few weeks in the First Division, that first Saturday –
Home to Burnley, Burnley who finished mid-table last season. Home, in front of 29,000 supporters. That’ll change with the results. Soon be gates of 40,000 or more; 40,000 or more to watch your team, your boys:
Green, Webster, Robson, Durban, McFarland, Mackay, McGovern, Carlin, O’Hare, Hector and Hinton.
You’re lucky to draw 0–0 and you would’ve lost had it not been for the quick reflexes of your keeper Les Green, who saves a penalty –
But it’s not luck. Not today. Not ever –
You play good methodical football; on the ground, to feet, passed forward –
You are not out of your depth. You have no vertigo here –
Not today; this first Saturday, these first few weeks, this first month: the first Tuesday away at Ipswich and your first win. Down to Coventry the following Saturday for a draw. Home to Ipswich again and another win. More draws against Stoke and Wolves. Then the 2–0 win away at West Brom –
Next comes the trip back up to Hartlepools in the League Cup –
Time has stood still here. Time has not changed here. Not moved fast:
Still more weeds than grass on the pitch at the Victoria Ground, still as even as a cobbled street, still no floodlights until the eightieth minute. But Hartlepools throw themselves into the match and at half-time it’s only 0–0 –
Second half and McFarland and Carlin score, but Hartlepools pull one back before Hinton finishes things off with a penalty –
This is how far you have come. This is who you are now:
You are named England’s Manager of the Month for August. You are given a £50 cheque and a gallon bottle of Scotch whisky:
‘His Derby County team is probably the first side since Ipswich under Alf Ramsey or Leeds under Don Revie to make such an immediate impact on the First Division,’ says the spokesman for the sponsors of the award. ‘Clough has succeeded in restoring genuine enthusiasm to one of the great traditional strongholds of football and in re-establishing the soccer prestige of Derby County and the Midlands.’
You go on to beat Everton 2–1 in front of the Match of the Day cameras. Then Southampton 3–0 and Newcastle 1–0 away, and you are still unbeaten. Next come Tottenham and the 5–0 win in front of a record gate of just under 42,000 –
Easy. Easy. Easy, they chant. Easy. Easy. Easy –
The Tottenham of Jimmy Greaves and Alan Mullery. Of Bill Nicholson –
‘They humiliated us,’ says Bill Nicholson. ‘They are very talented and they don’t just run, they know where to run and when. Dave Mackay? If I wanted all this to happen for anybody it would be him. Six Dave Mackays and you wouldn’t need anybody else. An inspiration to everybody and a credit to the game. One of the all-time greats.’
‘I am happy for the team because everybody played so well,’ says Dave Mackay. ‘Not because it was Spurs we beat but because you can’t be anything but happy when you are in a team which plays like that. It is the best we have played since I came here.’
And you? The Biggest Mouth in Football? What do you say?
‘You don’t need to say anything after that. I was very proud of the lads.’
This is how far you’ve come. This is who you are. This is where you are –
The First Division, the very top. You don’t ever want to leave here.
* * *
The sun never shines at Elland Road. Not on the training ground. Not since I’ve been here. No wonder the kids don’t want to come to work with me. The wife too. Just wind and shadow, mist and rain; dogshit and puddles, purple tracksuits and purple faces –
They’ve had enough of me and I’ve had enough of them –
But they’ve made their beds. Their own fucking beds:
‘I’m only going to say this once,’ I tell them. ‘I don’t care what you were told before, what little tricks and little tactics, little deceits and little cheats your old manager
and your old coaches taught you, but there’s no room for them in my team. None whatsoever. So there’ll be no repetition of the kind of things that went on at Wembley on Saturday. None whatsoever. I was embarrassed to be associated with you, with this club, the way some of you – most of you – behaved, and I’ll not have it. Not at this club, not while I’m the manager –
‘So any repetition and you’ll not only be finding the money to pay your own bloody fines, you’ll also be finding another fucking club to play for and all!’
* * *
You bring your team, your boys, to Elland Road on Saturday 25 October 1969 to play the Champions, the First Division Champions.
This will not be the same as last year. Not the same as those three cup defeats. This time you are in the First Division too –
This time will not be the same –
This time he will notice you. This time he will respect you.
But suddenly things have not been going as well for you. Perhaps things had been going too well for you, perhaps you were becoming complacent; you were the last unbeaten side in Division One until you lost to Wednesday, then you drew with Chelsea and Palace and lost at home again to Manchester City. Now Robson is out injured and the rest of the team are only playing thanks to cortisone injections –
Cortisone to mask the pain, to mask the bloody fear, to mask the fucking doubt:
Derby County have not won a game since you beat Manchester United 2–0 –
Beat Manchester United with Charlton, Best and Kidd –
But that was then and this is Leeds, Leeds, Leeds:
Sprake. Reaney. Madeley. Bremner. Charlton. Hunter. Lorimer. Clarke. Jones. Bates and Gray –
Leeds United, First Division Champions, 1968–69.
There are 45,000 here at Elland Road to watch them beat you 2–0 with two trademark Leeds United goals; the first from Clarke as the linesman flags for a foul throw from Bremner; the second three minutes later as Bates plays the ball forward to Clarke, who is at least three or four yards offside –
