News of the world paper

WoollyRedHat

When George Best died, the News of the World (I'm pretty sure it was them, tabloid for sure) wrote an article on the funeral and observing Calum Best at the graveyard ( how the journalist got in is a different matter as I remember it was a private affair), but anyway, the writing in it was so bloodly cheesy!

This is the only bit I remember of it, but there was way more: " Calum stared forlongingly up at the stars" I mean, come on, it's a newspaper, not a damn novel being written here. This is why I can't stand tabloids, they exaggerate everything, write normally in a journalist fashion, because sorry, but that's not journalism, it's just pure cheesy, especially considering the subject which they were covrering.

santosubito

Copyright 2005 NEWS GROUP NEWSPAPERS LTD
The News of the World

December 4, 2005

SECTION: UTD IN GRIEF: FAMILY,FANS AND FRIENDS PAY RESPECTS

LENGTH: 1112 words

HEADLINE: SON'S QUIET TEARS IN RAIN...AS WORLD SHARES HIS AGONY

BYLINE: Martin Samuel, Chief sports writer in Belfast

BODY:
CALUM BEST buried his father yesterday. His name was George. He was 59.

The world, those who thought they knew him, who laid claim to his memory, who felt touched by his genius, stood in the rain to pay its respects.

Yet, inside a tiny terraced house at 16 Burren Way, behind a plain front door with only a tiny plaque and three policemen on the path hinting at the identity of the remarkable individual now at peace within, a father and son, a son and father, said goodbye for the last time.

There were two funerals in Belfast yesterday. The one that took place beneath the glare of arc lights, with its celebrity guests, its splendidly grand location, the pomp and circumstance that was so not the man, and another small series of scenes, a private pain played out behind closed blinds and at sodden gravesides.

The first funeral was for the legend, the myth, the genius. The second was for the man, the brother, the friend.

George Best belonged to the Stretford End, to the followers of the team known affectionately as Norn Iron, and to millions who yearn to see the game played beautifully.

Yet more than that, he belonged to father Dickie and son Calum, to Barbara and her sisters. To those who knew him before he could kick a ball, and when he was tired enough to no longer want to.

Calum, 24, his handsome features a reminder of a happier past, his fortitude in adversity the hope of a less painful future, barely let his gaze stray from the sight of his father's coffin as it waited in the rain to be taken on a last lap of honour.

Occasionally he appeared lost in thought. Often he reached out to thank a well-wisher or greet a family friend. His gentle manner stilled the crowd.

When he placed a tender hand on the shoulder of his grandfather or whispered words of gratitude to a neighbour, he exuded a quiet good nature, an echo of the best of the times.

Outside the house a helicopter circled overhead, rudely disturbing the silence.

Umbrellas were lowered despite the foul rain. Union flags flew at half-mast, as if for royalty.

Paramilitary landmarks, remnants of a still-troubled city, were obscured or withdrawn out of respect.

On Woodstock Road, near the family home, a wall that had previously shocked with the menacing insignia and images of the Ulster Volunteer Force had been painted over with the flowing figure of Belfast boy George, his hair long and windswept, the ball his only weapon, the beautiful game at his feet.

No elaboration was required.

Beneath, a shrine, one of many that have sprung up across the city, at Windsor Park, at the City Hall, a sad little pile of floral tributes, shirts and rain-drenched mementos left by those who felt they had to do something, who were so sad, but struggled to explain why.

Pride

Those lining the route, whether from the flat-roofed terraced house on the Cregagh estate to the imposing parliament building at Stormont, could barely put feelings into words.

They talked in cliches of Best's talent, his iconic status, his pop star fame, they groped for meaning in his life after football.

More eloquent were the unspoken emotions, the intense pride of the people of Ulster, felt as the cortege edged through the streets of east Belfast. The applause, spontaneous, passionate, deeply sincere, began as Best's coffin was carried a short distance from the family home, his surviving family members walking solemnly behind.

Lament

It did not flag, not once, as Best made his last winding run, from the crowd standing ten deep at the Cregagh Post Office, to the tiny gatherings braving the horrid weather and congregated at every available vantage point on the long path to Stormont and, later, on the Ballygowan Road to journey's end with mother Ann, at Roselawn cemetery.

Some threw flowers, scarves or shirts on the cars, the first marked by a floral tribute in white, which read LEGEND , the next, in Manchester United red, said simply GEORGE.

A Northern Ireland football flag was draped over the casket and tucked in a corner, a reminder that this was a funeral for a man, not a star, a symbol, a picture on a T-shirt or a bedroom wall poster. DAD, it said. Calum emerged head bowed to a piper's lament.

It was a dreadful moment, one that no amount of idealised romanticising, mythologising or outright fabrication, could salve.

George Best the footballer will never die, but this was not a magical outside-right being carried into the great hall, this was a boy outlived by his father, a father taken from his son (not from football), too soon.

Celebrate the life, the family had instructed; but on the steps of Stormont, the cheers died in the throat.

Within the grounds of the parliamentary building, where mourners had gathered since the small hours, there had been a conflict of protocol. Some were dressed for a funeral, in respectful dark suits and black ties, others for a football match in jeans, shirts and scarves.

Until the cortege arrived the mood was almost that of an event. Subdued, yes, but not sombre. High emotion, but few tears. The first mournful note of the pipes changed that, reminding of the very human tragedy in our midst.

Friends tried to raise a laugh at the service relayed to those outside but, though the rain abated, smiles grew thinner and the moisture on the faces no longer fell from the heavens.

To paint a rosy picture of Best's last years and what is left is to lie. He achieved a dignity in death that eluded him in the final years of life.

Calum stood to recite a poem of optimism. "You can shed tears that he has gone, or you can smile that he has lived," it began.

By the end, his face had crumpled in agony, the tears filling his pale blue eyes.

Another speaker, Barbara McNarry, his sister, had to pause to regain her composure on several occasions.

In this way, those celebrity-spotting at the state funeral received insight into what must have taken place these last days within the unlovely and private walls of 16 Burren Way.

When the Belfast Boy left Stormont, travelling past statues and memorials of men who will never touch the hearts of the people of the province the way he did, his coffin, was at last in the company of those who knew him best.

Not from a headline, a legend passed down through generations or a grainy piece of film, but from the life that was lived off camera. They knew the man.

So there were two funerals. The city said goodbye to its favourite son, but a son said farewell, too.

It may have been George Best Day to the people of Belfast; but to Calum and to those left behind, it will forever be.

santosubito

WoollyRedHat wrote: »

When George Best died, the News of the World (I'm pretty sure it was them, tabloid for sure) wrote an article on the funeral and observing Calum Best at the graveyard ( how the journalist got in is a different matter as I remember it was a private affair), but anyway, the writing in it was so bloodly cheesy!

This is the only bit I remember of it, but there was way more: " Calum stared forlongingly up at the stars" I mean, come on, it's a newspaper, not a damn novel being written here. This is why I can't stand tabloids, they exaggerate everything, write normally in a journalist fashion, because sorry, but that's not journalism, it's just pure cheesy, especially considering the subject which they were covrering.

Can you see stars during the day? Also, if you don't like tabloids, don't read them. And I checked LexisNexis. No papers wrote that Calum stared forlornly at anything.

Dodge

Why bring it up 20 months later?

WoollyRedHat

Why not?

And perhaps it wasn't news of the world, but it was some tabloid and I remember it quoting as he stared forlongingly, perhaps not at the starts, the sky, sorry it was a while ago.

My point is, that it was far too novel like

And I generally don't read tabloids, we were examining both tabloids and broadsheets in English class at the time.

santosubito

WoollyRedHat wrote: »

Why not?

And perhaps it wasn't news of the world, but it was some tabloid and I remember it quoting as he stared forlongingly, perhaps not at the starts, the sky, sorry it was a while ago.

My point is, that it was far too novel like

And I generally don't read tabloids, we were examining both tabloids and broadsheets in English class at the time.

Right, you can't remember which paper it was; you don't know whether it was the sky or the stars. What do you remember from it?:D I read all the British tabloids (Notw, Mirror, People, etc) on line last night and couldn't see any reference to Calum Best staring forlornly at anything. The only vague reference I could find was in the News of the World article, above.
I have to say the article was grand. Wouldn't have looked out of place in a broadsheet. Later, I'll post up the Guardian's piece and you can compare them. Not much difference, really. It's not as if your man Samuels was talking about titties in his piece!

WoollyRedHat

Maybe I imagined it, I'll ask my English teacher, but I do really remember that line.

It was two years ago, my memory isn;t great

deman

WoollyRedHat wrote: »

Maybe I imagined it, I'll ask my English teacher, but I do really remember that line.

It was two years ago, my memory isn;t great

Maybe you should go back to sleep. You might remember things differently when you wake up....... in another 20 months from now.....

monument

Are you for real?

You're having a go at a tabloid then all tabloids, but in the process you're unsure of your facts, make generalisations ("I'm pretty sure it was them, tabloid for sure" and "but it was some tabloid" as if they are all the same), and complain about exaggeration but exaggerate while doing so ("they exaggerate everything").

I'm not without criticism for tabloids myself, but it's beyond a joke for people to be bashing tabloids when they are nit picking and blind to the problems with newspapers such as the Indo and the Irish Times.