The Damned Utd Read Free

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