Water flows down the Wembley drain
sluicing extra time sweat
from my sated body.
I’ve won the European Cup at 22.
What is there left to do apart from drink,
break hearts and let down my team mates?
Alcohol dulled my twinkle toes
so fewer defenders were eluded.
I could still pull the birds though.
One night the roulette wheel went my way
showering our luxury bed with notes.
Happy as a pig in shite, I called for champagne
as Miss World did her ablutions.
Room service delivered it with a cheap shot:
“Ah George, where did it all go wrong?”
My best years went AWOL as I slid down
a drunk and disorderly spiral
punctuated by one-night stands.
Cashing in on my threadbare celebrity
I let a tabloid hack
snap a front page picture:
me on my death bed,
tackled by the Grim Reaper at 59,
scythed down before my time.
George Best quote: “I spent a lot of money on booze, birds and fast cars. The rest I just squandered.”