Imagine you're Mario Balotelli for a second. Yes, you have to.
Why? Because he reads about you in the papers (especially that bit about throwing a dart at a youth team player) and watches you play football on Saturdays and he's decided that he doesn't like you. No -- he's decided that he hates you. Hates you more than anyone he actually knows personally. So when he spots you on the street in your fancy pants t-shirt with your fancypants hairdo, just after you scratched your fancypants car, he wants to be sure he takes the rude opportunity to let you know that he has adjudged you to be a twunt.