Red or Dead by David Peace

This extraordinary work operates on two majestic levels; firstly, a microscopic examination of the footballing life of Liverpool Football Club under the stewardship of a one Mr Bill Shankly focusing on Shankly’s obsession with hard work, his obsession with success and his obsession with the people of Liverpool and… Secondly, David Peace has produced a towering exploration of a footballing world long since gone, a world where celebrity and bucket loads of corporate cash have tainted the once deeply cherished leisure pursuit of thousands of working class communities. Red or Dead might even be considered a lament for the fading dream of British socialism and all that that dream conjures up.

When you first start the book you are somewhat taken aback by the jack-hammering of repetition, but as the pages fly by you learn to love this unique style, as the author all but transforms prose into poetry. Literary professors can debate the why’s and how’s of such a technique, but for me I need only say that it works to staggering affect. The emotional tensions that Peace is able to create with his page after page of tight, repetitive sentences make this far, far more than a mere sports biography. No, this is a major work of fiction that towers above the mountain of sporting biographies. This is the one to savour for decades to come. Where to start? The first indication that Peace gives us that Shankly might be something a little bit special comes early in the story when we learn of Shankly’s insistence that the local youth must be given every encouragement to come for trials at Anfield.

They must come and report for coaching and training. Every one of them. Every lad who has ever kicked a ball within one hundred miles. They are all welcome. So any boy, any lad, who has any potential, we will develop that potential. That is my promise. To give every boy, every lad who comes through these gates the opportunity. The opportunity. Because that is what I believe in. Giving people, whoever they may be, wherever they may come from, giving them that opportunity. The opportunity. Because without opportunity, there is no chance for talent. And so if any boy, if any lad has any talent in them at all, we will do our very best to bring it out of them. P25

So right from the start, Peace lays down Shankly’s socialist credentials. And right from the beginning, we the readers, realise just how far removed today’s world of Premier League football is from those working class aspirations so forcefully expressed by Peace via his Shankly. As the corporate enterprises of the Premier League scour the planet for young talent to poach, local lads today are simply surplus to requirements. Even the most talented of today’s local youngsters are hard pressed to get a look in at their local club. Local Lads – Not wanted, not Needed, should be the sign hanging on the gates of most Premier League football clubs.

Peace repeatedly hammers home to his readers Shankly’s working class orientation and philosophy. In this he moves seamlessly from the particular to the general. Yes, we are talking about Bill Shankly, a single man, but Peace has a much wider purpose I suspect. For Shankly and possibly Peace as well, football is just a microcosm of what the world could look like – a team effort with everyone working for the well-being of everyone else; a socialist enterprise where individual pursuit is dovetailed into the collective.

This is how Peace imagines Shankly would have put it:

No, no, no! We are a team. We are a working class team. We have no room for individuals. No room for stars. For fancy footballers or celebrities. We are workers. A team of workers. A team of workers on the pitch and a team of workers off the pitch. On the pitch and off the pitch. Every man in our organisation and every man in our team. He knows the importance of looking after the small things, he knows how the small things add up to the important things. From the chairman to the groundsman, every man is a cog in the machine. A cog in the machine.P146

Perhaps Alex Ferguson still subscribes to this philosophy, but for most managers today, it’s all about capturing the exceptional individual, the Ronaldo, the Suarez, the Bale, the Drogba. Even, as is the case with Suarez, the player consistently brings your club into disrepute, the club remains blindly loyal to the individual because nothing must stand in the way of footballing and financial success.Shankly, according to Peace, was fundamentally different in so many ways to the current generation of managers and footballers.

Who today would sit down at the end of a busy day and personally answer sack loads of mail from adoring supporters? Who today would take the time to personally answer each and every phone call from friends and supporters? According to Peace, Shankly was such a man, never too busy, never too important to turn his back on the legions of loyal and dedicated Anfield supporters.

The Kop, the Spion Kop. Again. Bill began to type. To type and to type and to type. Letter after letter after letter. Letter after letter after letter. To type and to type and to type. Letter after letter after letter. To type and to type and to type. P187

Peace is relentless in painting his picture of a different time, a different set of values and a different set of dreams.

Bill Shankly didn’t like money. He didn’t want to talk about money, he didn’t even like to think about money. Bill Shankly knew you needed a roof over your head. A decent roof. Food on your table and clothes on your back. Decent food and decent clothes. For you and for your family. Bill Shankly believed the wages from your work should provide you with a roof. With food and with clothes. For you and your family. But Bill Shankly believed you had to earn your wage. You had to earn that roof over your head. The food on your table and the clothes on your back. That then you would cherish that roof. That food and those clothes. Because you had earned that roof. That food, those clothes. Bill believed anything else, anything more, was a luxury. Bill Shankly believed a luxury was something you had not earned. Something you had not worked for. P177

Today a footballer can earn a quarter of a million pounds a week and earn that by simply sitting on the bench. Bill Shankly would not like that. Very soon a player will be sold for a hundred million pounds. Bill Shankly would definitely not like that. Bill Shankly would not like that at all. Bill would definitely not like that one little bit. David Peace has a big canvas to work on. It’s not all based at Anfield. Not all at home, at Anfield. Some of the action takes place in Europe. Away from Anfield. Away from home.I particularly liked the bit in Romania where Shankly caught the local hotel manager cheating his beloved Liverpool team. Shankly tells the hotel manager of socialist Romania:

You are a disgrace to International Socialism. You are a disgrace to your party. An absolute disgrace. I am going to report you. Report you to the Kremlin, Sir! P211

To what degree these sorts of dialogue are a work of fiction or a realistic reworking of Shankly’s thoughts, the reader can only surmise. But the vast factual research that Peace has obviously carried out blends perfectly with the author’s own fanciful imaginings. Documentary or work of fiction, it is difficult to know, but the end product that Peace has conjured up is a wondrous and joyous thing.Peace is astute enough to place his Shankly firmly within the appropriate historical context. This is done by frequent references to the politicians and politics of the day. My favourite one is Shankly reminiscing about Clement Attlee, a clever device by Peace because he wants to draw a parallel between Attlee and Shankly. Both men somewhat discarded before their time and usefulness had fully expired.

In the kitchen, at the table. Bill stared down at the obituaries of clement Attlee. In the night and in the silence. Bill shook his head. Bill had admired Clement Attlee. Bill had respected Clement Attlee. And Bill had voted for Clement Attlee. Bill thought what had happened to Clement Attlee was a tragedy. A tragedy for the man. Bill thought that what had happened to Clement Attlee was a waste. A waste for the country. In the kitchen, at the table. Bill shook his head again. In the night and in the silence. P243

In just those few lines Peace is able to paint an entire political backdrop for his Bill Shankly. Peace provides just enough for the reader to do their own work, to do their own painting, to do their own imaginings. Clever work indeed. And carefully, without lecturing or hectoring, David Peace draws into his story the bigger social and political picture, the one of increasing football violence, of growing unemployment and of political violence.

Bill Shankly stared down at the pitch. At the coins and at the bottles. The anger and the hate. People against people, man against man. P277

There’s almost a touch of John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath about Peace’s work. A slow and steady realisation of what is taking place all around. Shankly’s dream being destroyed by a brutal, uncaring capitalism, debilitating unemployment, mindless violence and government repression. We feel Shankly’s dream unravelling before our eyes and all the silverware in the Anfield trophy cabinet seems to be no consolation. In by inch we watch Shankly aging and tiring and we the readers and Shankly himself seem powerless to halt it. One of my very favourite passages and one of the most haunting images has Shankly pondering the coming wilderness, the end of his dreams:

Ten years and third in the first division. Ten years and nowhere, nowhere and nothing. Nothing but the sound of chains rattling, knives sharpening, and spades digging. And ticking. The clock ticking. No matter what you knew. No matter what you believed. No matter what you did. The clock ticking, always ticking. Binding you, stabbing you and burying you. In the wasteland, in the wilderness. There was always, already the wasteland. There was always, already the wilderness. The wasteland and the wilderness of the clock. The clock ticking, always clicking. P311

Just rereading these lines sends a shiver down the spine. It could be Bill Shankly but it could be anyone pondering the end of a career, the end of a life, the end of a dream .The particular and the universal. This is literature at its very best. This is in the same league as Salman Rushdie. This is award winning stuff. Peace returns to this imagery towards the end. He’s writing about Shankly but he could just as easily be writing of an entire era. In fact he is doing both. Where Ken Loach lectures the nation in his Spirit of 45, David Peace, for me, achieves a far more lasting effect. To mourn an era we need to mourn a single person. It could be Attlee, it could be Wilson or it could be Shankly. Either way, in the hands of a master craftsman of David Peaces calibre, we can emotionally as well as intellectually relate to the passing of time, the passing of an era, and the passing of a dream. In the hall.

Bill heard a clock ticking. In the house. Ticking. And Bill felt old, two thousand years old. The clock ticking. So very old, so tired. Ticking. So very tired and so strained. The clock ticking. So very strained, his heart strained. Ticking and whispering. It was a different time, a different world. A world with no place for some men, some men left behind. In a different time, a different world. P 676

Be the first to comment on "Red or Dead by David Peace"

Leave a comment

Your email address will not be published.


*