George Best

George Best is being buried today in Belfast. He has been granted, if not a state funeral, then certainly a public one.

He was a genius- footage of him playing shows the impossible.
I was told an, almost certainly apocryphal, story that reflects just how great his talent was, and how important football fans felt that talent was to them.
It is also a story I think is brilliantly Irish in tone, even though I have no idea of its provenance.

George Best is in a luxury five star hotel, on the top of his game. He’s just been paid for a modelling gig, and has spread all the money on the bed. Miss World is in a state of advanced undress on top of the money. Bottles of champagne sit in their ice buckets. The door knocks and a young hotel waiter rolls in a feast of the finest foods and wines. He sees who he’s delivering to. He looks around the room- taking in the money, the beautiful girl, the champagne and the fine food.

“Oh George”, he says, “Where did it all go wrong?”