I’m not quite sure how I’m managing to type this. My arms feel like lead and my hands and fingers are sore. The reason? Well me and Mrs P had one of our very occasional trips to Old Trafford tonight to watch ManU play Portsmouth. And of course it was played on the day that George Best was laid to rest.
The cause of my discomfort was the one minute round of applause to celebrate his skill. Sixty seconds of relentlessly working clapping muscles that haven’t had a lot of practice. Well you feel daft giving it large when you’re watching games at home on the telly. And it frightens the dog. Read more ›››
Sorry to prolong the story, but Hugh McIlvanney’s piece in today’s Sunday Times neatly sums up the issues that make some dab an eye at George’s death, others to be critical and the rest who couldn’t care less:
“He stirred such awed trepidation, sometimes such naked terror, in opponents that his forays created the kind of defensive confusion in which fellow attackers could thrive, and since in his peak years at Old Trafford they included men as outstanding as Denis Law and Bobby Charlton, United scorelines were usually impressive…. Read more ›››
Around one o’clock this afternoon, the Guardian News Alert thingy I subscribe to flickered onto my screen at work to tell me that George Best had died. It was no surprise obviously, but it touched me personally because we have met many times.
I say “met” but it was a very one-sided meeting. I was a lad in the crowd watching George on the pitch, so I met him any number of times, but he never met me once. Still, I knew him well, at least as probably the most perfectly natural footballer I’ve ever seen. Read more ›››