George Worst
By today's standards, I am by no means a football fanatic. When, however, you are in a situation where you're the only non-supporter among the 10 year old alpha males in your class, you very quickly learn to jump on whatever bandwagon is soon to depart the station.

Said wagon was Chelsea United Football Club. They sounded alright and wore blue. Blue was my favourite colour. That's good enough for me.

While I can say with all honesty that I couldn't give a quantifiable fraction of a damn towards any hooliganism and drama now, in a bid to save my reputation I swiftly swore my devotion to a Mr Roberto Di Matteo. He was foreign and scored goals, and therefore reputable. When my chance arose to see the man in person when my Dad visited London, I leapt to the occasion. Viewing a footballing legend, in the flesh, gave a prime opportunity to be smug back at school.

However, my father is a devious shit. The entire trip to Stamford Bridge to meet my new idol was an elaborate scam to drag me around a used car megawarehouse in London, as otherwise we'd both have to stay at home and build some sort of father-son bond. 6 gruelling hours of Ford Mondeos later, and we're heading through the busy roads back home.

At which point we pranged our vehicle against an aging gentleman at a medium speed, launching him back onto the pavement. Completely unphased, he got back up to his feet, banged on the window about us not knowing who the hell he was and we should show more respect for heroes like him.

Probably a pisshead ex-squaddie, we both assumed.

Later that evening we got a phonecall from a London police station informing us that we were wrong. Very wrong.

My Dad had run over George Best. International footballer and organ failure spokesman George Best. That's 4 hours in the car, a further 6 hours looking at cars, and we've just knocked over one of the world's top professional players of all time without realising who the hell he was due to the flaw in my newfound footballing ways.

I've still got the cutout of the story in the paper from all those years ago. Dad signed his mugshot. George Best didn't.

What a cunt.
(FoxyBadger (try saying it backwards), Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:31, 4 replies)

Excellent !!!
Ha !!!
( SpankyHanky, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 22:58, closed)

Ah, Bestie...
My missus worked on the Kings Road for a while, on Saturdays I'd take her to work then spend the day milling around.

On the day of the 1997 rugby world cup semi (Aus v NZ), I dropped her off then went to a local bar/diner to watch the match.

1045, George Best walks in, orders a mineral water, fair play I thought. At 1100am precisely, he orders a large white wine - bar now serving alcohol, you see.

Ten minutes later, he orders another one. Then a third. Then a fourth.

This was the start of the falling-off-the-wagon binge that led to him getting turned over by a prostitute (it made the papers) and, a few months later, his death.

You could argue that given his fame and history, they shouldn't have served him, but he's just have gone somewhere else.
(Capo, Thu 16 Apr 2009, 23:42, closed)

Chelsea United?
who they?
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 11:59, closed)

Exactly
...
(never-right -getting it wrong since '78, Fri 17 Apr 2009, 13:16, closed)