The Magnificent Sevens. Frank Worrall
footballer, and could now do little to avoid becoming the most pitiful.
The Good, the Bad and the Bubbly
‘Not only have I lost my dad … we’ve all lost a wonderful man.’
CALUM BEST, GEORGE’S ONLY SON, 25 NOVEMBER 2005
‘Anyone who has seen him as a football fan will never forget it.’
PRIME MINISTER TONY BLAIR, 25 NOVEMBER 2005
For me, it will go down as one of those ‘Where were you when JFK died?’ moments. Friday, 25 November 2005, the day the genius with the twinkling feet died; the day George Best could fight on no more. I was in the offices of the Mail on Sunday, writing something up, when the news flashed up on the television screen around lunchtime. In thick red capital letters: ‘GEORGE BEST DIES! GEORGE BEST DIES!’ Sky TV’s coverage made me feel like throwing up at that moment. Capital letters and an exclamation mark, as if it were relaying the numbers from the lottery or some bingo show. Hardly subtle, even less compassionate. All morning there had been updates, with earlier messages across the screen stating, ‘GEORGE BEST CLOSE TO DEATH! GEORGE BEST CLOSE TO DEATH!’ The exclamations somehow reduced the tragedy of the event to the level of a freak show.
Arguably the greatest footballer these shores have ever produced gave up the fight for life at the tender age of 59 after multiple organ failure. The private Cromwell Hospital near Earl’s Court put out a statement saying George’s death ended ‘a long and very valiant fight’. George had been treated in the hospital since entering with flu-like symptoms almost eight weeks earlier. He then suffered a kidney infection and, towards the end, his condition deteriorated sharply with the development of a lung infection that led to internal bleeding. He had been particularly susceptible to infection because of the drugs he had had to take after his 2002 liver transplant.
It had ended in tears – ours – as we had always known it would. Given George’s emotional make-up and his self-destruct mechanism, the final script could not have been any different. Of course, the tributes were predictably fond and caring. Republic of Ireland Prime Minister Bertie Ahern said, ‘George should be remembered as the very best at what he did. He was quite simply a football genius.’ Sir Bobby Charlton said his former Manchester United team-mate had ‘made an immense contribution to the game, and enriched the lives of everyone that saw him play,’ adding, ‘Football has lost one of its greats, and I have lost a dear friend. He was a marvellous person.’ A statement from Manchester United said, ‘For the goals, the audacious dribbles and all the wonderful memories, Manchester United and its legions of fans worldwide will always be grateful.’ And it was announced that a minute’s silence would be observed at every Premiership football match the following weekend in George’s memory.
Yet you could argue that the tributes – worthy and warranted in a football sense – were rather over the top if you looked back at his life and cast a more critical eye over the trail of misery he brought to himself and others; the fights, the boozing, the affairs, the drink-driving, the prison spell, the abuse of a second chance with the new liver. But George Best would not be tainted by all that; he would ultimately be remembered as a hero – he would even have Best Belfast City Airport named after him and be given a virtual state funeral in Northern Ireland!
Why? Because of his God-given talent, but also because we accepted him for what he was. A genius, but a mischievous, wayward, immature man, a Peter Pan of football. We excused him many of his misdemeanours precisely because he was George Best, and because he lived a life that few of us would have been able to survive without some deviations from the straight and narrow. He was football’s first pop star and even Busby would admit it was something he as a manager had never been faced with before, saying, ‘What were we to do, shoot him? I always looked for a cure with George. It would have been easy to have transferred him, but that wasn’t the answer. Special rules for George? I suppose so, but only in the sense that he was a special player. I mean, you make it different once you say someone is a good player, and the man next to him is a genius … George is a genius.’
I first saw George Best when I was a young boy, sat on my dad’s shoulders in the Scoreboard Paddock at Old Trafford. It was the late Sixties and I felt a shiver go down my spine as he swirled past defender after defender in a league match against Chelsea. My memories of the night are always in black and white, but George would bring colour to my life for many years.
His downfall was his character – his unwillingness to face reality. It was always preferable to take a drink and return to his own fantasy world, a world of safety and warmth that takes many alcoholics to their death. In November 2001, George emerged with what would be his final autobiography, Blessed. It was his first attempt on paper to deal with the demons inside his head, demons that, he would finally admit, only went away when he’d taken enough alcohol on board. I was lucky enough to be asked to review the book for the Sunday Times and wrote these words: ‘Where did it all go wrong, Mr Best? This brilliantly raw book on the life of arguably Britain’s greatest footballer gives us some of the clearest clues yet. The Belfast genius lays bare his tortured soul, his battle with the demons and his fears. Above all, it is an immensely sad book, belying its uplifting title.
‘Blessed? It reads more like a tragic obituary penned by George himself, though, God willing, it won’t come to that for some time. But make no mistake, it could. And Georgie, in his heart, knows that. The 15-year-old boy who arrived at Manchester United and promptly rushed back to Northern Ireland, homesick and full of trepidation, is still running. From himself. Let’s get one thing straight, right now. George Best’s problem was never alcohol, it still isn’t. As Jimmy Greaves, another alcoholic (thankfully, still recovering) would tell you, George’s problem is alcoholism – that aching inner loneliness and spiritual turmoil that takes him to that life-threatening first drink. Only by confronting the alcoholism will he ever kick the bottle and find that elusive peace.
‘This book is 366 pages long but only in the last 30 does he deal with the alcoholism, the onset of liver sclerosis, the admission that he is in the last-chance saloon, the revelatory discovery that he may be the problem, that the bottle is but a symptom of his inner illness. Sure, the first 336 pages are entertaining, with anecdotes focusing on his magical European Cup Final goal in 1968 … But they are countered by the pathos of the wrecked relationships, the squandered thousands, the jail term and his deep unhappiness.
‘Alcoholism is essentially an illness of ego, and George still has plenty of that. He mocks AA, claiming it could not work for him because he is too famous. How could he, the great George Best, be anonymous? Well, it worked for Greavsie, Tony Adams, Anthony Hopkins and Eric Clapton, and they are hardly nobodies. Maybe the answer is staring Bestie in the face, and maybe it’s not having anti-alcohol tablets stitched into his stomach.
‘Yes, this book is a good read, but it’s also a tortured one. Blessed? Only if you’re still around in a few years, Georgie.’
I still consider it my best review, although I take no great pleasure in being proved right with my analysis and ultimate prediction. I knew what George was going through and had an understanding of why he could not find a way because I shared his journey for many years. I, too, was diagnosed as an alcoholic and, indeed, remember many drinks with George and his cronies in the Phene Arms, just around the corner from his flat in Chelsea. I recall he was a good pool player but that he would also become deeply morose after the drinks set in, and would end up arguing over nonsense. Inevitably, the landlord would help him home at closing time, or whenever he could take no more, whatever the time of day.
Then I remember going to Alcoholics Anonymous and seeing George there. He had been in first in the early Eighties, but this was a decade later. It was his second attempt at AA, something he kept secret – something that has not been revealed until now. If he were not dead, I would not have mentioned it; AA is an anonymous programme after all.
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