My only encounter with George Best was at 6.15 one lovely summer morning in London, 1996. I was walking to work, up the Kings Road in Chelsea, as George staggered towards me, a pint of milk his hand. He didn’t look good.
My only encounter with George Best was at 6.15 one lovely summer morning in London, 1996. I was walking to work, up the Kings Road in Chelsea, as George staggered towards me, a pint of milk his hand. He didn’t look good.
