Graeme Souness example shows Barry Ferguson how to be a leader of men

By Roddy Forsyth
After the first game the players were allowed a little latitude in recognition of their efforts. Those who wanted to were allowed to have a beer or two, on condition that they turned in for the night in reasonable time.

Now the multiple choice question. Did the Scotland captain (a) acknowledge his own responsibility and decline any alcohol while keeping a friendly eye on his team-mates?

Or (b) embark on a marathon boozing session with the goalkeeper which lasted eight hours and which was witnessed by families who were disgusted at the antics of their national sporting heroes?

The answer is both (a) and (b) – but in the first instance, the captain was Graeme Souness and in the second it was Barry Ferguson.

The other difference is the chasm in attitude between a man who took his duties seriously and afforded his manager appropriate respect and a player who betrayed the trust that had been placed in him.

The scene involving Souness occurred in a Reykjavik nightclub in June 1985. Scotland had played England in the Rous Cup the previous Saturday, when Richard Gough scored the winner with a powerful header.

As the Scots geared up for the game against Iceland they knew that this was by far the more important fixture, one in which they could not afford to drop any points. Jock Stein was the manager and, while he wanted to keep his players focused on the crucial task in hand, he also acknowledged that they were playing beyond the end of demanding domestic schedules – hence the granting of an hour or two of leisure time between games.

At that time I was filming a five-part documentary series on Scottish football for BBC Scotland and Souness was a regular participant as we shot footage over the course of a year. I saw him standing against the wall of the Reykjavik nightclub, hands behind his back, quietly surveying the rest of the squad at the bar.

I asked him if he wanted a glass of red wine, his favourite tipple. Souness shook his head and said: "Would you take a drink if you were his captain?"

This tale is not meant to paint Souness as a paragon of ethics and fair dealing. In the subsequent game – a tense, anxious affair which saw Scotland scramble through by a single goal after heroics by their goalkeeper (sounds familiar?) – the Scotland captain's late tackle on Siggi Jonsson saw the midfield player stretchered off with a broken leg.

But Souness displayed an open regard for Stein, whom he regarded as something of a father figure. That no such relationship exists between Ferguson and Burley became nakedly obvious after the bacchanal on Loch Lomond on Sunday morning.

A burden of responsibility falls upon the manager and his backroom staff. Stein used Souness as his lieutenant at ground level, but Jock was famously a nocturnal prowler and also employed his staff as antennae to anticipate any unseemly developments.

Burley was entitled to believe that Ferguson would observe the proprieties, but a streetwise manager would also have detailed a backroom figure to enforce a suitable closing time, if required. For that lack of control, Burley has had a code of conduct imposed on him by the SFA.

Also, in the immediate aftermath of Wednesday's victory Burley should have refused to answer any questions about the disgraced pair – who could not even restrain themselves from smirking and making juvenile gestures at photographers from the substitutes' bench – and insisted that he would deal only in allotting credit to those who had answered their country's call.

Nevertheless, the main indictment falls upon Ferguson and his witless confederate, McGregor. In keeping them with the squad and naming them among the subs, Burley at least had them in plain view but, worryingly, there were others beside McGregor who followed the captain's distorted lead and who were present during most of the booze binge – and there were players willing to plead with the manager for their colleagues' continued inclusion.

In days gone by, the SFA would simply have declared the culprits persona non grata, but then in other times there were captains who lived up to their rank.

Souness, by the way, was 32 years and one month old when he policed that Reykjavik club. Ferguson was 31 years and one month old when he got hammered on Loch Lomond on Sunday.

One year of a difference – the gulf between a man and an overgrown adolescent who would never wear a Scotland jersey again if the Tartan Army had any say in the matter.

In Amsterdam, fortune favours the commando

During his press conference before last weekend’s World Cup qualifier, George Burley was asked how he thought the Tartan Army – who were present en masse in Dam Square and all surrounding neighbourhoods – were impressing the locals.

The Scotland manager replied with the stock answer that he was sure that the Dutch people would welcome these colourful ambassadors of sport.

One Dutch journalist, sitting in the front row, was asked by his Scottish colleagues if this was indeed the case.

“I’m sure it is for the bar owners and the beer stores,” he replied. Then by way of an afterthought, he added: “And the girls in the windows.”

The proof of this, at least for the bars, was the sign on several establishment windows which read: “If you are wearing a kilt 10 per cent off our prices.”

One window also yielded the information, which bore all the signs of being taped on by a member of the Tartan Army: “And 20 per cent off if you go commando.”

Be careful what you wish for...

Last Saturday in Amsterdam, a group of sportswriters for the Sunday newspapers were bemoaning the unnaturally long build-up to the World Cup qualifier against the Dutch and the difficulties of sustaining interest in endless recycled quotes from past and present stars, with coverage stretching back at least 10 days before the game itself.

One topic which came up during this discussion was the golden age of tales of daftness from the Scotland camp, when the cream of the land had red hair and would brawl in Danish bars or try to sail the high seas in a dinghy without oars.

As for the current generation to sport the lion rampant badge, one of the assembled journos delivered the damning pronouncement: “It’s not as if any of them ever wakes up wasted after a night on the bevvy.”

And the Lord heard this. And a mischievous grin spread across His face.

Taken from telegraph.co.uk