Written by Dogooder Dave
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Saturday, 26 November 2005

Often called the fifth member of hellraising rockers, Middle Of The Road, footballing legend, George Best, has chirped his last cheep The final whistle blown, heralding an away win for his maker and the hairy cornflake has returned to the dressing room never to twinkle his toes again.

A life of supposed whisky, women and song has however, been revealed as a sham with shattering revelations as to his secret fondness for knitting bees and scone eating.

It was in 1963 that young Georgie left Ireland's green and pleasant potato fields for the gilt paved streets of Manchester, gutters flowing with champagne and a lady on every street corner seeking to lead him astray.

George, keenly aware of his responsibilty as a role model for The Swinging Sixties, lived the lie with a gusto that would do credit to a monkey on a barrel organ. Gossip columnists of the day reported his every daliance, a scandal hungry populace living their vicarious dreams of debauchery through the apparent wicked ways, of the Belfast Boy.

It is only now, with his untimely passing, can we exclusively reveal the man behind the myth, or as he would lispingly lilt in his gentle Irith brogue, the man atop Myth World contethtanth and thothiety beautyth of the day.

Contrary to the heretical reporting of the popular press, citing our hero as a drunken letch who surprised many that he lasted so long, George loved the quiet life.

Torn from the bosom of his family to dazzle football fans around the world, George sought solace in the haberdashers of Manchester's backstreets, frequently slipping in a for a sniff of a ball of four-ply and fingering winning entries at Women's Institute Knitting Festivals, wishing that his wrists could flick a number four needle as deftly as his flighty feet could soar a ball to the back of a net.

George's anxiety that his sexual proclivities could be questioned were he to be spotted knitting a skirted dolly to adorn Annfield's lavatorial toilet tissue, famously tried to conceal his secret hobby live on a Terry Wogan television chat show.

Apparently the worse for wear, George claimed a love for the manly craft of carpentry by slurring to Big Tel that he loved screwing. Tel, ever the gent, cut the interview short realising that George's unquenchable thirst for knitting one, never mind a good purling of one, could be exposed, were George allowed to feign interest in dovetail joints or seek to pathetically chisel a tenon out of a piece of 4 x 2.

George's addiction rapidly took over his life and talk of a return to the Glorious Game came to an end when he succumbed to his lifelong weakness and obtained full membership of his local church's Ladies Knitting Circle.

A tearful Marjorie X (64, 42, 72) told how "George loved nothing more than getting between my legs and thrusting out his feisty fists, as I shanked my hank round his arms for hours on end".
"Every Tuesday evening he would slip in the back, clutching his knitting bag joining us to sip tea and nibble scones while he proceeded to impress us with his ability to knock up a double breasted cardigan quicker than you could busby a mat". Only last Christmas George thrilled the ladies by knitting them all personalised muffs for chilly winter nights.

The ladies, so beloved by George, have resolved to maintain a minute's silence for him at their next meeting "It will be difficult" admitted Marjorie "but it's the least we can do for him. Our hands will be deep in our muffs as we remember the clack of Georgie's needles and our tongues will stay still as we go moist at memories of a true legend who has cast off his final stitch".

George Best was a heterosexual.

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The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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