Unlovable Losers...Part I

I'll dig a little hole here and BURY some of my SPARE F*CKING CASH because I have run out of places to bury it in my BACKYARD. And all my POCKETS are FULL. Hey, I wonder if this will count as a F*CKING GOAL??

This blog post is dedicated to the memory of John Aloisi, former Socceroo and Sydney FC striker (the guy everyone remembers for slotting home the penalty that beat Uaregay and put Australia in the 2006 World Cup), who died quietly in his home about 6 months ago.

**technical difficulties...**

I've been informed by lightning-quick blog-fans that Aloisi is in fact alive, and is currently pursuing a post-football career in F*CKING THIEVERY and FRAUD, and has been for several months.

Apparently this THIEF has been STEALING MONEY on a weekly basis from Sydney FC, the total of which will top the $1 MILLION mark by season's end.

How could this happen??! I thought F*CKING THIEVING BUSHRANGERS were EXTINCT!?

I'll step you through it.

Mr Aloisi used to play in Europe, mostly Spain. He even played for Osasuna, which is where they do the "Running of the Bulls" and evidently where Aloisi perfected the art of "el caca del toro". Eventually they grew tired of using him as the honorary "gored celebrity" to kick off the Run and he found himself without a contract. (The town is inviting Ricky Martin next year...)

Sydney FC, on the lookout for a marketable player, made him several offers to entice him to return to Oz and play for them. And I mean "marketable" in the sense that every halfwit knows him from that Socceroo penalty footage. And he knows how to sell anti-dandruff shampoo, I'll give him that.

Mr Aloisi, in a breathtakingly staggering over-estimation of his own ability, one which would even put The Chov to shame, decided to play hardball, wanting way more money than Sydney FC could pay. Mr Aloisi figured he could play hardball because of the thousands of clubs world-wide who were sure to step in at some point and throw cash at him - some might even want him to play football, others might just want sexual favours - either way, he would be able to swap post-masturbatory tissues for DOLLAR BILLS soon enough.

Brilliantly, nobody offered him so much as a dirty sanchez.

So Mr Aloisi was forced to start whoring himself to clubs back in Australia, desperate for some sort of pay-day. But Sydney FC had moved on. Eventually he duped Central Coast into paying him, but not at the level to which he was accustomed. (Well f*ck the poor precious princess if there aren't any f*cking Tapas bars in Gosford).

He had a fair to middling season there.

Cue: Sydney FC come in again at season's end and throw wild amounts of money at Mr Aloisi to entice him south of the Harbour Bridge.

This is one of the most galactically and unfathomably stupid pieces of business ever.

This is like me buying a f*cking 35-year old rusted out bomb of a car, built in f*cking Czechoslovakia pre-revolution, driving it by your house every morning belching smoke and backfiring (alternatively push-starting it or having it pulled by f*cking mules) and spending every weekend under the bonnet trying to "fix" things - then when I advertise it in the paper for $50 or a case of Crownies (ONO), you come in and offer me 80 hundred trillion dollars for it.

Central Coast laughed.

Sydney FC paid up - over a million big ones. And Mr Aloisi is now the highest paid player in the A-League.

Dammit. Missed again. From THREE F*CKING INCHES AWAY. And the goalie is already in the showers, lubing up. I bet The Chov is swearing at his TV somewhere. He would have scored that one with his LIMP COCK. Oh well, never mind, I'm still going to light my post-match cigar with a few HUNDRED DOLLAR F*CKING BILLS and blow the smoke in Mark Bridge's FACE.

And in return Mr Aloisi has scored....wait for it.....TWO f*cking goals all season.

And ONE of THOSE was a f*cking penalty.

A RE-TAKEN penalty, after he f*cking MISSED the first attempt, but the referee (obviously related) ordered a re-take.

The other was a tap-in The Chov would have scored with his left nut. No, really, I would have seen it coming, downed my dacks, squatted and deftly diverted the ball in with "Lefty" as he prefers to be called. That's how F*CKING EASY IT WAS.

So that works out, so far, (calculator, let's see....million...divide by 2...carry the 7...) at about $500,000 PER F*CKING GOAL. And Sydney are 6th in an 8-team league.

Great work Sydney FC. Great work, "supercoach" John Kosmina.

But let the magic of video fill the story out...pay close attention at 0:55 and 1:21 during the following JOHN ALOISI INSTRUCTIONAL SERIES: VOLUME 1 - A MILLION DOLLAR MASTERCLASS of FINISHING:



Priceless. This is what you get for a million bucks in these days of global financial crisis, eh?

NOT F*CKING MUCH.

The decent thing to do would be for Mr Aloisi to admit to F*CKING BROAD DAYLIGHT THIEVERY and donate the money he gets (I won't f*cking say EARNS) to charity. Specifically, the 2008 Chovmas Tree Charity, where I take cash from other people and spend it on things to make myself happy - a worthy cause now in it's 15th year.

But this F*CKING MODERN DAY ROBBING HOOD hoovers up the f*cking cash and doesn't even have the courtesy to offer Sydney FC fans from the Cove even so much as quick hand-relief at the end of the match.

Now THAT'S disgraceful.

A Very Sticky Conspiracy...

Well the Rugby League World Cup has come and gone, and one of this blog's biggest fans, The Mayor of Mac Fields, his honourableness the great Crackmeister, has written in to convey his great disappointment that Chov did not rant on the tournament.

It's not that I don't do requests.

My response is largely summed up by the fact that it would be akin to taking candy from a baby, or suggesting Australian Idol isn't really a great way to identify talent.

That is, somewhat redundant.

But what inspired me was today's story that Ricky Stuart got fired up at the refereeing and suggested the Australian team was "stitched up" in the Final.

I love a good conspiracy theory, because they combine two things I love most about the world - morons and things morons say.

That, and the fact that good conspiracy theories don't get obscured by silly little details, like FACTS for instance.

What I would like to understand is how this conspiracy theory managed to arrange the following events during the match:

1. Darren "When I'm Drunk The Bouncer Looks Like A Tackle Bag To Me" Lockyer dropping the ball before grounding it for a try.
2. Billy "Stampy" Slater throwing the official Dumbest Pass of the Tournament and
3. Joel "Bubbler" Monaghan coat-hangering a Kiwi chasing the ball through.

I mean, you can say the penalty try decision was a "stitch-up", why make a conspicuous decision like that when it isn't necessary - weren't the Kiwis in front anyway? If you really wanted to stitch up a league game, I would suggest the easiest way to do it would be to give a team momentum in the way you police the ruck and the 10 metre-rule....very easy to give one team a leg-up and keep the other down that way. And it's not even obvious.

No, I'm afraid it's just a sook from Stick.

And I'm really hurt, because this blog has previously confessed a man-crush on Sticky, just because he is (like this blog) an angry angry man. And we need to stick together in these trying times, when we are an endangered species.

But he is talking out of his turd-tunnel on this one.

And so is John Kosmina.

Sydney FC are playing like planks and spending more time sooking than toughening up and it shows.

Also, they must be really pleased they spent all that money on John Aloisi. Big return so far.

And finally, Chov is branching out into a new realm - coming soon....a music review, one 10 years in the making!

Yes, it's true, Axl Rose finally released "Chinese Democracy". Build an Ark! (No, don't ask me how long a "cubit" is...)

Chov will listen, as a service to you dear readers, and report back soon.

And a big shout out to Maca "Purple Plums" McDonald....once he was known as El Maco Pudendo Magnifico - now he is just known as ol' Split Sack. But we love him and hope he recovers soon - who knew an impersonation of Buster Gonad from VIZ could go so horribly wrong??!

Ball-Kickin' Vol 1

And so the weekend approaches, which means it will soon be time to sit back and watch uncensored and unaltered images of balls beamed straight to my TV screen. Love those balls. Especially in close-up.

Happy days.

For starters I shall be forced to watch some of that silly rugby in the Super 14, simply because the NRL comp hasn't yet kicked off. This happens every year and I can't help but feel like every year the sport, the ARU and John O'Neill waste a grand opportunity to slyly seduce another convert to their sport.

I try to watch, I really do. But let's be honest, it's f*cken rubbish. Even watching it drunk.

I tried to explain the game to My Better Half (and one who views sport generally as some sort of anti-matter nonsensical waste of time and space - a bit like FaceBook really) last year, and I could only come up with..."A bit like rugby league, except every time something interesting threatens to happen, they blow a whistle and stop to kick for goal."

And as usual, I am so f*cking spot-on I make William Tell look like he's simply closing his eyes and hoping for the best. His son's name was Walt by the way, for a zillion trillion trivia points.

Apparently there have been some more Super 14 rule changes this season. Which probably brings the tally of rule changes up to something approaching 6,276 in the past few seasons. All aimed at trying to make the game more interesting to watch, I gather.

If any of these $hit-for-brains imbeciles actually stopped sipping chardonnay long enough to look outside their window (minus their monocles), they'd realise all the rule-changes necessary to turn rugby (pronounced roog-beh)into an entertaining spectacle of skill, power and pace have ALREADY BEEN MADE.

The result has been called rugby league for, oh, about ONE HUNDRED YEARS now, you f*cking planks.

So looking past that unpleasantness, Foopball will take pride of place this weekend.

My beloved Man Utd will take on the Bar Codes of Newcastle in what is surely a banana-peel game for the Red Devils.

I mean, Newcastle are fodder at the moment. They are aimless rabble. They are pants. And that's not even getting to the comedic brilliance of re-hiring Kevin "Loov Et Ef We Beat Them, Jest Loove It!" Keegan as their manager.

And therefore, this is exactly the sort of game where United turn up, act disinterested for the first 15 minutes and then, concede some sort of goal-off-the-shins (probably Viduka the fat ba$tard) in the 16th minute and then proceed to squander eight thousand and fifty two million different opportunities to score, eventually losing 1-0 or jagging a late injury-time equaliser.

No doubt whomever Arse-anal are playing will trot out for kick-off and then, immediately upon hearing the opening whistle, turn around, drop their pants en masse, then lube up to take it long and hard for 90 minutes (presumably whilst squealing like pigs) so that l'Arse win comfortably by 3 goals.

Newcastle against United, by contrast, will play as though their f*cking families are being held for ransom by Somali warlords in Mogadishu. F*cking bull$hit is what it is I tell you.

Finally the A-League Grand Final will be contested between Newcastle (the Hunter Valley version) and Central Coast.

I was largely indifferent with regards to cheering for one lot over the other, but having read Craig "I'm a F*ckwit, Me" Foster slag off the Coast in the Sydney Morning Herald last week for playing football he rated as in the "bottom tier" of the league, I am now the biggest Coast fan in the world (short of getting my erection tatooed with the club logo) - if for no other reason than to force Foster the F*cknificent to cry over his keyboard while lamenting that Newcastle (in his mind the reincarnation of 1956 Real Madrid) didn't win.

Geezus if they win the pompous little f*cktard will be unbearable. You will think from his ensuing gloating that he personally coached the side to the title using, as an instructional ploy, his own YouTube highlight reel (using his whole career, should get up to about 13 seconds of highlights, including slow-mo replays of a guy who looks like Ronaldinho but has a Photo-Shopped head of Foster the F*cknificent) - completely ignoring the fact that his phone remains deafeningly silent every time there is a coaching vacancy anywhere in the world.

Space, even.