Brian Clough, the 48-year-old manager of Nottingham Forest, was driving his Y-reg Mercedes-Benz southbound on the motorway between Glasgow and Carlisle. It was Friday the 13th, unlucky for some, but not for Clough, who, hours earlier on this finger-nipping January afternoon, had convinced the largely untried Celtic midfielder Jim McInally, on loan at Dundee, that a shift to the English First Division would benefit player, Nottingham Forest and Scottish football alike. The player made up his mind in less time than it would take Bob Holness to introduce the opponents on Blockbusters. Clough instantly rang the City Ground: “He’s ours for next season.”
Clough saw untapped potential in the Celtic reject, yet Ol’ Big ’Ead’s skill for scouting future stars was, by his own admission, not much cop. The true talent spotter had been Clough’s former assistant Peter Taylor, his right-hand man who’d brought the likes of John Robertson, Archie Gemmill and Kenny Burns to his attention. But Taylor was a rattlesnake. Taylor had retired, his nerves shot to pieces, and then, just as quickly, returned to the game to manage Derby County – Clough and Taylor’s beloved former club. Taylor had written a book, Taylor On Clough, about the highs and lows of their twinned careers. Clough never asked for the biography to be written nor would have given approval. Taylor would have been better off writing a manual on how to identify emerging talent. That was his true calling and it would have sold in bucketloads. Clough had heard nothing about Taylor On Clough until its publication, even though Taylor’s office had been along the corridor at Forest’s stadium.
As Clough hurtled towards the border, with the taste of hotel sparkling wine now acrid at the back of his throat, the winter clouds hung heavy as an eiderdown, a threatening grey mass stretching to England – England, the country that had rejected Clough’s services, the country that had brought in West Ham’s general manager Ron Greenwood – not the actual team manager – in 1977. The job should have been Clough’s. The country still wanted him as England manager. They loved him for his outspoken views and forthright opinions, and for how he played the game – attractively, to feet and on the floor. It wasn’t enough to win. Clough wanted the game played as performance art, as a visual feast. They were in the business of entertainment. But his genius was shared with Taylor, and his management style was already becoming a parody of itself. A career in gradual decline.
Clough fixed his eyes on the bumper of a brown Vauxhall Chevette hatchback and visualised the pinnacle of his managerial years, when everything was going so right… Through swift-moving red and white shirts he saw Forest’s wing-wizard John Robertson finding space on the edge of the box when, just seconds before, there was no space to find. His foot lifted like the hammer of a rifle and seemed to hold for an eternity, before the marksman’s killer shot, directing the ball neatly and meticulously past the Hamburg SV keeper Rudolf Kargus. In the build up, every loose ball was fought for and every loose ball was won. Determination. Speed. Brutality. Ruthlessness. Accuracy. Madrid, 28 May 1980, the world watching the red of Nottingham Forest, of Brian Clough, of Peter Taylor, not the red of Liverpool or Bayern Munich. Memories emerging and drifting in banks of border-country fog.
In the murk above Clough’s sleek Mercedes, a deep-grey, egg-carton mass of clouds gave an otherworldly violet monotone to the undulations of Dumfries and Galloway, an eeriness that you witnessed once a decade, like it was the end of the world. It was a relief to Clough when the sodium streetlights flickered into friendly life along the carriageway, strawberry-coloured illumination gradually warming to tangerine, stretching for miles towards, what seemed, a cloud curving to the ground and consuming the horizon. Clough plotted the course in his head: M6; A66; A1; then the M1 home to Derby. There’s so much bloody driving in football, so many bloody miles to cover. ETA… 10pm, at best. Clough could have murdered a drink. And he wished that Taylor was with him.
The needle on the fuel display indicated that the tank was only an eighth full and with no knowledge of garages across the unwelcoming bleak Pennines, the Forest manager pulled in at a Fina service station near Gretna, just to be safe. The air temperature was bitterly cold – biting and raw. It must have been close to freezing. Clough reached for his flat cap from the back seat of his car and placed it firmly on his head. The service station’s canopy offered little protection from the elements. While Clough pulled the trigger on the pump, he was recognised by a tall man with white hands the size of a yeti’s, who was filling up his Bedford CF van with derv.
“Now then, Mr Clough – business or pleasure?”
“Bit of both,” Clough cheerfully responded across the forecourt.
“Up here for a new player?” the van driver pushed.
“Eh, what team do you support?” Clough asked, ignoring the probing question.
“Liverpool. Funnily enough, I play for Gretna.”
“Northern League Division 1?”
“That’s right – do you know it?”
“I do, a lovely league that – Blyth Spartans will run away with it this season,” Clough predicted.
“Decent side,” the van driver admitted. “North Shields are scoring all the goals, though.”
Clough replaced the nozzle on the pump. A full tank.
“What position do you play?” Clough called over.
“Sub.”
“He-he, that’s a good one!’ Clough chortled.
“I’m a goalie – a sub goalie.”
“Goalie’s most important position on the park!” Clough barked. “Eh, Nottingham Forest will buy your petrol – put your wallet away.”
“Blimey, thanks Mr Clough.”
“It’s Brian. And your name is?”
“Barry. Barry Gilfillan.”
“What do you do, Barry, when you’re not on the bench?”
“Fireplaces, hearths, grates. Fog’s coming in heavy, Brian. I’d keep off A66 if I were you. It’s icing up as well,” Gilfillan warned.
“Thanks for that advice, young man,” Clough said, approaching Gilfillan with a finger raised. “But I’ll tell you what, it’s not as cold as Elland Road’s training ground. Coldest place in Europe, that. Now, listen to this: you work hard, listen to what the manager tells you and get off the bloody bench. Nobody ever won a thing sitting on their arse. Train, train, train – put in the extra hours. That’s how I managed to score 250 goals in 270-odd league appearances for Middlesbrough and Sunderland, that’s how my mate Geoff Boycott became one of the greatest batsman of his generation, that’s how Seb Coe is winning gold medals left, right and bloody centre, that’s how John Robertson scored in the European Cup Final. You never know – you might end up playing for me one day. Now give us a kiss.”
With a signature signed on Nottingham Forest-headed notepaper, a peck on the cheek and two lots of fuel paid for, Clough gathered speed once more, overtaking a fleet of Cumbria County Council gritters. On “Diddy” David Hamilton’s Radio 2 slot, Frank Sinatra crooned, “There may be trouble ahead.” Clough smiled and joined in at full volume. “But while there’s moonlight and music and love and romance – let’s face the music and dance.”