I was walking behind Warne in a corridor at the Gabba this past summer, a crossover space between his workplace (the commentary box) and a public area (the members' bar). He had his phone to his ear. I think he was heading outside for a durrie.

Up bounded a cheerful chap in a straw hat. 'Warneeee! How are ya, mate?'

Shane raised a friendly hand, indicating he was on the phone, and quickened his step.

"Warnie-eeee! Selfie-eeeee!" Out from beneath the hat came a phone, just in case Shane had misunderstood and thought that the requested snap needed to be taken on his.

"Sorry," Shane said. "On the phone."

"Warnie-eee-eeee!' Now came the intrusion into physical space, as inevitable as a frustrated leap down the wicket to a tossed-up leg-break. The arms went out, the smile lit up, the man-hug commenced. The camera pointed.

Shane dodged, pointing to his phone, and mouthed sorry again.

"Ar, f--k you, Warne!" Hell hath no fury like a pisshead scorned. Now came the rivers of abuse, the Wake in Fright moment, the crestfallen, XXXX-fuelled fan telling Shane what he really thought of him. 'And ya can't f--ken spare a second for a selfie, ya wanka!'

To which Warne, finding the exit door, snarled, exasperated but also kind of helpless: "I said sorry."

When you realise this type of thing must happen probably 1000 times a day, you do feel sorry for sports stars. They might as well wear a shirt that says 'Dickheads welcome, take a free shot.'

I thought Warne had done well not to clobber the guy. But I was wrong, as I discovered this week. As a role model, as a community leader, as a piece of public property, Warne should be apologising. Even more so if the guy had been sober enough to locate RECORD on his camera phone.

Saying sorry was clearly not enough. To whom should Warne have made a formal apology? Maybe the cricket community. The kiddies. Women. On behalf of whom? I don't know, bogans of Australia? As a representative of the international poker circuit? Crown Casino? There has to be someone a public figure has to apologise to, and on behalf of, if ever he is caught out being less than 100 per cent perfect. If he has a moment of weakness. If he is human. (OK, Warne may not be the best example, but still.)

Alastair Clarkson is human. He has proved that a number of times. What the rest of us call weakness is, for a football coach, called a "rap sheet". The Hawthorn coach has shouted at people. He has lashed out. He has lost patience. On occasion, he has slammed down a headphone. Rumour has it he once smacked his hand into a wall. This week, for one moment after an extended provocation from a prize drongo called Luke Helps (there's the first lie), Clarkson lost his temper and gave Mr Helps a shove. Because it was caught on camera, it happened.

The AFL went into meltdown as the news broke that football coaches get angry. Mick Malthouse was asked for a comment, but he was busy picking up pieces of his head that had broken off during Carlton's last match. Rodney Eade was unavailable due to the lack of an intact phone. Ross Lyon was indisposed, having a Swans fan in a headlock at the time. James Hird was suing.

Clarkson was described as having "anger management issues". No football coach from any code was available for comment on this, due to an epidemic of debilitating laughter. Fancy that: a football coach being provoked by idiots. Did anyone see some of the things Jarryd Roughead did against Port Adelaide? There's three hours of senseless provocation right there. And then there are the other idiots, the ones who will grab a man by his collar, spit in his face, call him a moron, question his parentage, follow him home, threaten all he holds dear, grab his collar, each of them united in the belief that because the coach is a "public figure" then they have rights of ownership over him. And if he responds as a human would, just for a moment, then there is the camera.

Word has it that Clarkson is not the only professional football coach to resort to despicable acts. Coaches have been known to kick their cats. And cut in on traffic. And jump the queue at the supermarket. And smoke cigarettes. And, in the case of the most-experienced coach in VFL/AFL history, put on an exhibition of doing his nana in a glass box, in public view, on a weekly basis, the archetype of the abusive, bullying male authority figure. Isn't there someone Malthouse has to apologise to for all those years of entertainment?

There's a reason why coaches grow old before their time. There are lots of reasons, some of them wearing uniforms and many of them holding cameras. So since when do they have to be perfect? Walk in their shoes, or just behind them, and there is no amount of money in the world that would make you do that job.

And Luke Helps? Does he? He has to apologise to his football club in Adelaide, the Hackham Hawks. "He wasn't representing the club at the time but, unfortunately for the young fellow, he does sort of represent us just as a member and a player all the time I suppose," Hackham president Graham Thompson told ABC radio. (I swear this is real, not something I have made up.) "So he does have a little bit to answer to."

That's super. If the guy in the straw hat can please apologise, he can feel like a big man too.