IT WAS in a hotel in Blackpool, while I was a player at Peterborough, that I first encountered a skinny little lad who had just joined Manchester United. “Mr Dougan, can I have a word with you?” he said. “My name’s George Best and I’ve heard a lot about you.”

It was way back in 1963 and the start of a friendship that I have valued ever since. George was just 17 and had come from the same Cregagh Boys’ Club in Belfast where I first played my football. From then on, whenever we played for Northern Ireland, we shared a room.

If it wasn’t with me, he roomed with Pat Jennings or Eric McMordie — and I got to know the real George, one of the finest human beings I’ve had the pleasure to share a meal, a football pitch or a drink with.

That young fellow, more than any other player in the history of the game, was asked to visit hospitals and clinics, spend time with kids who were sick, meet the families of the sick just because they wanted to meet the famous George Best.

And he would agree to do it under one condition: that there were no photographers present, no TV cameras, no publicity whatsoever. That was the measure of the man. He was a fantastic boy, a wonderful little fellow who would have given you the shirt off his back.

Most people fall into one of two categories, those who give and those who take. George was one of the greatest givers I ever had the good fortune to meet. He gave his time, his money, and it was always done in anonymity. He didn’t want praise for it. That was just how he was.

As far as his ability on a football pitch goes, it’s all well documented. But I’ve never seen, nor will I ever see — and you can include Maradona, Pele, Beckenbauer, Platini, Cruyff, Keegan, Henry, Matthews, Finney, Lofthouse — a player to touch him.

Pele and Maradona played in two very special international sides. George’s gifts ought to have graced a World Cup finals.

He was the finest thing you ever saw in a pair of football boots. Wayne Rooney, David Beckham, Frank Lampard and Steven Gerrard can’t be talked about in the same breath. All of them were manufactured on this earth, but George, I’ve always believed, was sent to us from heaven. He had to be. He could have played on one leg with those guys.

There were many examples of his skill, but I will always remember what he did to England goalkeeper Gordon Banks, only to be denied by the referee. Whenever I think back to his genius, that incident at Windsor Park always comes to mind.

I played with Banksie for two years at Leicester and I said to George: “If he doesn’t throw it out quickly, he’s prone to throwing the ball up in the air and releasing it well away from his hands before he kicks it.”

Banks released the ball, George flicked it from him before he could kick it, and beat Banks to the loose ball to head it in the back of the net.

The referee disallowed it simply because he’d never seen anything like it.

It was breathtaking and audacious. But, you see, he had all the gifts to be a great performer, timing and, most of all, perfect balance. He was courageous, too, and had a great engine. He would be on the left side, then pop up on the right side, then he’d be down at right-back, then left-back, all over the place. I used to say to him, “You’re like dog’s s***. You’re everywhere.”

People used to say he was just into booze and women, but in my period with him he was one of the best trainers I’ve ever seen. He had to be to be able to do the things he did, to put in the kind of performances which, to him, were routine.

He worked ferociously hard and would practise taking corner kicks and free kicks, playing one-twos with anybody. He was a phenomenal athlete, a phenomenal professional.

I’m blessed to have known him, to have known the real George, that skinny boy who first approached me in 1963. He should have been a titled person, Sir George or Lord Best, that’s how it should have been.

Derek Dougan was capped 43 times by Northern Ireland

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