David Peace's new novel Munichs is a difficult book to appraise. As a lifelong Manchester United fan, born and raised in Salford, I've always had an interest in and a solemn respect for the Munich air disaster of February 1958, which robbed the club, and the world, of the 'Busby Babes', a team that looked set to dominate national and European football for years and which contained, in Duncan Edwards, a remarkable young talent who many greats of the era say could have been the best of them all. And yet despite this interest, I found Munichs itself a strange, sometimes difficult, sometimes redundant, book.
Consequently, I'm somewhat unsure how much of Munichs I enjoyed because of the book itself – and I did enjoy it – and how much because of my fascination with the topic at hand. When Duncan Edwards dies in the book, after a remarkable battle for life in a hospital bed, and the reader finds they don't want to read on past this moment, that they want to keep him there, keep him alive, is this because of the skill of the writer or because of the real-life, emotive tragedy of it all?
I certainly found things in the writing of Munichs which irritated me on a low, but ever-growing, level. I was on guard from the start with the book's title, 'Munichs' being a slur used by rival fans, particularly Leeds and Liverpool fans, to refer to United fans, and therefore a strange choice for the Leeds-born Peace. I had initially thought it had been an unfortunate oversight, that perhaps the title might be a Joycean reference to the various struggles, the 'Munichs', endured by all of the characters, but an Author's Note at the end of the book (pg. 459) acknowledges it was chosen because of the slur, and that it should be reclaimed by United fans. It's a mild headscratcher that the author chose this as his title, his first impression, when the slur itself hardly needs a campaign: it is one most United fans shrug off, and it's not linked to a history of repression, as can be argued for the campaign to reclaim the 'n-word' slur. What is more, the book scarcely addresses antipathy towards United and is otherwise uncontentious in its aims. To jam a lightning rod front and centre into a book which does not thunder is an odd choice.
This relatively minor quibble aside (as with all slurs, the use of the word 'Munichs' says more about those who use it than those who receive it), a more irritating quirk of the book was its writing style. Peace has a dreamy, tautological prose which quickly grows tedious: the night is "the German, Munich night" (pg. 286), when a character speaks, it is "said Duncan, whispered Duncan" (pg. 156), and plain sentences are repeated within themselves for no apparent reason ("Jimmy wondered how he could have been so blind, so very blind to the signs, to the omens, how he'd missed those signs, those omens" (pg. 72)). These are not isolated examples either; the entire book is written like this. It reads like a parody of postmodernism, a clumsy and distracting affectation, and it makes the 450-page book twice as long as it needs to be, and exponentially more fatiguing.
It's for this reason that, while I enjoyed reading Munichs, I believe this was more because of an interest in the Munich air disaster than because of an interest in Peace's rendering of it. While I appreciated some of the small details the author researched (the relatives passing the wreckage of the plane when they were flown in to visit their sons in Munich hospital, the playing of Elgar's 'Nimrod' at a memorial, the callous mockery and antipathy of rival fans and clubs – particularly Burnley, Sunderland and Bolton – after the tragedy), I would have appreciated these just as well if I were reading them in a straight, non-fiction history of the Munich air disaster.
Frankly, I don't think the decision to tell the story as a novel really added anything. It allows Peace to write from the perspective of certain characters, of course, an inner monologue that wouldn't be possible in a non-fiction account, but Peace doesn't really stretch himself here, doesn't really use the licence given to a writer of fiction. He hews very close to the verifiable facts, respectfully refrains from invention, and in truth provides little more than you would find in a straight history of Munich 1958. And such a history would contain all that is good in Munichs, but refrain from the strange, irritating stylistic choices in the writing. Peace's novel is a worthy endeavour, well-researched and providing an able approximation of the rawness of the tragedy at that time, but the Flowers of Manchester have been arranged much better elsewhere.