The weekend commencing Friday, 13 February was a rare occurrence for Brian Clough. No Saturday fixture was scheduled for Nottingham Forest so it was Clough’s intention to clear out the shed, repair the pergola and remove tracts of ivy that had started choking his trees. Usually, he would secure the services of Forest’s apprentices for the manual labour in his garden. It was a prime opportunity to get to know the lads and teach them about discipline, work rate, the value of nutrition and also to find out what their mams and dads did. You could tell a lot about a player’s inner worth by knowing about their background. But as this was a free Saturday, Clough had roped in a few of the first team for gardening duties, including star forwards Garry Birtles and Peter Davenport. After the day’s graft, Clough would show off his cooking skills, making his players a lavish meal on the kerosene-fuelled Aga, food for footballers, things like local beef from the village butcher and homegrown veg.
Before Christmas, Clough had invited Forest’s spidery right back Viv Anderson – England’s first black international footballer – to his home in Quarndon, to the north of Derby, to help prune roses and rake leaves. It was important to drag first teamers over to the house from time to time. Not to bring them down a peg or two, but to remind them of the pleasure of getting their hands dirty, something many modern footballers were forgetting. To Clough’s mind, far too much footballers’ time was spent at the barber’s or “salons”. It had been a chatty morning, with Clough and Anderson discussing defensive tactics while working the borders. It was basic tactics that the manager and player examined because at its heart, football was not a difficult game.
“A defender should never dive in, Vivian,” Clough lectured, brandishing a hand fork, “because once you’re on the ground, you’re out of the game, you see. It’s far better to jockey sideways and backwards barring the forward’s run. What happens is, the attacker has to put his foot on the ball and look for other options – or the back pass. That’s your job done, young man.”
“You’ve got to harry, too, Boss,” Anderson added, “closing down players as quickly as you can, reducing the time the other player has of starting a run.”
“Why are you not club captain?” Clough asked, squinting into wintry sunlight.
Anderson shrugged: “Because Bowyer is?”
“Good answer – he’s a better player than you,” Clough replied with that unmistakeable North-east lilt. “He’s a good reader of the game. Now, don’t tell him I said that! Reading the game, that’s the real skill Vivian. What I do is, when that ball bobbles about the pitch, I play each pass in my own mind. It keeps my brain sharp and alert. I’ve scored 75 goals this season already.”
“It’s freezin’ today, in’t it, Boss,” Anderson stated.
“It’s because we’re stood about doing bugger all,” Clough cajoled. “Come on, there’s a dead bloody tree to chop down yet.”
Anderson fought to control the rolling of his eyes and forced a smile. Clough strolled with purpose towards the shed, with clouds of steamy breath trailing, to find his two-man saw. “This’ll warm us up!” he shouted across the lawn.
The glorious garden was an important tool in Clough’s player development; it was the personal touch missed by the likes of Don Howe and Mr Bojangles Ron Atkinson. You couldn’t have a two-way conversation during training. Training was a series of barked instructions. But in Quarndon, with a trowel in your hand, there was time for both manager and players to think and get matters off your chest.
Clough had never seen fog so impenetrable. Instead of crossing the Pennines to pick up the A1 at Scotch Corner, taking his life in his hands, there was no option other than to find a local hotel or B&B. Once safe, he’d have a couple of large whiskies, sleep like a log and make another attempt to drive home the following morning. But how could anyone find a bed when it was impossible to see five yards in front of your own face? Clough had no intention of steering blindly through the Cumbrian interior. These roads were treacherous enough in broad daylight. The danger was that he’d end up on the back seat of the Merc shivering, trying to sleep but counting the seconds till dawn. Clough decided to delegate the role of travel agent to his secretary in Nottingham, Carole Washington. First, he needed to find a phone.
Clough drove at a mind-achingly slow speed, occasionally using kerb and verge as a navigating device to remain on the carriageway. Fog lights were proving useless, simply adding to the confusion by creating a bright, ethereal circle that a sufferer of cataracts might be familiar with. Soon, the dark-grey murk transformed into bright-orange murk and the Nottingham Forest manager realised that he must have reached a bank of streetlights. And where there were streetlights, there would surely be a phone box, civilisation and maybe even a pub with bedrooms. He instantly perked up.
Clough edged the car into a layby and came to a halt. With the engine still running, to keep the heaters on, Clough swished his fingers from side to side in the rectangular tray of the centre console. Among wrappers of long-ago-sucked travel sweets, hardened orange rind and useful 2p’s and 5p’s, Clough was dumbfounded to locate a bar of barely used Cussons Imperial Leather soap, still with its paper sticker intact. He brought the bar of soap closer to his face to inspect the smooth surface.
“Why’s there bloody soap in the car?” Clough mumbled to himself.
Clough switched off the car engine and ran through the possible reasons why soap would have been deposited by the automatic shift of his Mercedes. The only sensible answer was that his daughter, Liz, was the culprit, probably bringing soap as part of a larger array of artefacts for attending to her dolly. Jersey sleuth Jim Bergerac, of course, may have had an alternative answer. Smiling now, Clough flapped his flat cap onto his head and scooped up the change from the tray. He didn’t know where to stow the bar of soap so he simply placed it in the pocket of his red Adidas padded jacket as he climbed out of the car. Still largely flummoxed by the soap mystery and in deep thought, Clough inadvertently left the keys in the ignition.
A knowledge of English street planning was soon proved spot-on as there, directly in front of Clough’s face, stood the familiar shape of a red telephone kiosk, its dull yellow interior light beaming tepidly onto a black phone within.
“Carole… Carole, it’s me, Brian,” Clough spoke calmly and clearly. “Now listen, take this number. Carlisle 35033. Have you got that? Right, I’ve only got 14p, so you’ll need to ring me back. I’m in a village near Carlisle and I need to find a place to stay for the night… No, no, I’m fine… Can you try and find me an address of a B&B or hotel, because the weather here is… [beep-beep] Carole? [Beep-beep] It’s bloody… [Beep-beep-clunk] Carole? Bloody hell.”
Clough replaced the receiver on the cradle. Standing in the cramped confines of the kiosk, Clough thought about the utter silence and bitter cold, breathing from his mouth so he could marvel at the thickness of the condensation. Two long minutes passed, then the phone brilliantly rang into life. Clough picked up.
“Thanks Carole, you are a bloody wonder,” continued Clough. “Now, I can’t drive in these conditions, not for much longer anyway, it’s become that bad. I’ve never seen fog like it – it’s like London at the time of the Ripper. What’s the weather like where you are? Not s’bad? Carole, love, I’m sorry to bother you when you’ve already left work for the day. What’s that? I’m in where? Dur-dur? What, like an ambulance? D-u-r-d-a-r… Durdar… oh, I get you now. How did you find out? Oh that was clever – and the operator was able to tell you that? Well that’s smashing, it really is. What? Vivian? Transfer? Why…? Wants to be playing regularly for England? I see. Yes. Yes. Hmm, I see. Yes. Bloody ridiculous. Two European Cup medals he’s got! Yes. I’ll talk to him when I get back, Carole. He never spoke a word of this in my garden before Christmas when we were collecting the leaves. Yes… yes, I suppose we were busy that day. Well, look, Carole, can you get onto directory enquiries and see what you can come up with? As close to Durdar as you can, preferably in Durdar instead. Basically, I can’t see a bloody thing, and even if I could, they’re not big on street signs round this way and the map in the car bears no bloody relation to reality. Yes, I’ll stay near the phone. I’ll just run back to the car to get a pad and pen. Thanks, Carole.”
Clough walked at pace, his padded jacket swish-swishing as his arms swept back and forth, his expensive leather slip-ons tapping a metronomic rhythm along the paved surface. Clough strolled but his brain began expressing alarm, like he’d made a wrong turn or had somehow failed to accurately retrace his steps. Clough stopped and pursed his lips in thought. Is the fog so thick that I’ve missed the Merc? He slowly turned 90 degrees and stood at the edge of the layby, the layby where, just minutes earlier, he’d parked his car, the car that contained his briefcase, his notepaper, his pens, his calculator, his Nottingham Forest chequebook, £500 in cash and a collection of receipts from his Scotland trip. Clough’s facial expression remained resolute, like the information that his car had disappeared was of no importance. It was the face he displayed in the dugout when a defeat was imminent, for disappointment wasn’t to be broadcast to a wider public. But at least he still had a bar of soap.
Clough walked back towards the telephone box, trying to work out a way forward in his tactician’s brain. An answer would arrive soon, it always did. He lifted the collar on his Adidas jacket and pulled his flat cap a little tighter on his head to prevent the cold further deflating his battered ego. He waited outside the phone box then heard the phone ring. Clough stepped inside the box and answered.
“Alan?” said the voice on the line.
“No,” replied Clough. “Wrong number.”
“Wrong, twat, it’s the right number – are you in a phone box?”
“I am in a phone box, yes, young man,” Clough spoke, agitated. “But I’m expecting a very important call, long distance, so you’ll have to ring off for now. I shouldn’t be long.”
“Is there a fella outside the phone box?” asked the voice on the line. “Have a look.”
Clough peered through the smeared and scratched glass and was startled to see an oversized figure in a pea-green snorkel coat with hood up.
“Be quick!” the man shouted from outside the kiosk. “Someone’s ringing me.”
Clough opened the door: “Are you Alan?”
“Yup. Is it for me?”
“I suppose it is,’ said Clough, standing aside, “but I’d be appreciative if I could use the phone at some point very soon. I’m expecting a call as well.”
The man offered no thanks, barged past Clough and took control of the receiver: “Mick!”
The kiosk door clunked closed.
Clough stood idly on the pavement, hands buried deep in his pockets, feet tapping the pavement to ward off the incessant ice-chill of the evening. Minutes passed and the conversation from inside the phone box continued at garish volume, largely regarding spare parts for vans, Page 3 girls and the unusual weather.
Clough knocked on the glass: “Will you be long? I have to use the phone. It won’t take all night.”
A gap in the door appeared: “Look, piss off dipstick, I’m busy,” Alan warned, then added: “I’ll be here half an hour yet, maybe more. What you going to do about it?”
The door closed, leaving a whispy cloud of stagnant, steamy breath.
At this, Clough’s expression shifted from its noncommittal match-day defeat to a deceptive conviviality. The Forest manager edged the door open again and said, “Hey, clever bugger, come out ’ere a minute.”
Alan let out a weary groan and announced to his telephone associate, “Hang on, Mick, I’m just gonna deal with this wazzock outside. Call me back in five.” He then cupped the phone and, angling his head towards Clough, said, “You’re askin’ for a good hidin’, you, pal.”
Clough smiled warmly at the escalation of events and voiced through the aperture, “Eh, don’t be long now, cos I could do with some exercise to warm me up.”
Alan, nodding, replaced the handset: “Want warmin’ up, do yer? I’ll soon ’ave you all toasty.”
Alan pushed open the door, emerged from the kiosk but found, to his dismay, an empty pavement, nobody around, not a soul to pummel to a pulp, not a single head to stove in, not a nose to pound into a flattened mess. With breath trailing from his nostrils like a cartoon bull, Alan peered into the orange cloud but could see nothing apart from swirls… swirls of fog, swirls of confusion.
“Buggered off, ’ave yer?” Alan shouted. “Wastin’ my fuckin’ time! Gone all nesh, thought better of it? Shithead! Twat! Prick! If I get my ’ands on you, you’re fuckin’ dead!”
And then events started to quicken up.
First came a whuuump! For Alan, complete loss of breath rapidly arrived, followed by the gradual realisation of a weight spread across his broad back and shoulders. Alan’s arms began rolling and twisting as he attempted to grab at the lithe being that had taken the air out of his lungs. Had Alan’s assailant superhero powers? Unbeknownst to him, Clough had managed total surprise by clambering onto the roof of the phone box before descending like an avenging angel. He was now riding Alan rodeo-style.
“Get off me!” Alan growled.
Clough placed his strong, calloused hands over Alan’s eyes and said, “Ooh, the lights have gone out!”
“You’re dead,” Alan raged, “dead, fuckin’ dead…” but was stopped mid-sweary rant by a fragrant brick that was placed into his mouth with incredible dexterity, which was then rammed deeper into position using the side of a fist.
“Aaaaagghhh,” Alan gasped. “Aaaaaaaaagggghhhh!”
The bar of Cussons Imperial Leather, increasingly damp, moved with ease towards Alan’s back teeth and throat.
“Waheueueugh!” Alan violently choked.
Clough shimmied down the ape-like back and said with finality, “Now let’s get that dirty fuckin’ mouth of yours washed out, shall we?”
Taking inspiration from the 1934 Laurel & Hardy feature The Live Ghost, Clough then thumped Alan’s chin upwards, breaking the mouth-clasped soap into fragments. Some pieces of Imperial Leather tumbled down Alan’s throat and windpipe while other bits became crushed around his molars, all the while the soapy sensation building and becoming increasingly unmanageable to his taste buds.
As Alan fought for breath, he began the tricky task of de-soaping his mouth and oesophagus by spitting and choking, then using his tongue as a bulldozer to clear away the undesirable magnolia-coloured clods.
Clough stepped to one side while his enemy, who’d been gagging for a good 30 seconds, could hold back no longer and threw up onto the pavement, bringing forth a psychedelic beam of orange and yellow cubes, replete with the regulation echoed sprinkle sound. It was while Alan heaved up a second load that Clough noticed the telephone ringing from inside the callbox. With a grin, he darted inside and, having picked up the receiver, heard the sweet tones of Carole Washington in Nottingham.
“Sorry I took a while Brian, but I’ve located a nice, four-star hotel around two miles from where you are,” Clough’s secretary reported. But before Clough could cogitate the information, the handset was forcibly grabbed from his hand. Clough looked with anguish as the pig’s-tail curl of telecommunication cabling became taut and the receiver was torn with physical fury from the telephone set.
“It’s for you-hoo!” Alan laughed, who’d made a remarkable recovery, and began wrapping the telephone cord around Clough’s throat. It was while Alan was throttling Clough that the European Cup-scooping manager of 1979 and ’80 began to think he’d seen his last football match. The scuffle inevitably spilled out onto the pavement, with Clough attempting in vain to loosen the tight cabling from around his neck. The situation then took a turn towards the absurd. Alan felt a resounding thwack on the back of his thick, bovine skull and, having managed to turn around like a biblical character in one of Rembrandt’s religious paintings c.1620, saw the unique lower-case b at 90 degrees scowl of Yorkshire sporting legend Geoff Boycott, who was holding a cricket bat in both hands.
“No, Zod!” Alan mouthed, perhaps influenced by his favourite film Superman, before dropping sidewards to the ground like a sack of locally grown maincrop potatoes, used for roasting or chips.
Boycott peered towards Clough and announced, “Sod it, I think I’ve dropped a contact lens.”
Clough called back, “I’ve not seen you strike anything as sweetly as that since Scarborough in 1970. ”
Boycott looked over to Clough using his one functioning eye and remarked, “By jingo, I thought it were you Brian, I just reckoned it a bit unlikely that you’d be bein’ throttled to death with a telephone cord five miles outside Carlisle as I ’appened to be passin’ – and not just passin’, but bloody lost!”
Clough carefully unwrapped the cord from his throat and said, “It’s a funny old night tonight, Geoffrey. And I think some shithouse has gone and nicked my car.”
“Well, mine’s just up road,” Boycott announced. “I suppose you’d better get in car wi’ me and start doin’ some map readin’. Luckily, I’ve brought a spare pair of contact lenses with me, as well as my full kit bag with bats, balls, bails, the lot!”
“Do you think this bloody big brute will be alright sprawled across the pavement, unconscious in temperatures nearing freezing?” Clough asked, gesturing towards the prostrate Alan.
“Happen,” Boycott replied. “But I’ll tell you what, ’e ’ad a lovely fragrant breath when I clobbered ’im one wi’ me best bat. It reminded me of our bathroom in Fitzwilliam when I were a young kid.”
“You’re a bloody sentimentalist you,” Clough grinned. “But I’ll tell you something, we’ll not be making Yorkshire or Derbyshire tonight. I know there’s a hotel two miles from here with warm beds and a bar. We just need to know which bloody direction to go in.”
Back at Boycott’s pristine Ford Granada, with the interior light shining, Boycott carefully placed his spare contact lens into his eye. “Well, way I look at it,” Boycott said, “is we either go that way or this way, forwards or backwards. Now, I’ve just come from that way and could see absolutely nothin’ of any use to anyone but then again, I could’ve passed Blackpool bloody Tower and not noticed it. I vote go forward.”
“Sounds good to me, Geoffrey,” Clough nodded. “Let’s bugger off out of here.”