From Sue Carroll's column in todays Mirror..
BOOZY BEST HAS CALLED TIME ON OUR PATIENCE
5 October 2005
My friend Tom is an alcoholic. Unlike George Best, who has been cushioned by money and the never-ending assistance of medical science, when Tom hit rock bottom 10 years ago the choice was stark.
For him, there was no new liver to replace the one ravaged by booze. The prognosis was straightforward. Continue drinking and die. Or quit and live.
Tom crawled out of the gutter - literally. A former radio presenter, he was discovered by an old colleague knocking back meths in a graveyard and hauled into a state-funded clinic. A decade on, he hasn't touched a drop.
As the 10th anniversary of his sobriety approached, Tom reckoned on having a bit of a knees-up. But the party has been cancelled. Five weeks ago he was diagnosed with throat cancer.
Of all the cruel hands fate could deal, this was one Tom hadn't anticipated. He's melancholy, of course. He's spent a few nights shouting at the sky and remonstrating with "him upstairs" for sending him into yet another debilitating battle.
He's also all too aware there's a medicine at his disposal that comes in a bottle labelled "brandy". But he won't succumb. He can't, he says, relinquish 10 years of sobriety. It's not just about survival, it's about self-respect, achievement and dignity.
And that's the difference between Tom, an alcoholic awaiting the results of an MRI scan, and George, an alcoholic fighting a drink-induced illness in a West London hospital.
One had the courage to face his demons, lay them to rest, gather up the debris of a life almost ruined by drink and make it work against overwhelming odds. The other didn't, simple as that.
In truth, fame has afforded George a better chance of recovery than it ever did Tom or thousands of other alcoholics who die unnoticed, friendless, impoverished and in pain.
Best has not been abandoned. Fans, obsessed with his footballing genius, still eulogise him. There's a long-suffering manager who remains loyal and, despite outbursts of alleged abuse, girlfriends are still drawn into his orbit - which appears to consist of a few pubs shamefully content to serve drinks to a shambolic wreck.
His son, to whom he was a virtual stranger for most of his childhood, has visited him in hospital. Even the medical profession has stood by him. A certain amount of wealth, kudos and goodwill allowed him a liver replacement three years ago when arguably there were more deserving cases.
Even then the public, while doubting the wisdom of giving an old soak a new organ, didn't begrudge him a second, third and even fourth chance. But then the patience runs out.
It's not hard to imagine how the family of his liver donor feel today, knowing the recipient has already hammered his once- pristine new body part with a relentless diet of white wine and brandy.
Friends say he's drinking more than ever, and in fairness he probably wouldn't dispute that.
Best's defence has always been to dismiss us as too pedantic to recognise he's a man in the grip of a disease. But it's one he has resolutely refused to tackle in a way that works. All the Antabuse pellets, medication and new organs are in vain if the inside of his head doesn't get treatment.
Best has spurned therapy, counselling and Alcoholics Anonymous. He may not be in denial about his disease but he's totally blinkered about accepting it as his responsibility.
It's this idiotic refusal to help himself that's brought him to the last-chance saloon. Though I'm not sure he deserves a last chance.
So if "him upstairs" is listening here's a request. Give it to Tom. Please.
