I'm indebted to m'former learned colleague Justin Ruffles for putting the death of George Best into some kind of perspective. And Mr Ruffles, I should point out, is quite the fan of the game. Meanwhile m'other former learned colleague Joella asks a pertinent question about liver no. 2.
I think the only significance for me is that George Best was (indirectly) my introduction to the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber -- faint praise at best -- and the first footballer whose name I knew. I knew there was this thing called football and things called teams that people supported. Oh, and boys at school who wore strange pullover shirts with coloured patterns on them. Bit by bit it all fell into place. And from somewhere I learned that the greatest of all these footballers was called George Best. I clung onto that bit of trivia and milked it for every ounce -- and we are talking ounces -- of street cred I could wring out of it, the same way I officially supported Chelsea because (again) they were the first team name that I learned, only this time we're talking about street cred by the microgram. Until finally I just gave up and decided I was the only one in step by not being remotely interested in the bloody game, an attitude I retain to this day. Nowadays I even have to have Chelsea pointed out to me.
One thing I will concede for our celebrity footballers is that their talent is genuine. Frankly, anyone with a figure you could stick a pin through and a so-so voice could be a Spice Girl, while being able to Bend It Like Beckham is not something you can fake.
Meanwhile I leave you with a little ditty based upon a football chant of my youth:
What a prat
Killed himself by boozing
And now that is that