I still saw her from time to time afterwards, but that weekend put pay to any hopes I might have held for a more serious relationship. Mind you, the state I was in on one of the last occasions we met would have given her reason to rejoice that I was out of her life. I’d been out gambling and drinking in London, and when it came to bedtime I discovered I had nowhere to go. […] That it was four in the morning may have accounted for a distinct lack of response from the first numbers tried. But Sinéad answered: maybe she was one of the few with a phone by her bed. No, she said, of course I couldn’t come round. For one thing, her boyfriend was staying there. For another… But I was persistent […], so she eventually gave in and let me sleep on the couch— my usual place when I stayed with her.
—George Best’s autobiography,“Where do I go from here?”
