So, George, where did it all go wrong?

Licensed victuallers lament Bestie crash-and-burn

by Janus Motsonius

George Best — footballing genius and the man who did so much to promote celebrity liver transplants — yesterday allowed publication of a photograph of himself prostrate in an intensive care bed.

George Best: True professional The shocking image, showing a gaunt and yellow Bestie, acts as a dire warning to anyone considering signing an organ donor's card. A leading hepatic specialist told The Rockall Times: "People who sign these cards in good faith have a certain right to expect that, in the event of untimely death, their vital organs might find a good home. Sadly, this is not always the case."

Best, 59, followed a brief and promising career in football by wowing the world of sport with his international-standard boozing for more than 30 years. "He'll be sadly missed," admitted the tearful landlord of Rockall's Fighting Dog and Pikey. "Him an Ollie Reed accounted for 23 per cent of all income in the UK's pubs during the 1980s. Plenty of boozers will go to the wall, make no mistake," he added before breaking down in uncontrollable tears.

Asked for his opinion of Best's most memorable performance, our man recovered sufficiently to offer: "It was 1987. Bestie and a couple of mates hit the public bar at around 11am and drank solidly until 11.30pm. True, they took a break between one and two so George could nip out to marry some racked blonde at the local registry office, but he was back at the bar within the hour like the true professional he was."

Some locals disagreed. "Nah, he was brilliant in that 1984 rematch between him and Jimmy Greaves," chipped in one young man pumping nuggets into the "Bender like Bestie" fruitie. "Even after 36 pints his footwork negotiating the old boys in the snug on his way to the bog was just inspired."

"Bollocks," offered another punter over a pint of Olde Wifebeater. "Manchester United versus Bayern Munich. Champions League 1998/9. We had it on the big screen. Place was packed. George was having a bit of an off day, I remember — just six pints in 90 minutes. Come stoppage time, though, he's downed sixteen scotches in two minutes. Two German fans on the next table can't believe it. The party went on until 2am when one of George's wives, dunno which one, one of the blonde ones, turns up and says 'George, if you don't stop this boozing I'm filing for divorce' and George is like: 'Calm down, let's get a couple of drinks in and talk it over'. Classic stuff."

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So, George, where did it all go wrong?

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