George Best’s résumé, in the late 1960s, was pretty much flawless. He was a dazzling, edge-of-the-seat winger, certainly one of the finest players on the planet. For a time, he perhaps did not even require the caveat. He was an English and European champion. Along with Bobby Charlton and Denis Law, he was a sanctified member of Manchester United’s Holy Trinity.

More than that, he was a true crossover star. He was a fashionista. He was a heartthrob. He dated models. He graced the hippest nightclubs. He owned a trendy boutique. He was a darling of the swinging ’60s, a genuine celebrity. He had sufficient cultural cachet that he was known, in Spain, as El Beatle.

All of that should, of course, have afforded him unquestionable authority when it came to the game that made him famous. Sadly, though, that is not how it works.

There are rules at play here, whether you think they are fair or not, and Best transgressed them. In 1968, a couple of months after helping United win the European Cup, Best was invited, or decided, to write a book. It would be the first of several iterations over the coming years.