‘I’ve made no offer and no enquiry and, although I’ve contemplated buying Peter Shilton a million times before, I have not done so while I have been at Leeds.’
They chew the ends of their biros and they ask, ‘What about all the rumours?’
‘Nobody is going from this club in exchange deals or any other deals until I have been here a very long time. Nobody has asked for a transfer, nobody wants to go and nobody is going. I have two goalkeepers with whom I am delighted.’
They scratch their chins and they ask, ‘Why hasn’t Giles signed his contract yet?’
‘I have not yet seen him about his contract,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all there is to it.’
They blow their noses and they ask, ‘What are your feelings about tomorrow?’
‘The game gives us a terrific chance to get away to a good start,’ I tell them. ‘You cannot have tougher opposition than Bill Shankly and Liverpool, and everybody will be going like bombs. We have trained hard all week, got on with our jobs, made a signing and are all now looking forward to the match.’
Liar, liar , I’m thinking. They’re thinking, Your whole body’s on fire .
The press conference over, I show my face to the directors then I change my gear, get my suitcase from the office and go out to the coach. They are all sat there in their Sunday best, smoking and sulking, whispering and waiting for me, with their paperback books and their packs of cards. I make Sniffer shift again so I can sit next to Bremner again. Billy rolls his eyes and lights another fag –
‘You don’t fucking give up, do you?’ he says.
‘Never,’ I tell the man –
This the man I watched and commentated on for ITV at the World Cup this summer, captaining his country, beating Zaire 2–0, drawing with Brazil, drawing with Yugoslavia, sticking it up the press boys, this the man who was Scotland, this man who sits beside me now and stares out of the window at the rain and the motorway, this man who Revie thought of as a second son, this man who would run through fire for Don, who walks on water for the people of Leeds, the people of Scotland, this man beside me now, lighting another fucking fag and pretending to read a bloody paperback book until he turns to me, until he finally turns to me and asks –
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’
The cunt. Cunt. Cunt –
Halfway down the M1, the coach stops at a service area. Everyone gets off for a coffee and a piss. It’s raining hard as I walk across the car park to the foyer –
The fucking cunt. Cunt. Cunt –
I come out of the toilets and they’re all stood around the one-arm bandits, signing autographs and getting kisses off the waitresses –
The cunts. Cunts. Cunts –
‘Come on,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s all go for a walk around the car park.’
‘Walk?’ spits Bremner. ‘I’ve never been for a fucking walk in my life.’
‘Get going,’ I tell them. ‘Stretch your legs, you lazy buggers!’
They stare at me and, for one moment, they look like they won’t go. But then Captain Bremner opens the door and leads them one by one out into the rain and the car park, leads the League Champions around the service-station car park –
In the rain. In their Sunday best. In the rain. In their polished shoes –
‘Good man, Billy,’ I tell him as I catch him up. ‘Stretch them legs.’
‘Fuck off,’ he hisses at me. ‘I’m getting bloody soaked here.’
‘I thought you lot bloody loved these kinds of communal activities,’ I tell him. ‘Round of golf. Bit of bingo. Carpet bowls. Thought that was all part of Don’s appeal? Togetherness. One for all and all for one. One big happy family.’
‘You’re right,’ says Bremner. ‘One big happy family; till you fucking turned up.’
* * *
The very last game of the season. The very last game in the Second Division –
Saturday 19 April 1969 –
Home to Bristol City. Home in front of 31,644 fans. Home as Champions .
You’ve had your hair
They chew the ends of their biros and they ask, ‘What about all the rumours?’
‘Nobody is going from this club in exchange deals or any other deals until I have been here a very long time. Nobody has asked for a transfer, nobody wants to go and nobody is going. I have two goalkeepers with whom I am delighted.’
They scratch their chins and they ask, ‘Why hasn’t Giles signed his contract yet?’
‘I have not yet seen him about his contract,’ I tell them. ‘That’s all there is to it.’
They blow their noses and they ask, ‘What are your feelings about tomorrow?’
‘The game gives us a terrific chance to get away to a good start,’ I tell them. ‘You cannot have tougher opposition than Bill Shankly and Liverpool, and everybody will be going like bombs. We have trained hard all week, got on with our jobs, made a signing and are all now looking forward to the match.’
Liar, liar , I’m thinking. They’re thinking, Your whole body’s on fire .
The press conference over, I show my face to the directors then I change my gear, get my suitcase from the office and go out to the coach. They are all sat there in their Sunday best, smoking and sulking, whispering and waiting for me, with their paperback books and their packs of cards. I make Sniffer shift again so I can sit next to Bremner again. Billy rolls his eyes and lights another fag –
‘You don’t fucking give up, do you?’ he says.
‘Never,’ I tell the man –
This the man I watched and commentated on for ITV at the World Cup this summer, captaining his country, beating Zaire 2–0, drawing with Brazil, drawing with Yugoslavia, sticking it up the press boys, this the man who was Scotland, this man who sits beside me now and stares out of the window at the rain and the motorway, this man who Revie thought of as a second son, this man who would run through fire for Don, who walks on water for the people of Leeds, the people of Scotland, this man beside me now, lighting another fucking fag and pretending to read a bloody paperback book until he turns to me, until he finally turns to me and asks –
‘You ever play at Wembley did you, Mr Clough?’
The cunt. Cunt. Cunt –
Halfway down the M1, the coach stops at a service area. Everyone gets off for a coffee and a piss. It’s raining hard as I walk across the car park to the foyer –
The fucking cunt. Cunt. Cunt –
I come out of the toilets and they’re all stood around the one-arm bandits, signing autographs and getting kisses off the waitresses –
The cunts. Cunts. Cunts –
‘Come on,’ I tell them. ‘Let’s all go for a walk around the car park.’
‘Walk?’ spits Bremner. ‘I’ve never been for a fucking walk in my life.’
‘Get going,’ I tell them. ‘Stretch your legs, you lazy buggers!’
They stare at me and, for one moment, they look like they won’t go. But then Captain Bremner opens the door and leads them one by one out into the rain and the car park, leads the League Champions around the service-station car park –
In the rain. In their Sunday best. In the rain. In their polished shoes –
‘Good man, Billy,’ I tell him as I catch him up. ‘Stretch them legs.’
‘Fuck off,’ he hisses at me. ‘I’m getting bloody soaked here.’
‘I thought you lot bloody loved these kinds of communal activities,’ I tell him. ‘Round of golf. Bit of bingo. Carpet bowls. Thought that was all part of Don’s appeal? Togetherness. One for all and all for one. One big happy family.’
‘You’re right,’ says Bremner. ‘One big happy family; till you fucking turned up.’
* * *
The very last game of the season. The very last game in the Second Division –
Saturday 19 April 1969 –
Home to Bristol City. Home in front of 31,644 fans. Home as Champions .
You’ve had your hair
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