A club great as a player is a pariah because of his dealings with the Sun when manager, yet he seems deeply remorseful. Does he care enough to try to heal the wound?
Perhaps you may have seen that clip recently of Graeme Souness getting so worked up in the television studios about the jargon of modern football, so aggrieved by what he perceives to be the loss of old-fashioned values, that he has a fit of pique and ends up flinging his pen across the desk in front of him.
It is classic Souness: dyspeptic, unflinching, never one for concealing his feelings. It is a big part of what makes him so watchable as a pundit. Everything will be fine, then something will prick his temper. Something you or I may not even notice that, in his eyes, is an affront to the profession. Souness isn’t wired to tolerate mediocrity. He cannot accept the idea there are footballers who might not possess the devotion that underpinned his own successes. Nor is he ever going to hold back when something has jarred those hair-trigger sensibilities.
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