A DRINKER WITH A FOOTBALLING PROBLEM

George Best, the bon vivant, has died. He would generally start the day with kippers and a pint of Scotch. During the morning he would drink three or four pints of beer. He would have a bottle of wine with his lunch, then a quart of ale to tide him through the afternoon. After dinner he would drink a bottle of champagne, then half a bottle of Scotch before bed. And, would you believe it, he's dead.

If you ask me, he was in danger of becoming an alcoholic.

Now that we’ve finally got rid of the tiresome sod there’s going to be a big outbreak of weeping northerners, bless their warm little hearts. Mercifully, it will probably take the form of standing in silence with a stupid solemn expression, wiping away a manly tear, rather than all-out Liverpudlian-style blubbering. I’d love to tell you some anecdotes about how I used to stand on the terraces wi’ me old Dad, eatin’ pies; but I’m afraid I don’t have any.

I will say this for George Best: though in many ways a nuisance, he was charm itself compared to the rapists, coke-heads and wife-beaters who followed.