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|Billy Riot is a very well known face on the Belfast punk scene. He's been responsible for knocking out and promoting Belfasts only regular punk fanzine the highly recommended (Riot On Your Own) for the last 5 years. His hilarious zine which is produced for FREE covers all the up and coming bands with no regard for favouritism or back handers. And has literally put Belfast back on a worldwide map in the process. In recent years he has formed his own band called the Violent Fuckwits and they plan World Domination by the end of the decade or maybe a bit longer if they can't find a practice pad.
Here Billy pays a poignant tribute to the footballing legend George Best who grew up in Bills own East Belfast backyard.
For more of this go get the zine. Or you can contact
Billy himself here...email@example.com
5 GLEN ROAD, BELFAST, BT57JH
|GEORGIE, GEORGIE, GEORGIE THE BELFAST BOY 1946 - 2005
On November 25th 2005 George Best our nationís legendary football playing genius and loveable rogue finally passed away after what was almost a lifetimes battle against ill health brought on by chronic alcoholism. His doctors had suggested he would almost certainly die during the previous night but Geordie, being Geordie couldnít even be relied on to be on time for his own death. We all knew heíd keep us waiting anyway!
I went to work as usual that morning but couldnít really come to terms with being there and decided to take a half day and go home. At lunchtime the inevitable news was released to the press that George had died and my wife Andrea, son Scotty and I watched the TV screen with an almost reverent silence. Scotty had just did his 11 Plus and was home from school early. Shortly afterwards the Best family made their sad yet dignified statement to the worldís media and despite all my attempts tears trickled down my face and being a man I almost bit the fingers off that I had between my teeth to stifle any further show of emotion. Needless to say Scotty said ďWhy are you crying daddy? you never cryĒ ď Iím not crying son itís just a bit sad!Ē Yes you are, donít lie, what are you crying for.?
Georgie Best -The bad times, the good times and the really good times
Well, I wasnít entirely sure myself, it wasnít just the passing of my countryís favourite and most famous son. It was more personal than that, not just for me but for almost every Northern Irish boy of my generation and many, many more from elsewhere. In the late 1960ís every kid in in the British Isles supported Man. Utd., even me, a diehard Gooner now of 30 odd years. Thing is though, we didnít support Man Utd, we just followed the dream that one day we were going to be just like Georgie Best. George was possibly the first television superstar, this at a time when working class people were only just beginning to own or more likely rent a TV and then it was most certainly black and white. He possessed a God given genius in his feet, a devilment behind the glint in his eyes and a charisma and presence on the field that was matched by that off it. Quoting facts and figures regarding his achievements on the football pitch is pointless as you canít measure pure genius with mere statistics!
At that time football was virtually all there was for baby boom kids in way of entertainment and every game on the local green or street was started by the inevitable argument, ďI wanna be Geordie Best, no I wanna be Geordie, no you were Best yesterday. Even the bloody goalkeeper took the huff if he couldnít call himself Georgie Best. Halcyon, naÔve days when in many respects following the footsteps of East Belfastís gift to the world was our only real ambition. The swinging decade was not yet past, yet a teenage boy from Cregagh Housing Estate was the sporting and even social icon that fuelled the wonderment and dreams of people and especially children across the entire country.
I was George Best! And so were thousands and thousands of others and all we ever cared about was George Best the legend, the superstar and for us so much more importantly, the Belfast boy. We didnít care at all that he was an alcoholic womaniser, or even if he was what some people would deem ďa bad parentĒ because thereís thousands of them in any big city but only one George Best anywhere!
I didnít bother explaining why to my son what was the real catalyst to my rare show of emotion as Scotty wouldnít really have understood but as Callum Best bravely and tearfully spoke the inevitable sad truth to the world, Scottyís 43 year old dadís childhood hopes and aspirations just died in that instant. This sounds overstated and it is, life is means much more than childhood dreams but Georgeís passing somehow brought home that thereís an inevitable mortality associated even with the starry eyed hopes and wishes of what seemed, our timeless youth.
The next day, every single football match in the British Isles was preceded by a minutes silence in Georgeís honour. The respectful silence was followed by applause the length and breadth of the land with the exception of Leeds United fans whoís pathetic jealously and skin-crawling envy shone through, as they jeered and whistled throughout before their game at Millwall . Regardless, the footballing public and press scraped them off the bottom of their shoes like the shite they are and treated them with the absolute disdain they deserve.
The inevitable media circus followed with tributes abounding from everyone and everywhere , eulogising as to the flawed genius of the greatest player the world has perhaps ever seen. What do mean perhaps! Well you will always get people arguing that Pele was better, Maradona was better or even Johan Cruyff! Take it from me, none of them could touch him, they hadnít genuine star quality off the pitch, they were luminary football stars yes but they didnít look like George Best, smile like Georgie Best, they hadnít the ridiculous flair of Bestie, none of `em were from BELFAST and none of them belonged to us!
George Best was buried on 3rd Dec 2005 after the biggest funeral Northern Ireland has ever witnessed and almost definitely ever will. Thousands upon thousands of people lined the streets and roads of my home in East Belfast as the funeral cortŤge drove slowly and reverently to Stormont, our grand parliament building. The Best family circle conducted themselves with great dignity throughout the entire time. Dickie his 86 year old dad cut the most poignant figure, being a man of a certain generation, always just managing to keep his emotions in check throughout the entire difficult week. Dicky is an old school working class man who many moons ago used to regularly watch the Raven dart team when my own dad played for them. This is perhaps irrelevant to everyone else but it still means something to me.
Along the funeral route to Stormont there were many tears shed by those who lined the route but mostly everyone stood in the miserable driving rain and cold wind to celebrate the life and times of a legend, no not a legend our legend! Behind the reverence almost everyone I could see had a glow off pride as his coffin passed by. Irrespective of the fact that George died as a result of alcoholism, largely speaking we as couldnít really care less and Iíve no doubt whatsoever that many us went out that night and got completely pissed off our heads in tribute to our Geordie!