Extract here:
If I had to pick a dominating aspect of his character, apart from the tremendous commitment that marked his play, it would be his sheer Scottishness. When Nobby Stiles and I were helping England to win the World Cup, Denis made a point of playing golf. Whenever we played Scotland, Denis made sure to kick us both and call us "English bastards", within the first minute or so of the match. It was as though he had been obliged to make a statement and, having done so, he could get on with the game.
George, of course, kept so much of his mystery right up to the end, when Denis and I sorrowfully boarded that train to London on a cold, grey day in November 2005. I had met Denis at Stockport station after calling him to discuss George's situation against the background of reports that he was unlikely to survive his latest health crisis. Denis had made one visit and warned me that George was at a low ebb. It was unlikely that he would be able to take much in.
It was as Denis said it would be. George, surrounded by his family, had slipped into something close to a coma. One of his sisters said that he might be able to hear me and I spoke to him with the greatest sadness. I whispered to him as I had to Duncan Edwards and Matt Busby all those years before in Munich, but I felt that so much of my old teammate's life had been, and was still, set apart from my experience and understanding.
Our relationship had grown warmer in later years and the pain and frustration of the premature ending of the most beautiful and natural talent I had seen was tempered by the fact that we had shared moments that would have brought pride and joy to any footballer who had played the game.
More:
Going down to London with Denis, I could not help but recall an earlier train journey, one I made with George from Cardiff after we had played in a Uefa representative match, at the time when his reputation - and his celebrity - had reached a peak. This was at the beginning of the phase when the main topic of conversation at Old Trafford often concerned George's whereabouts the night before - and at roughly what time that night had ended and in whose company.
On that train journey, I remembered that Norma and the girls were away and I asked George if he would like to come to my house for supper. Norma had told me that there was a bag of frozen scampi in the fridge and I had the idea - it turned out to be a little optimistic - that I could make a decent meal out of it for George and me. To be honest, I was a little shocked when George said yes.
It was a strange and, in some ways, poignant evening. George was taken with our dog, a chow, and he was full of questions about what it was like being married, about having a dog and domestic life in general. For some reason, I formed the idea that he was intrigued by the possibility of getting married, that it might represent another way of life that could offer him something he maybe was not getting in his endless whirl of clubs and pubs and parties; that not least, perhaps, he wanted a little peace.
As the evening wore on, I saw a different George - inquisitive, warm, and maybe a little insecure. It made me think that behind all the glitter and the headlines here was just another young man trying to find his way in life.