ONTHEPLEASUREOFHATING JACKWILSHIRE

ANDREWTHOMAS>

Hate, as everybody knows, is a negative pursuit; a destructive approach to the world that serves only to diminish the hater. Haters gonna hate, we tut, pitying those who are so misanthropic in their bearing that they cannot help but bring contempt to the party, to ruin life and, more importantly, football with their ceaseless carping, their incessant sniping, with their vicious and vituperative bent. All well and good. What the hate haters wont tell you, however, is that hating can be healthy. Hating can be good. And hating can be an enormous amount of fun. Illustration:GANTPOWELL>

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A couple of conditionals. First, we are not talking about hate in a stupid, hyperpartisan, conspiratorial way. It is important, when hating, not to let your loathing consume and destroy your rationality. If this happens, you are lost. At all times, be fair. It is, as we shall see, perfectly possible to hate a footballer while understanding that he is pretty darned good at the game. Second, it is best to try to hate on a basis that isnt simply tribal. Not only does this expose you to greater risk of succumbing to hyperpartisan attitudes becoming nothing more than a vector for hate but it is, to be frank, boring. Hating a Scouser because you hate Scousers is alright, but its not what were talking about. Find somebody who evokes

something personal; nd a genuine reason to hate that specic Scouser more, and better, than you hate all other Scousers. Or, as in my case, nd a young lad from Stevenage, decide that you really cant stand the sight of him, and run with it. There are rational reasons to hate Jack Wilshere, of course: hes younger than me, hes disgustingly talented, and he plays for Arsenal. But there are players both younger and more talented than him that I actively like and there are Arsenal players that Ive admired, both reluctantly and enthusiastically. I even like Arsne Wenger, despite (or perhaps because of) his intense preciousness, Cyclopean stubbornness,

and barely concealed snobbery. But there is something uniquely repellent about Wilshere; something Im not sure I quite grasp even as I think about it. Something that seems almost larger than young Jack himself. Hating, of course, is perfectly and fundamentally natural. English essayist William Hazlitt in his splenetic On the Pleasure of Hating, to which this piece owes more than a little notes that the human condition is always to have a quantity of superuous bile upon the stomach. Its what we do. Anybody who doesnt is either a hippy or high (probably both) and so not to be trusted. And, while dwelling on hate can lead to misery, indulging it from time to time say, at the weekends can be a ne vocation.

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It helps that Wilshere is eminently hateworthy, for all kinds of reasons. Theres his face, cocked in a permanent half-pout, half-sneer; an expression that encapsulates all that is bad about Wengers latter-day Arsenal, convinced of its own superiority and disdainful of the inadequate world that fails to acknowledge it. He has the features, bearing and self-righteousness of a Young Conservative, a scion of privilege who knows that he will inherit the world because, quite simply, he deserves to. Then theres his tackling. Wilshere, like plenty of other footballers who like to consider themselves hard but lack that curious blackness of the soul that footballs genuine psychopaths thrive upon, is a nasty little

swine in the challenge. Frequently bricated by ocial tolerance and tollate, usually high, generally with a erant ociating, so now Wilshere ash of stud, he perpetually presnds reds becoming yellows, and ents the vice of callousyellows becoming stern ness as the virtue of Thatsnot words. This is not an accommitment. He is, in Wilsheresfault, tive conspiracy, but then short, very much that it doesnt need to be. It ofcourse,but sort of player. One red is the simple and natural card in 64 starts may not thenneitheris consequence of being seem to reect that, but hisface who you are. Players then, of course, who acquire a reputaWilshere is not disciplined or refertion for thuggery will nd themeed like other players, as Jermaine selves carded more; players who Pennant will tell you. acquire a reputation as the Great White Hope of English Football will For Wilsheres is the latest head nd that English football itself bearound which can be found the comes more accommodating to their peccadilloes, and their elbows, golden miasma of destiny, the halo and their sharp, ashing cleats. of England. Just as John Terry and Steven Gerrard and Alan Shearer Thats not Wilsheres fault, of before them have found their cacourse, but then neither is his face reers cushioned, smoothed and lu-

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nor his character, so at least were being consistent. And theres more, a million tiny oences against the soul: his persistent, petulant whining; his weirdly nationalist Tweeting; his classlessness in defeat; his classlessness in victory. I even briey entertained the notion that I hated him because he should have taken Aaron Ramseys leg-chopping, the thought being that England churn out decent midelders all the time, whereas Ramsey is very literally a once-in-a-generation talent for Wales. I abandoned that, though, as being perhaps a touch unsustainable. All the above is, of course, colossally hypocritical. Each and every one of the malign attributes outlined above can be found in plenty of players

that I dont despise with the same enthusiasm, to say nothing of a few players that I actively adore. What this means is that the hatred doesnt emerge from these attributes as such; it is not contingent on Wilshere looking like an over-indulged Tory leg-scraper. Instead, I think its better to understand the hatred as being sparked by something minor a late tackle followed by a querulant yelp but then being sustained and enhanced by the sheer joy of it; hate piling upon hate in a kind of malicious feedback loop, forming a glorious pile of blood-boiling, teeth-gnashing rage, the result of which is I cant actually look at him without wanting to kick something small and furry and cute. Its marvellous. Hazlitt writes that

without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not rufed by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. And this is what Jack Wilshere does for me: by being the centre of the loathed universe, he keeps the pool fresh, and thought and action springy. You are not just dened by your loves, but by your hatreds; without knowing what you stand against, as well as for, you are nothing. And the best thing about hating Wilshere like this is that it has nothing (or at least very little) to do with the football. It runs happily concurrent to any assessment of Wilsheres footballing ability very good, potentially outstanding, may nd de-

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velopment awkward with the tongues of half the Fourth Estate rammed up his back passage and so doesnt really aect the game. Instead, it seasons it; gives it spice and tang. That he seems to be a colossally boring man only makes it sweeter. (See? Even when Im trying not to insult him, I end up insulting him.) In truth, I do not come to bury Wilshere, but to praise him. To praise him for adding a whole new dimension of derision to Arsenal games; for applying a whole new layer of loathing to the England team; and for inspiring a greater love for Ramsey who may only be his rival in my head, but thats what counts than I thought possible. Hes given me a dark heart at the

centre of the universe; the purest avatar of the yin that squats in opposition to all the wondrous yang out there. But, like the yin yang, its not truly about good and evil, or about right and wrong. Its about my centre. If I am to love and, this being football, I will love, love, and love again then it stands to reason I must hate in equivalent degree, lest I lose balance and spin away, ailing and discombobulated. Im not telling you to hate Jack Wilshere. If you do, welcome; if not, thats your own lookout. But nd somebody. Find a player, or manager, or club, or mascot, or badge, or even a groundsman, that rubs you the wrong way, that gets right on your wick and your tits. Gary Neville, I suspect, was a popular

choice for many a year. Stephen Hunt has the right stu in spades. More obscurely, perhaps Cyril the Swan? The entire population of Stoke? The owl on Oldham Athletics badge? As the experience of football gets increasingly sterile, you owe it to yourself to stoke up some ery loathing. Youll enjoy yourself. And thats what this is all about: you, the audience, have found your pantomime villain. Boo. Hiss. Hes behind you! Trust me. Its a lot of fun.

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AndrewThomas TWISTEDBLOOD> @Twisted_Blood> Acerbic,intelligent,inquisitive,unforgiving.And a decent writer, too. Look up the brilliant ThroughGrittedTeethseriesandGardening Leave.

ThisisanextractfromIssueOneofManandBall magazine:LetSleepingGodsLie. ThisissueintroducesNigelandfeaturesstorieson Germanfootballsincereunification,AfricanArsenal fans,anunsungDutchlegend,andsevenother intriguingarticles. ItcanbedownloadedinitsentiretyHERE>

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