Mrs George Best
Have you heard? The skinny blonde strumpet who was this month’s Mrs George Best has given the old boy the boot. Poor Georgie.
Now if you are looking for some inside skinny on Georgie from Lady P then you must remember that a girl doesn’t kiss and tell. Luckily for you kissing was about the only thing that Georgie and I didn’t do together.
We first met in Carnaby Street in the early seventies. I was trying to squeeze into a pair of Zandra Rhodes tie-dyed jeans and he was trying to squeeze into the salesgirl. Until he saw me that was. Irrestistible darlings.
He seemed to think that just because he was some big shot footballer type and had rogered every Miss World since 1967 that I would simply drop my Janet Reiger at the merest suggestion of a hard tackle. As it happened I did but I gave him a proper ticking off for assuming. The little darling promised me some extra time to make up for it and a girl would have been rude to say no.
Back then Georgie really was simply the best — a Beatle in a jockstrap, a studmuffin in studs and hang the state of the sheets in the morning. He could quaff nearly as much Bolly as yours truly and still manage to perform to first division standards. He could be completely bluttered and still manage a hat-trick. Yummy scrummy.
The only problem with Georgie’s game was that he was all too keen to tackle from behind and I had to rule him offside on more than a few occasions. The naughty little pixie.
I bumped into Georgie a few times over the years but never horizontally again. There was always this strumpette or that drunk Viscount and we never got round to a replay after those first few memorable matches. Until a few months back.
I spotted him sipping on a special mineral water at a launch for La Lawson’s latest slut cookbook and tottered over to say hello. If I say so myself sweeties I was looking particularly fetching in a rather darling pair of Jimmy Choo stilettos and a Stella McCartney bodyhugger. I don’t know if it was me or the Mickey Finn that was making him drool but either way the poor man didn’t stand a chance.
He was ever so slightly schindlers — well absolutely tashered to be honest — but it didn’t stop the old rogue from inviting me to take a trip down memory lane aboard the Georgie train. Well what’s a girl to do?
Darlings I don’t think I’ve been so disappointed since I found out that Santa Claus was on the sex offenders register. Years of devoted loyalty to Great Uncle Bollinger and his champagne cousins seems to have taken its toll on poor Georgie’s corner flag. Grand stand? Not even extended highlights.
A girl could have taken it personally but darling George admitted it wasn’t the first time recently that he had failed to score even when presented with an open goal. He couldn’t even manage a dribble.
Darlings that’s why I urge you all to be kind to Georgie and to the poor, sweet, loyal slut that stood by him for so long. No wonder the woman looks so terribly miserable all the time, she has had to resort to fiddling on the bench for so long that she has forgotten what it is like to have a forward burst into her box. Oh did I say that out loud?