A supreme talent who never looked for sympathy

IT WAS two o’clock in the afternoon just off Fenchurch Street in the heart of the City of London and George Best was once more attracting a crowd.

Half a dozen pints of foaming Guinness were lined up in front of him like soccer players singing the national anthem. As many shots of vodka completed a formation with which Best was entirely familiar.

Another Best booze-up? Another one of those days which often turned into a fortnight of fierce drinking, the memory of which would be no more than an alcoholic blur?