Tag Archives: faux grief

Mar 11 2012

Why George Best’s death is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.


“When I heard the terrible news that George Best had passed away I cried and cried and cried. I cried and cried more than I have ever cried in my whole life.

I cried and cried and cried because more than anyone else I have never met George Best represented something important. Important to me.

As a schoolboy huddled on the grainy, black and white football terraces of the past, his dazzling football skills opened my says to a Technicolor world that was limitless and free and beautiful.  A world that was limitless. A world that was free. And, yes, a world that was beautiful.

George Best was all those things and more. He was limitless. He was free. And, yes, he was beautiful. Before George the Saturday afternoon football match was a dismal, grey experience. Drab grey men would pass a lumpy grey leather ball to each other on a cold, churned up, muddy, grey bomb site whilst the crowd of  black and white, grey men in dull, flat, lumpy, grey caps smoked Woodbines, yawned and looked at their feet.

When George appeared on the scene it was like being struck by  lightning, sticking your fingers in a socket and being struck by some more lightning all rolled into one. It felt like seeing Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles and Elvis Presley all rolled into one. Every time he touched the ball he literally defied the laws of gravity. I can still recall the trill of seeing him on the news yesterday doing things with a football that no-on else on earth would ever have attempted, let alone tried.

With every effortless kick, he taught us more about wisdom than ten Confuciusses. With every graceful swerve around a defender he taught us more about freedom than a hundred Mandellas. With every sublime header, he taught us more about artistry than a thousand Michelangelos. With every picturesque indirect free kick, he taught us more about beauty than a million Marilyn Monroes.

By any measure you care to choose George Best was the most perfect and flawless human being who ever lived.

And yet, he wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Like all of us he had his flaws”

… and so it goes on.  I found this in a comic book that I have. Viz, and it’s written under a byline of Tony Parsehole.

I found it humorous and I wonder if it’s a template for any near future obituaries that we’re about too see, and if it had been used as and previous ones.

I’m not big on forced faux grief. On forced empathy and sympathy, of forced and faux mourning, If you’re affected be affected, don’t try to get me to join in with that, it’s not going to happen.

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Sep 24 2009

Somebody died I feel sad.


It’s nobody I know, knew or would have ever had a chance to meet. Never spoke to them or knew anything about them, their likes, dislikes, hates, peeves, loves, hopes or ambitions.

Didn’t know if they liked tea, coffee or juice. Sugar? Milk or cream?

But they died. And I feel sad.

They were world-famous (even if only in New Zealand), or they may have been truly world-famous. I read about them in the weekly gossip and rumor rags, or the broadsheets, or even perhaps on E!. Maybe they were guest-spotting on a show and paraded their talents. Probably they hung around with other faux-celebrities and caught my attention that way.

But they died. And I feel sad.

Why? Well they sang nicely. Or was it dancing. Singing and Dancing perhaps. Wrote a song, made a million. Perhaps they were a paperback writer. Whatever they were I assisted their fame, spent some money and they got rich/fat/lazy and more famous.

“How could you possibly understand how I feel?”

What is it you feel?

You could put anyone on TV/Radio/ in a Newspaper/Magazine and they’d achieve celebrity status and a fan-club. For some it is fleeting, for some it’s their employment, it’s what they do – Sing/Dance/Write/Perform.

Just like you do 9-5, just that you’re not on TV.

But they died and collectively, or individually, we wring our hands and shake our heads solemnly. As if we had an impact in their lives (mostly only financially beneficial), and that the least we can expect is an invite to the funeral (will it be in TV or in the glamour mags?)

I read that this worship of stardom, this celebrity worship thing replaces, at least in western society, the religious idols we used to admire. We love/hate admire/revile applaud/boo with great abandon anyone that we’re told is famous. Even for being famous.

Whats tragic really is that you full well know that in some hospice, in some car, at some place of work, someone is about to die. A lonely death. No less tragic, but less visible, and then less important. No matter that they touched the lives of a few people close to them, in a true and genuine way, not news, not important.

The biggest tragedy is we’re all going to die. One day, some way. Even those we admire but have never met, spoken to, seen, etc. But when they die we’ll be sad.

Of course.

See Also : http://wp.me/p1FL5z-mg

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