Autobiography

us, with no one talking to him. I watched him
out of the corner of my eye for fifteen minutes
or so as I talked to the then Pompey chairman
Milan Mandaric, and before lunch was called I
walked over to him shook his hand, finding
myself saying, ‘How are you, George?’
I kicked myself for such banality, for it was
obvious from just looking at him how he was.
He was just weeks away from being taken into
intensive care. You could see the sadness and
loneliness in his eyes, and as I shook his hand
I could almost hear him answer, ‘How the f***
do you think I am?’ I chatted for a while with
this man I had idolised, the young charismatic
Irishman, who had bewitched me with his
wizardry and stunning skills. I envied his
talent, his adulation from the female
population, and here I was talking to him,
trying to raise his spirits, trying to encourage
him. But he seemed to have accepted the
inevitability of his plight, which was very
depressing.
Milan was a close and hugely loyal friend to
George and should be commended for that, but
George himself had little to say in ordinary
conversation. It was as if he was saying we
had all seen him at his best at football grounds
around the country, and now we were seeing
him at his worst. I shook his hand for the last
time and wished him luck, though I realised it
was not luck he wanted, but peace. I knew I
would never see him again and he lost his life
to drink-related problems at the age of 59. It
seems we all lived his life with him through
intensive media coverage; from the footballing
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