To George Best, RIP

George Best, 1946-2005. The boy from Belfast who played the beautiful game with a poise and grace which will never be emulated by another. Best had the power, pace, creativity coupled with a dogged resilience and a single minded determination to win. The beautiful game will never see the likes of a genius such as him ever again. Starting his professional career with Manchester United at the tender age of 17, everyone always knew that George was a cut above the rest, even in a team littered with such greats as Denis Law and Bobby Charlton.

George Best was an icon, an image associated with roaring 60’s, he all but invented modern football by himself. With his long sideburns, shaggy mane and rugged good looks, Best looked nothing like his contemporaries. In fact, you could put him in a Manchester United team of the 90’s and he would fit right in! He was that ahead of his time. He defined genius, new, brilliant and absolutely unstoppable! He seemed to float above the ground, playing with a grace that noone has ever and never will match. Ghosting over the pitch, he bamboozled defenders with trickery that was enchanting to behold. As his manager Matt Busby once said about George after he won them the European final at Benfica,

“The plan was to sit back and contain Benfica. To let them come at us. George must have had cotton wool in his ears, he didn’t hear! In 15 minutes, he had destroyed them with 2 goals of his own and made another! It was brilliant and I was almost angry with him!”

That statement defined Best. In true rebel brilliance he played the game the way hie wanted it to be played. Shirt untucked, socks rolled down, hair whillping freely and like quicksilver he waltzed past defenders who only ever saw his back. Riding tackles gloriously, he scored 200 odd goals in 400 odd games. An amazing ration for a player who played on the right wing, and in an era which hard tackling was the norm and hacking was acceptable. He was poetry in motion and everyone who saw him play acknowledged it no matter who you supported. It wasn’t hard to see. It was constantly in your face and you knew it.

George’s tragic story is all the more poignant given that with all the brilliance he was gifted with, he just had to self destruct. As he once said, “I had to be the best at everything. Just as I had to beat everyone on the pitch, I had to beat everyone on the town as well.” What if. What if he wasn’t so flamboyant. What if he was a model athlete, living out his life as a typical footballer of the era? Would he have been as appealing? A resounding “No” as an answer beckons. That’s what makes Bestie so appealing to the mere mortal, that he managed to squander all his money on birds, booze and fast cars. Live his life on the fast lane, and still win every sporting accolade there is to win in the beautiful game. Now that, was Genius. He was a freak of nature, an improbable compromise between God and the Devil to give one individual everything he would ever want. To live the impossible dream. Play for the best team in the world, sleep with the most beautiful women and yet, despite all my misgivings still have the adulation of a million people. He was, whether by chance or by divine intervention the very Best, as his name succinctly suggests.

When Best received his liver transplant, there were individuals who condemned him saying, “a waste of a good liver”. But who are we to judge? Us mere mortals will never reach the scintillating heights that he did. The closest thing to perfection that will ever be. When he left Man Utd, the world knew that his time was over. What must it have been like to know that you were the brightest shooting star ever. And know that you would never burn as brightly ever again? To have had the world at your fingertips and at your beck and call? The higher you climb, the harder you fall. And for Best who climbed every footballers Everest, the fall must have been the hardest. We all bugger up. Everyone does. Only we will never ever understand what it would have been, to be George Best, the Boy from Belfast. If Highbury is Henry’s garden, then the world, was George Best’s oyster and Old Trafford indeed the theatre of dreams. A stage he strut upon. To a man who the world will never see the likes of again, from us commonplace entities, thank you Georgie Best...for everything.

Virgin post!

Right...first post…so there’s this trend that’s been going on for awhile now, people start blogging, and in typically there will be the occasional bout of camwhoring (hey, everyone does it once in awhile k! theres this girl i know...but i won't go any further cough*pink*cough =P ) And of course there will be the bouts of melancholia, where they complain about all life has to offer, and then there are the religious who dedicate their lives to God (or at least try as hard as they can). All blogs have a marginal propensity to be centred about oneself. (which is the point anyway) Being the slightly self-centred person I am (yes, yes, u lot can stop agreeing now.) I thought I’d be a sheep for once and enjoy the trivial pleasures of blogging. Its obviously a good spot to vent ones frustration and the way one feels about the world. Funnily enough that’s where sometimes I believe bloggers kinda just…lose they’re way.

Something very interesting happened just on Tuesday, I was trying to get meself a nice dress shirt, and I bumped into an old friend (any of you out there remember Tara? She looks stunning! :D) and somehow got her to come along to help me pick out a shirt, cuz I’m shit at making decisions. (I mean…food aso cannot choose, and this is at the typical hawker centre where there are a million hawkers “advertising” under your nose… “BOSS MAU NASI KANDAR!” “BOSS, KUAY TEOW GORENG!’ and i'll still be urmm-ing and ahh-ing) At any rate, I was trying on shirts she picked (boys, rule of thumb, always let the lady pick ur dresses…that way u have someone to blame if things go awry) and as I was trying them on I kept asking hwe what she thought, and she said to me, “Do you wear these shirts because you think you look good, or because you want to impress people?”. Very profound, and in her naivete, that pretty much pulled me up short. Is the life we lead a performance perpetuated by the continual demands of society? Much like blogging…all the famous bloggers, they blog they’re mind, to an extent of course, but eventually, they start blogging to “impress” so to speak. The occasional streak of showmanship which was originally a trademark eventually becomes a constant. And the blog is not so much a personal place, but rather a showcase. Or not? That’s just my personal opinion of course.

As for myself, I’m blogging to vent my thoughts and possibly keep my friends updated with my life. For the uninitiated, my name is Julian Lam. I’m 5’10, lived in Malaysia all my life up to 16 after which I flew across the sea to a metropolitan city known as Sydney where I boarded at a Catholic Boys School called, St. Ignatius College, upon where i was inundated with Australian culture of rugby and sport, mateship (not in that way la) and a new perspective on life. Just finished my A levels, and now awaiting my marks, in home sticky home Malaysia, with severe trepidation. Hope to get into Uni in Sydney, doing a course in Media and Communications, hoping to get somewhere in life, specializing in the field of journalism. Interestingly, I’ve been told by counselors that 70% of the individuals who enter media and communications (or mass comm.) get absolutely nowhere in life. So what do I do? Stick with my dream and be shot out of the sky? Currently confuddled and befused. Help anyone?