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Promised Land: A Northern Love Story

By Anthony Clavane

Yellow Jersey Press, 2010

For all the acclaim and attention, there remained a sad and predictable note to the reception for this ‘Northern Love Story’ four years ago. The Daily Telegraph compared it to Fever Pitch, The Sunday Times called it ‘the football book of the year’ and there was even praise from The Damned United author David Peace. Unfortunately, what these excellent associations did was pigeonhole a book that was always about a whole lot more than sport. Promised Land is a set of interlocking, coming of age tales: the story of a city, Leeds, alongside the story of the book’s Jewish author. The story of a football club – Leeds United – forms the third side of the triangle, the binding baseline of the equilateral. Incorporating politics, culture, literature and religion, Promised Land is the best expression of the game’s communal significance that you’re ever likely to read.

While Clavane’s engaging personal narrative is woven throughout, it’s never as self-centred as Hornby’s. A crucial balance is upheld between the subjective and the objective, between the love letter and the social investigation. Rather than the central theme, Clavane’s journey through adolescence is rarely more than a narrative tool to transport the reader from a to b to c to d to e. Because in little more than 250 pages, Promised Land takes in more than 50 years of British social history. In fact, if we include the early section on his ancestors’ arrival in England, that figure becomes 110. Such scope requires the tightest of structures and the most focused of analyses. The governing principle of Promised Land is this; ‘United’s peaks and troughs over the past fifty years have coincided with the peaks and troughs not only of the game itself, but also of the city of Leeds and its Jewish community.’ Simple, shrewd, succinct.

Promised Land is arranged around four key time periods: Don Revie’s side of the 1960s and the meteoric rise of the Northern Man; the decline and degeneration of post-1975 Britain, dominated by ‘the three Rs – the recession, the Ripper and the racism’; the early 90s revival of both club and city; and finally O’Leary and Risdale’s ill-fated attempt at Premier League domination, just as the city too ‘squandered its boom money on insipid, gimmicky projects’. In amongst this chronological progression, Clavane’s study sweeps deftly across the years: ‘Cantona, like Johanneson and Clough…epitomised the flamboyance and sense of adventure Leeds had always failed to accommodate’, ‘It had gone the way of all other Leeds dreams, from Brodrick’s – through Revie’s – to Risdale’s.’

The result is a convincing, overarching argument for Leeds’ ‘nearly-man inheritance’. 1975, 1992, 2001, 2011 – ‘at the most crucial moments in their history, just as they were about to close in on their pinnacle, they have, quite simply, blown it’. Beautifully crafted and meticulously researched, this final reckoning rings loud and true. Clavane is in his element, combining the authority and precision of the historian, with the passion and obsession of the football writer. Promised Land is at its absolute peak when placing the two eras of Revie’s reign (‘Dirty Leeds’, then ‘Super Leeds’) within the context of the post-war regeneration of the north.

The book concludes with a backwards timeline inspired by the ‘seven sabbaths of years’ prophesised in Leviticus. It’s the football writing equivalent of Ulysses and forms a fitting finale to what is a hugely ambitious and innovative study of everything Leeds; football and everything before, during and after.

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You Don’t Know Me, But: A Footballer’s Life

By Clarke Carlisle

Simon & Schuster, 2014

Along with most of the football-loving population, I have a natural scepticism when it comes to player autobiographies. Like the ‘True Scotsman’, they tend to be all bluster and skirt, with nothing underneath. Messrs Keane and Bellamy aside, few footballers are daring enough to name and shame their fellow professionals, and understandably so. With so many players extending their careers in football through coaching and media work, burning bridges at retirement is to be avoided like the plague. There is, however, another kind of honesty, one that doesn’t play on scandal but instead offers genuine insight into the realities of footballing life. Clarke Carlisle’s You Don’t Know Me, But is a winning example of this. Touching on everything from finances to dressing room politics via addiction, depression and racism, it’s a real breath of fresh air in a fusty genre.

In many ways, Carlisle is an atypical member of the footballing fraternity. He’s won two rounds of Countdown, presented documentaries on racism and depression, and he’s the former Chairman of the PFA. While it’s not the main focus of the book, Clarke’s cerebral side is still given plenty of platform, particularly in ‘Part of the Union’, one of the book’s stand-out chapters. Discussing FIFA’s response to racism, Carlisle argues, ‘There is a disgusting disparity between the sanctions imposed for offences that will cost the governing body money and those that are unethical or immoral.’ He goes on to add, ‘It is not the exclusive remit of black players to fight racism, it is for everyone to fight.’ Carlisle is equally eloquent and forthright on the subject of his own alcohol dependency and depression, brought on by a bad injury at the tender age of 21. ‘I didn’t have the wherewithal to face my responsibilities. From my warped and clouded viewpoint, all I could see was myself.’ Carlisle reflects on his troubled past with the frank assessment of a man who is very aware of his fortunate position.

But in other ways, Carlisle is incredibly typical. As with Tony Cascarino’s Full Time, You Don’t Know Me, But… is written by a footballer who has been through the English leagues, experiencing both great highs and great lows. Blackpool, QPR, Burnley, Preston, Northampton, York City – Carlisle is no superstar and he knows it. In his own words, he’s ‘a kid from Preston, from the humblest of beginnings and with moderate ability’. The modest, unaffected narrative voice is a really appealing feature; for all his more high-brow aspirations, Carlisle is full of the joys of the ‘playground’ banter that brings a team together: ‘It’s incredibly immature, but the whole working environment of football is.’ Whole chapters are dedicated to pranks, fights, preseason tours and Christmas parties. The tone of the book reflects the combination in Carlisle’s character brilliantly, blending his intelligent observations with cruder touches of humour.

The structure of You Don’t Know Me, But… is also a real masterstroke and key to the book’s success. What better way to address the harsh realities of football than by showing a former Premier League player scrapping for a living in the belly of League Two? Carlisle’s present day trials and tribulations, interwoven with flashbacks to a career of success and failure, paint a very powerful portrait of an average football career. Transport, housing, bills; these are still everyday concerns for all but the very top players, and even then, there is always the danger of the good life being whipped out from under your feet when you least expect it.

It seems an odd phrase to use for a footballer’s autobiography, but You Don’t Me, But… is a multi-faceted memoir. In its candid handling of mental health issues, so long a taboo in the macho sporting arena, it’s a significant addition to books by the likes of Sol Campbell, Keith Gillespie and of course Ronald Reng. But Carlisle’s book also addresses some of the key issues of modern football politics and, perhaps most significantly of all, offers everyday details from the largely everyday career of an endearingly everyday footballer.

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