MISERABLE, inept, stone-cold Stormont’s parliament building gazes over the heads of the people of Belfast. Lord Edward Carson, frozen in bronze, harangues them for ever. The forbidding mile-long Prince of Wales Avenue separates the people from those who would rule them. Everything about this place seems to sneer at the people below: “You’re just not good enough.”

But that was then, the days of Empire; this is now, the days of superstars, when only the people are good enough. And so, yesterday, George Best was sent to eternity via Stormont’s Great Hall. And the Not Good Enoughs came to stand in the wind and rain to see him off.

Diana’s was the most emotional funeral I have ever attended, the Pope’s the most awe-inspiring. But Best’s was the most strange, suffused as it was with the modern cult of stardom and the ancient tribal cults of Ulster.

Many red hands, symbols of the province and the old Protestant ascendancy, were draped on the steel barriers at Stormont. And many footballers’ wives, caked in makeup, swathed in furs, teetered on high heels up the perilously slippery steps to the Great Hall.

At 7.15am yesterday about 2,000 were queueing in the damp darkness at the main entrance in Upper Newtonards Road. It had been raining for days in Belfast and, though it seemed to have stopped, the air felt wet and the people in their anoraks and faded blue jeans looked soaked. About 20 had been there all night.

Coaches began to bring in the 300 guests. They had been held, as the ironic local officials gleefully told us, at “a secret location”. The officials liked saying this. They also liked saying over and over again: “This is not a state funeral, it’s a family occasion.” They were wasting their breath.

Denis Law — the surviving, sane and dignified hero of Best’s great days at Manchester United — and Alex Best, his second wife, were among the first. Even Alex “Hurricane” Higgins — a man who has matched Best in every extremity except death — was there. Not so well noticed was Sinn Fein’s Martin McGuinness. Then assorted footballing royalty climbed the steps — Sir Alex Ferguson, Martin O’Neill — the men in long dark coats, the women in furs.

From behind they looked like the cast of a Godfather film as they filed in through the gigantic columns.

Then a couple of Vauxhalls and an Audi zoomed in Peter Hain, the Northern Ireland secretary, and Sven-Goran Eriksson. The cars’ doors were opened by heavyweight security men who scanned us for signs of threat. Armed police-men sidled about. You could never forget this was Ulster.

Suddenly a little group of commoners was drawn out of the crowd. The Best family had asked for 10 people to be allowed inside. Dazed and wearing northern Irish or Manchester United scarves, they were photographed and interviewed.

“He was something good to come out of Northern Ireland,” says William Coey, 55, “at a time when a lot of bad stuff was coming out.”

The city below had now all but disappeared in rain and mist, but helicopters indicated the cortege was approaching.

The bonnet of the hearse was laden with scarves and hats thrown by the crowd. The driver had brushed many aside so he could see the road ahead. Along the route every advertisement in every bus stop had been replaced by pictures of Best in his No 7 shirt.

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