The spontaneous outpouring of grief that greeted George Best’s wholly expected demise at the age of 59 was probably a phenomenon confined to the UK and Ireland.

Nonetheless, it stopped not far short of the reaction to Princess Diana Spencer’s death, and certainly exceeded that which met the end of Pope John Paul II’s time on the earthly plane. The sense of loss was acute, and cut across gender and generational lines. Thirty-year-olds who had never seen him play interrupted their elegiac night’s drinking to raise yet another toast to the lost genius, marvelled again at the scarcely-believable footage of his on-field exploits, and wept the odd tear.
There was a sense, of course, that Best’s iconic status owed at least as much to his chaotic off-field existence. Males of the species, in particular, were touched in a way last managed by Johnny Cash. Ninety per cent of them have dreamed at some point of performing those kind of miracles on a football field, but most have also been less than averse to the idea of living on fine champagne and serially bedding Miss Worlds. Best’s entire life was a fulfilment of such fantasy. The manner in which he squandered it is all too familiar, but it must be remembered that Best never saw himself as a victim, and apparently found it hilarious when people referred to him as a ‘wasted talent’.
Regrets, he had very few. He was asked by Esquire magazine at one point whether, if given the chance to rewind, was there was anything he would change about his life. His response was revealing: ‘I took a penalty against Chelsea in 1971, and Peter Bonetti, the fucker, he saved it! I wish I’d sent it the other way.’ The understated wit and diabolic sense of humour never deserted him. Best could, of course, be mercilessly scathing as a pundit, most notably in his assessment of present-day footballing deities (‘David Beckham can’t kick with his left foot, he can’t tackle, he can’t head the ball and he doesn’t score many goals. Apart from that, he’s all right’).
Nonetheless, almost anyone who knew him testifies that through all the undoubted arrogance, the wildness, the drinking, the hell-raising and general enfant terrible behaviour, there was a generosity, sweetness and sensitivity to Best that could make a statue weep at its remembrance. Eamon Dunphy recalls a night in Ballymun when ‘there was a little boy with Downs’ Syndrome who wanted to meet him. George played a frame of pool with him and let the kid win. Alex (George’s trophy wife) was gettng very impatient – it definitely wasn’t her scene. There was a car waiting for them. The kid said ‘can we have another frame?’ George said yes and Alex walked out. George ended up playing five frames with him.’
Whatever her reaction on that occasion, Alex appreciated Best’s affinity with the common man: ‘George always got annoyed at celebrities who’d refuse to talk to people in the street or the pub. They bloody well put us here, he’d say, give something back.’ His appearances as a pundit on Gillette Soccer Saturday were invariably memorable for the frequent look of abject horror on his face, calling to mind Beethoven sitting through a Sham 69 rehearsal. He was in no doubt about the root cause of such rampant mediocrity; ‘Footballers today are millionaires by the time they’re 22. Players now have a groin injury for months on end, and they don’t really give a toss whether they’re playing or not, cause they’re getting paid anyway.’
More sober commentators than myself have detected a cruel irony in the fact that Best’s last breaths coincided with the liberalisation of Britain’s alcohol licensing laws. They hope that the final, unsettling pictures of a yellow-faced Best on his deathbed will serve as a warning to anyone in danger of treading the same path. They overlook the fact that, as with Kurt Cobain or Jim Morrison, the very manner of Best’s demise has granted him a sort of eternal youth. Self-destruction is meant to be the preserve of rock stars – it is rarely associated with sporting figures. Most leading sportsmen, at the behest of their dieticians and physiotherapists, live lives so dull and monastic that no sane hedonist would dream of exchanging places with them. But gorgeous George burnt the candle at both ends, spectacularly, and seemed all the more human for it, and was more beloved as a result. Cheers, mate.