The Diary

26 November 2005: George Best - A Few Thoughts.

Having seen George play on many occasions, both in the flesh and via TV, I genuinely do feel sorry for those who weren?t as privileged as I; truly, his act was one of pure unmitigated genius, one that only rarely surfaces in the cut-throat world of professional football those days. Seeing those film-clips of George in action tonight once more put me very much in mind of the oft-quoted saying about there being a wafer-thin divide between true genius and florid psychiatric illness. (Perhaps the Satanic Nurses might care to comment further on this genuinely-fascinating subject?)

History provides many examples, of course, William Blake, artist, poet and writer of the hymn ?Jerusalem?, as sung at Last Night Of The Proms, and Women?s Institute meetings innumerable (would undoubtedly be diagnosed schizophrenic these days); Van Gogh, artist (severe and chronic depression: a condition that would eventually claim his life, of course), Thomas Hardy, author (chronic depression); even war leader and world-famous statesman Winston Churchill would be labelled a ?high-functioning alcoholic? in this vastly more abstemious age. And he too was a depressive, labelling such attacks ?The Black Dog?, whenever they occurred. There?s lots more, of course ? just a cursory glance in the direction of, say, pop music, demonstrates the point beautifully - but you get my general drift. Sometimes, when someone possesses such wonderful talent, there?s a heavy bill to pay elsewhere, and you might want to argue that was the case with George.

And yet, to look at him in his youth, all facial bum-fluff and baby features, thin as a lath, and coming from that humblest of origins, a Belfast council estate, most wouldn?t have given him a second glance in the street. But make the same fundamental error during the course of a game, and most of United?s opponents quickly came to bitterly regret it. Yes, George was thin, outwardly-fragile looking, even, but within, there burned the heart and soul of a genius, as many a First Division defence, Albion?s included, came to recognise during George?s earlier games for the club. Just ask Graham Williams, the poor sod tasked to mark him during Best?s first senior game for United, versus Albion. We lost one-nil, and poor Williams, an experienced Welsh international defender, spent most of the 90 minutes looking very silly indeed. Even during our famous 6-3 home win, just weeks before that Wembley Cup-Final appearance, George managed to slot home two, with just minutes remaining of that game.

The thing was this: George really had it all, perfect movement and control, a truly feline balancing ability, and despite that outward skinny appearance, an unerring aptitude for outwitting even the most boneheaded and thuggish of markers, to the point of complete and utter embarrassment, sometimes. The cruder they came, the harder they fell. Most good players rely on a few ?signature dishes? to get them through a game, but with George, his repertoire was endless; just when you?d thought he?d exhausted all the ammo in his locker, he?d come up with yet another variation on the dazzling theme ? a slight shimmy of the hips, perhaps, or an unexpected burst of acceleration, maybe - and yet another defender would end up scratching his head in complete bewilderment, and, more often than not, the ball well and truly in the back of the net as well. Around that time ? in what was then an entirely new journalistic concept, the glossy Sunday Times magazine section ? I remember seeing a picture of George?s various knocks and bumps, taken immediately post-match; I kid you not, his lower limbs were riddled with more pock-marks and strangely-hued blemishes than the entire surface of the moon.

His European adventures with United are also well-documented, of course, plus those with Northern Ireland. Everywhere he played, he exuded magic from every pore, but I particularly remember him for his performance in the 1968 European Cup Final just a few weeks after we?d won the Cup. After the tragedy of Munich, winning that trophy was manager Matt Busby?s lifetime ambition, and it was Best?s Wembley genius that helped achieve the ageing United gaffer?s goal. I still recall with particular pleasure the way George pulled Benfica completely apart to score one of the best individual strikes I?ve ever seen in my entire life. As far as his international reputation was concerned, when it came to the annual shoot-out between the home nations, Best?s scintillating performances in a Northern Ireland shirt certainly enlivened what could be a dour end-of-season contest, at times.

George being relatively young when all this happened, and the era in question being the so-called Swinging Sixties, it came as no particular surprise to see the girls flock around him like bees to a honey-pot, especially as he was being ?marketed? very much in the pop-singer mould back then, his fast-living lifestyle melding perfectly with that of The Beatles, say, or the Rolling Stones, not to mention that of Manchester?s literati and glitterati, very heavy on the drink and the female ?talent?, certainly, but minus all the drugs. Unfortunately, just as all those adverse influences entered George?s life, his real mentor, the now-ageing Matt Busby, was diplomatically ?kicked upstairs?, and with the relative severance of that paternal link came the excesses that led to George?s eventual parting from United. The rest, the gradual diminishing of that raw magic, his vastly-increased excesses, the heavy toll burning the candle at both ends was extracting from his body, his slow but inexorable descent through the Football League, then non-league, bankruptcy, prison ? and that excruciating appearance on Parkinson?s chat show, which is worse, I can?t quite decide - we all know about, of course.

And yet, despite all that, you couldn?t really moralise; right from the word ?go?, at least he was up-front and honest about his multitudinous failings, and that cheeky smile of his was more than enough to warm even the most flinty and moralistic of hearts. And I don?t suppose the news he was suffering from cirrhosis of the liver, a condition that can be brought about by overindulgence in strong waters, came as much of a surprise to many; indeed, on one occasion, around four or five seasons ago, I was unable to make an Albion game due to illness, and had to resort to keeping tabs on things via Sky. That was the first time I?d clapped eyes on George in years, and quite frankly, his appearance, gaunt, wasted, stumbling his words badly, left me profoundly shocked. I?d known he was seriously ill for a long time, but to see him looking like that really brought it home to me just how close to the grave he was.

Sure, I?ve heard all the arguments, from both sides, surrounding the contentious issue of whether or not his troubles were all self-inflicted, but before you do, just take some time out to read this ? and then think on again. Firstly, George never sought to ascribe blame elsewhere; his honesty regarding this matter was always exemplary. Whatever the rights and wrongs of him being put forward for a transplant in the first place, after he?d undergone surgery, it transformed his entire appearance, some flesh went upon that emaciated body once more, and his life appeared to have acquired a certain stability once more.

Yes, his subsequent return to his old ways was regrettable, and so was separation from his partner, for that precise reason ? her apparent habit of drinking right in front of him couldn?t have helped much, either - but the booze wasn?t the direct cause of his death. Even his own specialist said so, and it was particularly telling that when he made the announcement regarding George?s gloomy prognosis yesterday, there were tears in his eyes. Medics can be hard buggers sometimes ? for obvious reasons, it goes with the territory ? so it?s got to take a really special patient to move ?em to such public displays of emotion. Clearly, George was one of them.

No, what really did for George were the anti-rejection drugs he was on following the transplant. What they do is suppress the immune system (the prime cause of organ rejection) and it?s a pretty difficult balancing act; not give enough, and you take the risk of losing the organ you?re fighting to keep, overdo it even slightly, turn off that already-compromised immune system even more, and you run the risk of introducing germs into the body that a normal person would simply shrug off, in this case, those responsible for bacterial kidney infections, and, later still, those that simply love to spend a few glorious weeks whooping it up in someone?s chest. Easily curable with antibiotics in a normal patient, but as we?re all now well-aware, because of his compromised immune status, this wasn?t just a ?normal? patient.

Yes, I do recognise that he shouldn?t have spent the greater part of his life being a pretty close replica of a walking brewery, but when you look at things more closely, you certainly couldn?t accuse him of milking the NHS. Over the years, he must have paid for that transplant several times over, in the form of both excise duties on the booze he consumed, and plain old-fashioned income-tax, during his years with United and elsewhere. And in any case, treatment for his final illness appears to have been funded totally-privately.

Has it really come to that, considering the worth, or otherwise, of someone?s life as a pure profit or loss situation, then making snap value-judgments based solely upon what I regard as a bean-counter?s angle, one entirely devoid of human emotion? As I sit at my keyboard, late at night and quietly reflecting upon George?s life, good, bad, indifferent, whatever, I can?t help but remember all the spiteful comments that appeared in the media when the former Manchester United man first became seriously ill. It?s great, coming from them, this ?Rent-a-Moral? business, especially when you come to realise that of all the professions considered to be at most risk of alcoholism, in any survey you care to mention, journalism always appears very near the top of the heap. ?People?? ?Glass houses?? ?Throwing stones?? You choose.

Oh ? and just one more parting thought. Remember what I said when referring to Hughsie?s predicament around the same time last year? ?To err is human, to forgive divine? and its close companion, ?There but for the grace of God go I?? Tonight, it would behove some critics very well indeed to remember that; whatever his numerous failings, his many vices, the memories I can never quite erase from my mind are the ones of George at his very ?best?, riding tackle after murderous tackle, hips going this way and that, defenders innumerable left floundering on the pitch and vainly trying to kick thin air, then the maestro himself cheekily sticking the ball right in the back of the net.

And now, as promised, a little light relief to finish with. ?Wee, sleekit, cow?rin, tim?rous beastie/ O what a panic?s in thy breastie!??? Well, that?s what the great Robbie Burns had to say about the Scottish rodent problem, circa 1760 ? but after today, should his spirit ever dare try haunting our place, he?ll get very little sympathy from me. How come? Well, this is a tale mostly about a mouse, a hooded jumper, plus an eventual trip to Casualty.

Believe you me, yesterday was a day I?m not likely to forget (live down?) for a very long time indeed. It all started that morning, when my daft tabby tom cat, Tigger, decided that my hitherto-mundane life just wouldn?t be complete without a little furry gift to brighten it Anyway, during the ensuing ruckus, which mainly involved the poor little sod being tossed as high in the air as my feline sadist could reasonably manage, I suddenly realised Something Was Up. It was the ominous silence that gave it away, really, followed by one almighty ?crash!? so not being able to resist any longer, I just had to see for myself. And, as I rounded our sofa, it became all-too clear what had happened; instead of hitting terra firma, as my tormenting tom had originally intended, the creature had done a sort of ?Earnie? back-flip in mid-air, and landed on the window-ledge. Closely followed by the cat, claws bared, who being not the brightest toy in the box, had neglected to hang on properly. The noise I?d heard was that of one of my picture-frames falling from the ledge and hitting the deck ? yes, and breaking, which meant a rapid glass-clearing job in prospect.

Cursing richly, I shifted all the broken shards, big, small and indifferent, and I?d just returned the dustpan and brush back to their rightful place, when something else struck me ? what had happened to the mouse? Returning to the scene of the ?crime? once more, and shifting the curtain a little, all was solved. The tiny grey creature was on the ledge, still, and very much alive ? and with three cats sitting below, all slavering at the mouth, it wasn?t going to get very far, either, so doing my Good Samaritan act, I went to pick it up, with every intention of chucking it outside via our kitchen door once I?d done the deed.

Big mistake. Never having handled a wild mouse before, I?d failed to realise just how effectively the little sods could bite; believe you me, this one could, and what?s more, once its minuscule jaws had clamped themselves around the joint of my index finger, the little sod wouldn?t let go, either. Finally managing to shake it off, instead of hitting the floor as I?d originally intended, it then transferred operations to the hood on the back of my top, hence a somewhat surreal phone call to one of my other half?s work colleagues just seconds later: ?Can you tell my other half one of my fingers is pouring blood, and there?s a mouse crawling around the back of my top???.? A long (disbelieving?) pause, then: ?Errrr. Errr. Err ? I?ll tell Simon when he come back; he?s making the coffee right now, OK??

My poor other half must have thought the strain of supporting our football club had finally got to me, because it wasn?t all that long before the phone rang again, and I?d interrupted his anxious babblings by repeating the tale. But that wasn?t the best of it, by any means. In just that short space of time, the mouse had now left my hood, gone walkabouts down my neck, then inside my jumper; in fact, I could feel its tiny little paws going ?plinkety-plonk? down my back as I spoke. Finally explaining to my beloved I would have to make a trip to Casualty to sort out the bite, and with me still bleeding like a good ?un, the moment I?d put down the phone, the mouse then crawled out via my waist, and down a crack in our corner-unit, with a very interested moggy close at hand.

Another Tom and Jerry-type chase later, the creature then disappeared once more ? but where? Then, the light slowly dawned; dashing in desperation across the carpet, my little furry friend had spotted the telephone cable in close proximity to the window-ledge, climbed up on that, then up the curtain itself. How did I know all that? Easy ? all I had to do was raise my head; right above me, and sitting atop the brass curtain-pole was my slippery little chum. And just to add insult to injury, it didn?t appear fazed in the slightest by its narrow ? erm ? ?squeak?; there it was, the little sod, preening its fur and whiskers as if nothing had ever happened.

About an hour afterwards, ?Im Indoors returned from work, and we shifted ourselves to Sandwell Hospital; the nurse taking the details made a pretty good effort to stop himself laughing, but I could tell he was fighting a rapidly (and not quite disguised!) losing battle. Any road up, at least they dealt with the problem quickly; a tetanus injection from a highly-amused female doctor and a five-day supply of antibiotics later, I was finished, but on our return home we then discovered the mouse, still where we?d left it, had made himself a nice cosy ?hammock? in the folds of our curtain ? and if you don?t believe me, I have the proof on camera, the shot showing the cheeky little sod peering right over the top, paws and all! And giggling like hell all the while, no doubt.

In the end, it took the best efforts of my other half, standing on a chair, and going, ?Here, mousey-mousey!?, a chat-up line not exactly calculated to give the casual observer any real assurance as to his sanity, to finally shift him into a plastic sandwich box, for eventual release at the far end of our garden. Well, it was the least I could do; in retrospect, the whole thing did tickle my funny-bone, and by then there was no way I could have let our moggy claim his rightful rodent reward. Fair?s fair, and all that!

 - Glynis Wright

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