George Best

In 1994, one Saturday luchtime, I wandered into a restaurant called Pucci in the King's Road for a pizza. I didn't normally go in there, despite it being quite a reasonable place, my favourites were Picasso's or Mona Lisa. There was only one other customer, sitting a couple of tables away, quietly studying the TV mounted on the wall; Italy were playing some other country in a World Cup match. The waiters were all bouncing about the bar screaming their passion at their team. Meanwhile, one of the most uniquely qualified men in the world was not to be found in front of a microphone, elightening the fans. Instead he was sitting in silence, three thousand miles from the action and his peers, alone with a capuccino.