Dennis Wise
In traditional parlance, a shithouse is a toilet, but fear not, this is not a piece on Wembley’s … rustic bogs and nor – though the word has since evolved to mean “a filthy or disgusting place” – is this a piece on the conscience of certain politicians. Rather, given the extension of the term’s scope to characterise “an obnoxious or despicable person”, and though we already enjoy an ancient four-lettered one which satisfies that definition, it would be remiss – with all due respect to Steve McMahon – for us to begin with anyone other than Dennis Wise.
Wise – who Alex Ferguson said could “start a row in an empty house”, and he should know – stands above Claudio Bravo, Mark Noble and Felipe Melo as the world’s most ironically named footballer. But this august status was not easily won: Wise came from humble beginnings, battling through the divisions as Wimbledon’s provocateur, the little lad liberated to act mean and tackle dirty, secure in the knowledge that he could crawl up the leg of a hard mate if ever he accidentally started a fair fight.
Eventually, this earned him a move to Chelsea, and when Manchester United visited in October 1999, Wise thudded into a leaping, flying aerial takedown of Nicky Butt – from behind, of course. Nevertheless, Butt’s reaction – a knee to the midsection – seemed surprising until, after he was sent off, the reason for his ire transpired: while the pair were grounded, Wise – perhaps inspired by David Beckham – pinched the soft skin on Butt’s inside thigh, confident that the hiding he’d have taken anywhere else in the universe was pretty much impossible on a Premier League football pitch.
And unlike his heroic Baltimore namesake, our Dennis Wise did not mellow with experience. Joining Leicester as a veteran, he first discovered that Gerry Taggart was best left, then extended the ambit of his art to include teammates as well as opposition. Now, footballers are no strangers to holiday hijinks and, with fluids taken on board, altercation is inevitable – consider, for example, a generously slaked Barry Venison trimming Brian Kilcline’s luscious locks, then standing by as Derek Fazackerley was levelled for the offence. But in 2002, touring Finland with Leicester, Wise made the genre his own, defusing a row over a game of cards by sneaking into Callum Davidson’s room and breaking his face for him, while he lay in bed.
This innovation earned Wise the sack, but not the opprobrium of righteous men. A few years later he joined Ken Bates at Leeds, before moving to Newcastle as part of Mike Ashley’s “Cockney Mafia”.
In such context, it seems strange that our hero is part of golfing vernacular as well as footballing folklore. But what better way to describe a nasty five-footer than as “a Dennis Wise”?
Nigel Winterburn
In recent times, our term has extended to encompass the sweet nexus where aggression meets cowardice, and here is found Nigel Winterburn – like Wise, a graduate of Plough Lane’s famous finishing school.
This, though, is not to denigrate the work of John Aldridge who, during the post-Hillsborough 1989 FA Cup semi-final replay between Liverpool and Nottingham Forest, celebrated Brian Laws’ own goal by ruffling his hair as he knelt in horror. Laws, by the way, would later become manager of Grimsby Town and, when left unhappy by Ivano Bonetti’s commitment, did what anyone in his position would’ve done: remonstrated via hurled chicken-wing platter, leaving his player with a fractured cheekbone and worrying protein deficit.
As for Aldridge, the karma police were quickly on his trail. Within a fortnight, Arsenal snaffled Liverpool’s title in the final seconds of the season, and Chief Sup Dalai Lama Tony Adams was on hand to rebalance proceedings, crooning deep into Aldridge’s cochlea: “That’s for Brian Laws, you cunt.”
Over the stretch, though, Winterburn’s oeuvre is the richer. When, in February 1988, his Arsenal side led Manchester United 2-1 in their FA Cup tie and Brian McClair pumped a late penalty so high Bez got jealous, Winterburn paused the cheek-filling and emptying that consumed most of his career to pursue McClair, lest he fail to notice the horror he was experiencing.
And again, the karma police were soon in touch, Andy Dibble saving Winterburn’s spot-kick as Luton relieved Arsenal of the Littlewoods Cup a few months later. Winterburn, though, was undeterred – next time United were on the agenda, he pretended to be knocked-out when McClair gave him a good shaking. Then, in October 1990, his leg-skewing challenge on Denis Irwin sparked a rumpus which strayed from the usual hold-me-back fare into everything that no one wants to see, McClair joining his teammate in the generous application of volleys to torso.
Did Winterburn learn? Did he ‘eck as like! Years later, when Paolo Di Canio shoved referee Paul Alcock, Winterburn sought immediate debrief – “yapping away like one of those hyperactive dogs,” recalled the Italian fascist’s ghostwriter. Disgusted, Di Canio barely acknowledged the push he received, feinting a contemptuous right hook that prompted Winterburn – apparently “wetting his pants in fear” – to flinch in comedic style, rather like he’d been accosted by a plate of chicken wings.
José Mourinho
In recent times, our epithet’s ambit has widened to encompass the getting of one’s way by cheeky or cunning means – Cole Palmer eavesdropping on Manchester City’s huddle, say – or manipulating the game by exploiting lacunae in its laws – Justin Biljow for Feyenoord against Twente, say. And for a while, there was no performer more virtuoso than José Mourinho.
He achieved global renown in 2004, spanking Alex Ferguson in the pre-match mouth before sprinting wildly down the Old Trafford touchline in celebration of a Fergie-time tie-clincher. Then, when he came to England, he simultaneously beat and basted Ferguson just as he charmed the media while having his team play as snidely as possible and, when his personal interpretation got him banned from the touchline, he hid in a laundry basket in order to deliver his pre-match pep talk; of course he did.
What set him apart, though, was the glee and indignance suffusing everything he did, Mourinho acting up because he needed to win, but also acting up because he loved acting up, but also not acting up at all. We can’t be sure he was behind the Icelandic ash cloud that helped his Inter side eject Barcelona from the Champions League en route to the treble, but we certainly can’t rule it out.
Mourinho’s disregard for the line, though, meant he could not always stay the right side of it. His treatment of Anders Frisk was completely unacceptable and he was in his first spell at Chelsea then, but it was at Real Madrid that he expired as a lovable pantomime ‘house. He poked Tito Vilanova in the eye and, when he returned to England, his behaviour towards Eva Carneiro was as horrendous as his bullying of players was objectionable. Or, in other words, pressure-induced paranoia cannibalised the mischievousness that made him special because, like all the most compelling protagonists his best characteristics are also his worst, the ego that inspired him ultimately undermining him.
Of course, he still has his moments – calling Arsène Wenger a “specialist in failure”, cupping his ear at Juventus fans, his drive-by on Antonio Conte, making sport of Mikes Riley and Dean – but at his peak, he was one of the greats.
Italia 90
More than any modern World Cup, Italia 90 changed the planet and certainly changed Great Britain, cementing football as its cultural bedrock – at cost of many, many pontifications and prognostications. But though the Joy of Six exists precisely for that purpose, Italia 90 was – more than anything and from first game to last – a jamboree of ‘housing in all its forms.
We began with red cards for André Kana-Biyik and Benjamin Massing, his trimming of Claudio Caniggia’s legs legendary until this day, while Diego Maradona was fouled 11 times as the Indomitable Lions shocked the holders. Somehow, though, Argentina scrapped their way into the last 16 where they faced Brazil – whose samba ‘housery booted Maradona all over the park while the team played Argentina off it. Argentina, though, hung in there, their woodwork hit thrice and a member of their backroom staff defying convention to hand Branco a bottle of water with tranquilliser mixer. Then, nine minutes from time, Maradona – who’d been sent off when the sides met in 1982 – completed his vengeful “vaccination”, laying on a glorious winning goal for Caniggia.
Nor were they finished there! In the quarters, Argentina couldn’t score against a beautiful Yugoslavia side that played 90 minutes with 10 men, then found themselves in trouble when it came to penalties, missing their third and fourth efforts. But Sergio Goycochea – in the side because Nery Pumpido had broken a leg – did as dodgy keepers do, saving the final two kicks, and suddenly, Argentina were in the semis, drawn to face Italy in Naples.
Naturally, Maradona couldn’t help but incite civil war in response, invoking centuries of painful repression and suffering and discrimination by reminding Neapolitans of their persecution by the power-hungry north, recommending they support him and Argentina instead. Then, on the pitch Argentina again clung on to life while producing their best performance of the competition, coming back from a goal down and having a player sent off in extra time before Maradona – who’d missed in the quarter – stroked home the most casual shootout penalty imaginable, as Goycochea saved twice more.
The final, though, was something else entirely. Opting for art over science and substance over style, La Albiceleste ensured a game of non-football in which they had two players sent off while losing to a penalty that wasn’t – earned via a dive and taken by Andreas Brehme, because Lothar Matthaüs was “having some problems” with his boots. It was the perfect climax, and no more than the competition deserved.
Emmanuel Adebayor, Manchester City v Arsenal, 2009
Some are born ‘houses, some achieve ‘housing, and others have ‘housing thrust upon them. Take Emmanuel Adebayor, for example, who took the subset known as rustling – a person juxtaposing his success against another’s failure – and elevated it beyond even the celestial peaks scaled by Robbie Fowler and Jamie Vardy.
In the summer of 2009, Adebayor was advised by Arsène Wenger that his time at Arsenal was over then, once he signed for Manchester City, Wenger advised the press the move was money-motivated. So he stowed the fury and, when the sides met at the Etihad, heard fans who used to cheer him singing racist songs about his parents.
The game was locked at 1-1 when Adebayor made his first significant contribution to it, introducing studs to Robin van Persie’s eye. Then, on 74 minutes, Craig Bellamy put City in front before, on 80, big Robinho wore a foul from Gaël Clichy and curled a fine cross towards the near-post area, where Adebayor rose to plant a fine header into the far corner.
He might’ve enjoyed his victory to himself; he might’ve cupped an ear or two at the fans who’d spent significant portions of the game slagging him off. Or he might’ve sprinted down the touchline roaring, before knee-sliding in front of a surging away end to bask in the apoplectic impotence of men who give but cannot take offence – not for nothing has the Joy of Six just coined the simile “as fragile as a football fan”.
Nor was the oblivious outrage confined to the ground. In the BBC studio, Mark Bright – encouraged by the equally sagacious Martin Keown – came over all self-righteous, accusing Adebayor of infringing the professional code of conduct operative nowhere but his own head. So eventually Garth Crooks, incongruously finding himself as the voice of reason, was forced to remind Bright of that time he generously smeared Andy Linighan’s nose across his face for him – in the process completing a glorious hat-trick of ‘housery begetting ‘housery begetting ‘housery. Jogo bonito this, totaalvoetball that, tiki-taka the other – this is what the game is truly about.
Jordan Henderson
Unfortunately we’re out of space and this one needs a thesis.
