Chov's World Cup 2010 Daily Forehead Slap

It's a late start, but here is Chov's Daily roundup of the World Cup 2010.


There'll be a quick recap post to bring it up to date in the next day or so.


Day 10


Paraguay 2-0 Slovakia
Paraguay are the only team that can seriously threaten Argentina for the title of “Most 70s Hairstyles In One Squad”.


Watching Slovakia play is more boring (and possibly more pointless) than watching two thousand consecutive first quarters of NBA basketball.


Cheats FC 1-1 Sheep-Shaggers Utd
Didn’t watch it. As if I’m getting up at stupid o’clock to watch those fercuckwits from across the ditch play. SHOCKED to see they managed to jag a draw against Italy. COMPLETELY UNSHOCKED to further learn that the Italians MILKED AN UNDESERVED PENALTY. If there is any race in the ferkucken universe more filthy, dirty and cheating than the Italians then let’s only hope that they have been imprisoned by an advanced intelligence in a stronger sheet of glass than General Zod in Superman III.


Oh dear. Nope. I just checked and the Melbourne Scum are still running around the NRL.


This match also cements my prediction that Shane Smeltz is the “Karel Poborsky” of World Cup 2010. That is, will fluke a goal or something, jag a big-money move to a European club (hopefully NOT Man Utd this time…) and then revert to type and totally stink the joint up, returning to the A-League no later than 2012.


Brazil 3-1 Ivory Coast
Luis Fabiano, who is a fucking dirty cheat striker for Brazil, scored a goal in which he TWICE used his hand to control the ball and set up the shot that beat the keeper. My brother and I thoroughly checked our instruction manuals for both FIFA 10 and Pro Evo Soccer on the Xbox and PS3 and we couldn’t find any combination of controls that would produce this amazing trick manoeuvre, known as the “T.Henry” from now on.


Brazilian maestro Kaka was sent off in quite frankly ridiculous fashion. It can only be presumed that Keita was suddenly and quite violently SHOT IN THE FUCKEN FACE BY A SNIPER as he ran into Kaka. But for every pussy Brazilian who wants to whinge about it….watch this...





SO CRY ME A RIVER ASSHOLES.

Machine-Gun Moronity #2: The Facts Are Wrong, Rafa, No?

Man Utd, Official #1 Favourite Sporting Team of The Chov, won their 18th league title a couple of months ago, bringing them level with the bin-dippers from Merseyside, who have been growing increasingly rattled and hysterical ever since we came within spitting distance of their record.

And one of the most satisfying elements of this league title was that it came at the expense of Liver Poo's over-rated moron of a manager, Rafa Benitez, also known as the "Man of A Million Excuses", "The Penniless Spaniard" and "The Mouth of La Mancha".

Despite being Liver Poo's manager, he secretly dresses up in Man Utd lingerie, puts lipstick on and smears himself with lube while fantasising about being the boss at Old Trafford, I'm certain.

How else to explain the "fact" that he CAN'T GO 35 F*CKEN SECONDS WITHOUT TALKING ABOUT US!?

He must f*cken ramble to himself on the crapper, in the shower, taking out the garbage on bin night etc etc.

Perhaps if he managed his own team instead of conducting 36 hour research missions on Man Utd's transfer activity (and STILL GETTING IT WRONG MIND YOU) they might not have finished RUNNERS UP.

The f*cken dope.

This managerial "genius" built his reputation on one of the ar$iest f*cken comebacks in sporting history, making a few panic substitutions in a Champion's League Final that came good.

Mind you, the team didn't win, they just drew, and got the trophy on penalties after a shoot-out.

The oft-overlooked part of this is that, if he was such a tactical genius, why was his team down 3-0 in the f*cken first place?

When the same two teams met in a subsequent final, Mr Tactical Genius got his f*cken over-rated ar$ehole handed to him. Miracle comebacks don't strike twice.

But they do shield you from criticism over the fact your transferred players have been mostly $hite and your team continues to win F*CK ALL on the league front.

But big-balls Rafa, with his team having established a commanding mid-season lead, decided to shoot his f*cken mouth off in the now historic "Rafa's Rant".

See, Rafa is like a pimply-faced nerd virgin who has managed to talk a drunk girl into letting him unhook her bra.

Never having been so close to girls and scoring before, the nerd of course blows his load all over his pants in the excitement, ultimately ruining the entire experience. But causing great amusement to everyone else.

Rafa, all giddy at being top of the table and clear of Man Utd, couldn't contain himself. And, fancying himself as a bit of a Miguel De Cervantes, decided to opine on all matter of rubbish, claiming (among other hilarious tidbits):

1. Man Utd were "nervous" because Liver Poo were top of the table,
2. Man Utd manager Sir Alex Ferguson runs / rules / is immune to / dictates the entire refereeing and disciplinary structure of English football,
3. and also sets up, in his spare time, the entire fixture list of english football to suit Man Utd and cunningly deny Liver Poo any advantage.

4. Man Utd are descended from the Knights Templar and are all masons.

5. Carlos Tevez knows what's in Area 51 (he comes from there).

6. Man Utd "fixes" the Top 50 music charts.

7. Man Utd faked the moon landing.

8. Man Utd are withholding proof of cold fusion, extra-terrestrial life and a cure for cancer from the world.

After about an HOUR of ranting and hysterical cry-baby antics talking about this, he closed with the utterly f*cken remarkable comment: "I would rather not talk too much about this."

Without any hint of irony, mind you.

He also said "If we win at Stoke that [Man Utd v Chelsea] result does not matter."

Of course Liver Poo went and pi$$ed their panties against lowly Stoke, drawing 0-0.

They also saw their commanding January lead at the top of the table whittled down, but by bit, until Man Utd passed them for good to claim the title.

DESPITE THIS F*CKEN PANTS-WETTING CHOKE JOB OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, Liver Poo fans worship this f*cken tool.

Which is wonderful, because they will keep him, which gives us the best possible start to winning title #19. Which is also the number of YEARS Liver Poo have gone since their last title win.

Which is a "fact", Rafa. Can you spot the difference?

And of course the excuses start. Liver Poo only lost because Stevie G and Torres were injured all the time.

Well f*cken buy replacements who can cover, dip$hit, instead of blowing all that money on Robbie Keane, and then SELLING HIM BACK TO THE SAME TEAM FOR LESS MONEY HALFWAY THROUGH THE SEASON. What? It's a SURPRISE that Gerrard and Torres are crocked half the time? F*ck me, if you turned off watching MUTV occasionally you'd notice it, believe me.

Liver Poo only lost because Man Utd typically spend, according to Rafa, about eleventy hundred trillion pounds on players every year, and he can only afford to buy players with whatever's in his pocket, typically a couple of bob, some lint balls, some of Kenny Dalglish's hair that he cut off surreptitiously and an Official Breast Inspector ID.

Of course, after spouting this rubbish, he went and blew his cash load all over the face of middling fullback Glen Johnson for 17 mill (who cost Portsmouth just 4 mill when they bought him).

Rafa was so impressed by Glen Johnson's popped collar he added another 2 million to the Portsmouth offer.

Not to mention the way in which Rafa preened and pouted and played the cheap tart to try and woo Gareth "Garry" Barry from Aston Villa without ever meeting Villa's asking price. Of course, when Garry Barry upped and moved to Man City this season for 12 mill (5 mill less than Rafa's price for Glen Johnson, let's recall) Rafa was furious.

As though Garry had some f*cken moral obligation to come to Liver Poo, despite the fact they wouldn't meet the team's asking price and threw in an offer of less wages to sweeten the deal.

Rafa is muchos f*ckwit.

And thas a fact, no?

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.

The Red Devil Hates Chelski. So Does God, Probably.

Hey, where's David May?

I was like a Zombie extra in "Dawn of the Dead" throughout yesterday, but it was f*cken worth it.

Of course it may not have been so bad if State of Origin wasn't on the night before - which practically ensured that I, and the thousands who gathered at the infamous House of Chov in preparation for the 4.45am UCL kickoff, were FORCED to imbibe vast amounts of Becks to pass the time. And make Origin at least half-entertaining in the process.

Shortly after Anthony Quinn's first try for NSW, rumours quickly swirled around the venue that I had bypassed the meat products and instead sampled the water-melon from one of the catering trays.

Unsubstantiated rubbish. My lawyers will be onto that muck-raking thank you very much, and I refuse to surrender the video on my phone of the last time Ms Zaetta visited. Who Dares Wins, indeed, Ms Zaetta, hmmm? Although it should be noted that watermelon was, indeed, present on the tray. And who brought that tray, hmm? The fruity one himself methinks, and YOU know WHO YOU ARE, although we can all be comforted that maybe the missing piece of your TOE wasn't on the tray somewhere.

Anyways.

The crowd gathered in the cold darkness of 4am, all with less than 3 hours sleep, to hopefully witness United etch themselves onto the Champion's League Roll of Honour. Mainly we wanted to see United avoid repeating the mistakes of Stamford Bridge a few weeks ago, where fielding a weakened XI and playing somewhat negatively produced an embarrassingly lopsided game and result.

Our hopes were repaid with interest as United attacked from the outset, leaving Chelski no time to settle into the rhythm of the game. David Basheer, who has obviously deep-throated Les Murray enough to jag a business trip to Moscow to call the game, made some comments about being surprised Ji-Sung Park wasn't starting for United on the flank, however I think the real surprise may have been that Nani didn't start on the right flank, as he has usually been preferred by Sir Alex when both players are available.

In actuality, it was Owen Hargreaves, who has proven himself to be a real dynamo for United with boundless enthusiasm regardless of position. He also seems to have a cranky edge, which, predictably, endears him to this rage-filled Blog.

The thing I like about Owen is that he is not confined to any one dimension as a footballer. best known as a "holding" midfielder, in fact he has good pace and good technique with the ball at his feet. I remember him against Man City earlier in the season, several times dribbling his way out of trouble deep on our third - no sign of panic and not resorting to panic long balls to clear danger.

Claude Makalele has just realised he's bald, while Owen Hargreaves shows his friendly side - the side Chov loves to see.

In any event, Cristiano Ronaldo gave Essien nightmares down the left flank and again I need to digress to point out that Ronny is really at his best nearer the touchlines because it allows him to play in the more traditional sense of a "winger", making best use of his best assets - pace and technique dribbling the ball at his feet. What it also does, though, and this gets missed in the ruckus, is allow him to get the ball more often to his feet and facing goal.

When he roams across the middle, or plays centrally (as he has done on occasion) he seems to have less impact in general play due to the fact he is sometimes getting the ball with his back to goal - which of course negates his ability to run square on or to the sides of back-tracking defenders. (Of course the plus side to his roaming brief is his ability to get into goalscoring positions without a man-marker, so fair trade off I suppose).

But I really enjoy seeing him play wide.

Michael Essien doesn't. This first half was not his best and made a mockery of suggestions that he is versatile enough to play anywhere. He has a "best' position, which he is great at, and right-back is not it.

However, the crowd gathered at the House of Chov was less than impressed with our finishing.

Ronaldo rises at the far post to head home an early goal after some outright f*cking brilliant play from Scholesy The Ginger Ninja and Wesley Brown, and we thought - great f*cking start, we are on our way here, Chelski can't live with us at the moment.

Cristiano Ronaldo, who apparently can't play well in big games, scores in the Champion's League Final, watched by millions. In doing so, confirms his position as top scorer for the entire tournament. Still, apparently doesn't play well in big games.

However, Tevez's later sliding header from a couple of yards out ought to have been buried - and Carrick's rushed follow-up was blasted into the keeper when he had time to steady himself on the edge of the area and perhaps sidefoot a placed shot into one of the corners. Really should have been a goal and 2-0.

John Terry is interrupted trying to take a $hit, but Carrick has blasted it straight into the keeper. Somewhere, Chov swears and disturbs the neighbours.

Not to mention a glorious cross which Tevez somehow contrived to miss completely from dead in front, Petr Cech having already been beaten by the cross. 3-0, in virtual Chov World, and really game over.

Of course, miserable c*nts that they are, Chelski capitalised with a thoroughly undeserved equaliser before the half, and literally only moments after Tevez's air-finish.

The Chelski Way - defend your ar$eholes inside out, stack 10 men into your own defensive third and jag f*cken ar$ey goals from counters and set-pieces. F*ckers.

Mind you, it reinforces the notion that there is only one statistic that counts in football - the f*cken score.

Yes it was a jammy c*nt of a goal, relying on several slips in the United defence (including, crucially, Van Der Sar) but the goal counts just the same. No style points for quality, alas, or else Warilla Sports circa early 1990s would have been top of the table.

With halftime comes a predictable change of momentum, and the second half was a mixture of two elements that unnerved and unsettled the gathered thousands in Chov's loungeroom (mumbling angrily in an almost unbroken sequence for 45 minutes).

Chelski didn't start slowly this half, and United inexplicably turned into pumpkins after midnight. They seemed almost totally incapable of stringing even 3 passes together to progress from defensive third through to attacking third, which meant fast counters were miserable and everything else was rushed, impatient or just plain incompetent surrendering of possession.

What compounded the problem, as we saw it, was United's hesitation in defending during transition. Scholes and Carrick dropped, but very deep - too deep to harry the Chelski players bringing the ball forward. And time after time, Chelski players found themselves in space on the fringes of United's area without being closed down.

What saved United during this time was the fact that Chelski couldn't hit the f*cken side of a small moon with their shooting, having bucketloads of "shots" but basically donating a few new Adidas balls to the kids living in suburbs nearest the Luzhniki Stadium. Drogba managed to whack the outside of the post but as stated previously, the only statistic that counts is the score and Chelski f*cked their chance when they didn't convert their possession in the second half into a goal.

No, Frank Lumplard, football is not a "cruel" game that "cruelly" denied you victory, you were just too f*cken $hit to score. Simple.

Extra time was reasonably even, Lumplard hit the post and Giggs absolutely f*cked a sitter he could have scored with his c0ck by trying to f*cken loop it or something with the outside of his left peg. Why the f*ck he did that only he knows, but he managed to find the only bit of goal that was obscured by John "I'll Take the Glory Pen, Me" Terry's massive f*cken head.

But let's focus for a moment on one of the true highlights of the game - nay, the entire f*cken competition.

Didier Drogba, a true c*nt who embodies everything we all love to f*cken hate about the c*nts from Chelski. A f*cking whiner, a f*cking low-class, unsportsmanlike c*nt who dives, moans, complains and jostles referees at every f*cken opportunity. This is the Grade AAA c*nt who we could see jostling with Sir Alex on their way out of the tunnel for the second half, for no other reason than he felt like it.

Sent. Off.

Drogba discovering there really is a FIFA law against being a totally f*cken objectionable, obnoxious, despised, whining c*nt. Funny that. Oh, and pimp slaps aren't allowed, either, biyatch.

Volumes of Poetry have been written on less. Shakespeare wrote a hundred f*cken sonnets that didn't come close to expressing my joy at that moment, watching the ape-faced c*nt trudge off - and of course the c*nt was INDIGNANT at this turn of events.

My joy knew no bounds, and still does not. Of course my man-love for Carlos Tevez has grown in direct proportion as a result, because it was his actions that stirred up the c*nts from the Bridge until their red frilly panties were suitably knotted.

Of course, what will escape the limited intellectual capacity of all Chelski supporters is that all he did was precisely what Chelski themselves had done only minutes before. Not "something similar", or "something akin to" or "something that reminds me of"....the exact, f*cken, SAME, thing.

Namely, booted the f*cken ball out in coffin corner rather than return it to the feet of a Chelski c*nt.

No, two wrongs don't make a right, but f*ck it, it's Chelski and these c*nts have made an art-form out of surrounding the referee en masse this season to contest EVERY F*CKEN DECISION these lamby-pamby odious C*NTS feel is not in their favour. And yeah, United in the Roy Keane-era, and since, have also done it. But not like these c*nts. Really.

To surround the ref and players and start pimp-slapping and moaning about something YOU JUST F*CKEN DID YOURSELF is breathtaking hubris. Or just c*nt like behaviour, take your pick.

Like Joe Cole, the Crown Prince of Pretentious Little F*cks, going apopleptic because he didn't get a f*cken THROW-IN decision go his way. And diving for a free-kick on the edge of our area, then petulantly laying on the ground for 3 minutes pretending to be injured but really just throwing a f*cken SOOK. You little c*nt, f*ck it warms my heart to remind myself you f*cken lost to us NO LESS THAN TWO TROPHIES in the space a few weeks.

And I read accounts today that John "Six Points Is A Hell Of A Gap" Terry actually performed a 'bushman's blow' on Tevez during the melee. That is, pressed a finger to close one nostril and blew the other out onto Tevez's neck.

Read that, and then try and tell me that the pictures of the c*nt crying after losing aren't the f*cken most BEAUTIFUL IMAGES EVER CAUGHT ON FILM.

Mind you, I think Carlos Tevez is some strange love-child of Anthony Kiedis and Freddy Krueger. Truly. Go have a look at him. Did I mention I man-love him? Because I do, and I'm not ashamed. Especially when he was telling Terry and Drogba to "f*ck off" and pointing to the far side of the field to indicate exactly where Chelski had performed their own indiscretion without a second thought. I love you, you little Argie, I f*cken do.

Pens in the shootout had the expectant crowd at House of Chov now scattered to all corners, fingernails chewed to the stump, some unable to watch, some sitting calmly. Rusty Man, as a result of some of the typical, truly f*cken pi$$-poor planning for which he has become famous, had to leave for a 7am business meeting and was relying on SMS to get the result. You're a peanut Rustmeister, and if they had fluffed it i would have blamed you for upsetting the f*cken cosmic karma.

I loved that the ref tossed a coin to choose ends for the penalty shootout. From my vague recollections of doing my referee certification (my club at the time insisted all players do it) it was simply up to the ref to choose ends. But obviously, with all the Chelski fans behind one goal, and all the United fans behind the other, this was a fraught decision. Coin toss, fair enough. And we got "our" end, which meant all the whistles of HATE at the Chelski c*nts would be up close and personal.

Tevez, freshly fired up after his altercation with the Chelski Justice Brigade, was suitably pleased after scoring his. Gold. But we knew that Ballack The Kraut wouldn't miss. We wished, but he didn't. I used to like Ballack, being half Dirty Kraut myself, but since joining Chelski for filthy luchre he as been infected with that same self-absorbed c*ntaciousness as his team-mates. Fond of going down easier than one of those trannies Fatty Ronaldo picks up, he doesn't hesitate to f*cken jab his finger into chests and antagonise anyone he believes has milked a free-kick. Which he f*cken ought to know about.

F*ck you Mr Pot, meet Mr Kettle.

When Carrick stepped up I was not confident. He don't score many, but then that's probably because he from ooop nor', a Newcastle lad. But he delivered. Belletti for the scum - brought on as a sub just for the penalty he would inevitably take....spot-on, alas.

I just f*cken knew Ronny would miss. But boy even I was surprised at just how royally he f*cked it up. If I was to miss, and I would believe me, I would miss like a bitch, it would be a limp-wristed wimp-tap that would dribble to the keeper. But Ronny decided to do his stupid f*cken stutter step, Cech brilliantly didn't commit and left Ronny holding his dick in his hand - obviously not having picked a side. His Plan B didn't exist. As a result he fluffed it and I just knew the many Ronaldo-haters would have been creaming.

But payback's a bitch, especially for the Ronny haters who blew their loads too early.

Up stepped Lumplard, who defines the Arrogant C*nt perfectly. A f*cken invisible man for 89 minutes, will always step up to jag a jammy goal and then run off celebrating like he's Billy Big Balls the Hero of the Day. Enjoy watching Euro from home, Billy.

I briefly thought that cosmic karma would even out if Lumplard, Chelski hero and all-round c*ntface, missed after Ronaldo.

He didn't.

Owen took a beauty, the only player I recall hitting it high into the net rather than low. Balls. Impressive.

Then Cashley Hole stepped up, and I thought - well THIS is why Lumplard scored his pen - because cosmic karma will make Cashley miss instead. Oh what poetry that would be!

I mean, you know when Arse-anal fans and Man Utd fans can come together across our broad abyss to singularly HATE THE F*CK OUT OF ONE PLAYER he must be a special c*nt. And Cashley Hole is it.

He scored. And the thousands gathered at House of Chov started to think that was it, the cosmic karma is going to let the Evil Empire win this and f*ck us over.

I have ragged on Nani after his dire display at Stamford Bridge - including promising never to rate him again until he had scored a hat-trick in front of the Kop - but I thought he had balls to step up at age 21 and take a pen of that f*cken magnitude. He netted and I forgave - a sunshine moment.

And then up stepped the personification of Chelski's odiousness, their c*ntosity made human, John "I Thought Bionic Men Don't Cry?" Terry.

What.

A.

C*nt.

Somewhere deep in the Universe, something stirred. Something powerful. Something primal.

Something realised that this malignant human filth, this c*nt of all c*nts, this thoroughly festering pi$$=stain on the underpants of humankind, was about to win his team a trophy they coveted like catholic priests covet altar boys without peach-fuzz and stain the silverware with his sheer c*ntness.

No, that could not be allowed to happen, surely, we cried.

This would even out the cosmic karma of Ronny missing, alright. It would not only eclipse it, it would not only put that fire out, it would do so by erecting a seven thousand foot ladder and pissing on the meek flames from a height.

And thus it was:

"Mr Chelsea", the thoroughly odious c*nt, at the precise moment Chov achieved Nirvana.

Not only did the King of All C*nts miss, he f*cked-up trying to plant his left foot and fell on his f*cking fat ar$e. And then he dropped his head and cried.

John Terry thinks about where that "six point gap" may have got to while Angels from heaven are pi$$ing on his f*cken miserable head.

Even were I, in fact, a God I wouldn't have thought of that.

It was like ten million orgasms cried out in ecstasy, then fell silent.

This c*nt, who parks his Bentley in a disabled car space for a few hours whilst having lunch in London, fell on his fat ar$e missing the glory penalty in the shootout. Hopefully he'll find this sign in his car-space at Chelsk's training ground next season (tears not included):

Gold.


House of Chov was in such pandemonium at this point we coudln't properly appreciate the next few pens, and next thing we knew Giggs had stepped up and slotted his home and Anelka was trudging up to the spot.


I looked at him and I f*cken knew it. And I'm no genius, any twit could read his body language. Anelka is a striker, and one who takes penalties in games on occasion, and yet he hadn't been in the first 5 penalty takers - that was a clue right there and I said so. He just didn't look like he wanted to be taking one at all. I'm no keeper, but I'm sure keepers look for $hit like that in shootouts.

Saved.

We're Champions.

Pure, solid, rolled GOLD.

And what made it better is watching Captain C*nt cry enough tears to fill Hoover Dam.

Cry me a f*cken river, you f*cken miserable c*nt.

Like Sir Alex says - "Football. Bloody hell."

Like Chov says - "F*ck you Chelski. F*ck you indeed."

Arsene Wenger to donate match fee to Fred Hollows Foundation!

Arseanal FC manager, "Professor" Arse Wenger has apparently had his acute short-sightedness (lat: myopia fucktardia) cured in a single flash of lightning on the weekend. Or maybe it was the rather loud CRACK of Eduardo's leg bones breaking that snapped the good Prof out of his painstakingly thorough grass blade-by-grass blade examination of the pitch (but more of that in a moment).


It seems that the good Prof did actually see the Brummies' Martin Taylor kung-fu the F*CKING HELL out of Eduardo's leg during l'Arse's draw with Birmingham on the weekend. Taylor must have activated his magic Streetfighter combo finisher move (circle-circle-square-up-up-down-down) because he F*CKING WELL DESTROYED Eduardo's lower leg.


Either that or Eduardo has some serious calcium deficiency going on, leading to brittle bones (and more on my ability to make these diagnoses from afar later...)


Yes, yes, oui, oui, Proffesor Arse saw that little incident alright. Clear as a f*ckin bell he did. And had a few choice words to say about Mr Taylor before retracting them the next day - but that's not the actual point here.


Let's, for contrast, cast our minds back just a few days to l'Arse being smashed by Man Utd in the FA Cup.


Here we have a match wherein one of Arseanal's talentless clobbers is sent off for a challenge that, but for the grace of Invisible Omnipotent Ghost Guy, could have ended up similarly to Mr Taylor's lunge.


That is - crack, ouch. F*ck. Eeeeeew.


Evidentiary quote cherry-picked from completely arbitrary website:


"Arseanal's (sic) cause was not helped by the sending off of...Eboue early in the second half for a high challenge on Nani." Chov's note: I think it was actually Evra, not Nani, but that's by-the-by.


Now of course all reasonable readers of this ridiculous blog will expect the Prof to condemn this challenge as vociferously as he condemned Mr Taylor.


And, of course, you'd be F*CKEN WELL MISTAKEN.


And how about, in the same match, l'Arse's captain, William Gallas, taking it upon himself to display all those manly, tough, indomitable qualities we all admire in 'fighting' Frenchmen, and fearlessly kicking Nani whilst the 21 year old HAD HIS BACK TURNED. Now I admit it's not often a Frenchman in a fight would see the back of his opponent, but the little Frog didn't miss his chance did he?


Once again, we would all expect the Prof to condemn this act of violent cowardice (I'm not sure there is such a thing, but there you go) in line with his views on dangerous thugs in foopball, wouldn't we?


STRIKE F*CKEN TWO LOSERS!!


Quote from the good Prof re: the red card...


"Nani was very good today but he did not need to juggle the ball."

And what from the Prof about Gallas, his captain, kicking a player while his back is turned and the ball is out of play:


"Arsene Wenger claimed he did not see Gallas' kick and instead taunted United by saying their poor pitch could cost them the title."


So let's get this straight.


It's ok for l'Arse players to kick the snot out of anyone they deem has offended them by displaying skill. In fact, f*ck the f*ckers, says Wenger, kick the f*cking tripe out of them, smarmy little f*cks. How dare they beat us!


So the poor, precious little f*ckers from l'Arse assert that nobody has any right to 'humiliate' them because, well, thay said so. Ner.


And when his captain, true to Froggy form, fights like a Frenchman, the Prof is actually preoccupied with amateur horticulture DURING THE GAME, with his attention distracted at the crucial moment by mentally calculating the dilution rate of Weed'n'Feed in the watering can so that he can pass it on to United's ground-staff on his way out.


So it's just f*cken lucky that Birmingham had been hand-weeding the pitch all week leading up to l'Arse's visit so that the Prof wasn't distracted when Eduardo had his foot detached from the end of his leg.


F*cking prat.


And what, exactly, is it with amateur medical professionals making all sorts of f*cken medical opinions public knowledge almost immediately after extracting them from the depths of their lower colon?


First we had Eduardo's career in doubt - based on f*cken what exactly? Internet photos apparently, and some guy who played 12 years ago who broke his leg and never played again.


F*cken genius link that. They should join Channel Nine's new smash series - CSI F*CKING OBVIOUS - with logic like that.


Fast forward ONE SINGLE DAY and the opinion of people WHO ACTUALLY OPERATED ON EDUARDO is that he could be back running in 6 to 9 months.


But did that stop today's F*cktard of the Day, Mr Tim Allardyce, from weighing in with his DR NICK RIVIERA OPINION?


Of course it f*cken didn't - if it did I wouldn't be f*cken well ranting about it now, would I?


Tim, after an exhaustive medical examination of PHOTOS ON THE INTERNET, followed by extensive consultations WATCHING REPLAYS ON YOUTUBE, followed by poring over the results of lab-testing CONDUCTED ENTIRELY UP HIS OWN F*CKING AR$E, concluded:


"You can lose the foot, simple as."


Oh, but 2008's potential Nobel Prize for Medicine winner didn't just stop there. How about these for insightful comments from Tim, known to his colleagues as CAPTAIN F*CKING OBVIOUS:


"Imagine your worst ankle sprain and make it about 10 times worse..."


"He could be out for several months" (I like the way he doesn't commit here...he could be out...yeah he could also HAVE A F*CKING LEG TRANSPLANT I suppose, better leave that door open eh?)


"Potentially, the bones will heal..."


"Once you've sustained such a serious injury, you'll always tend to be aware of it..."


Special note to readers who may be patients of Mr Allardyce....GET A F*CKING SECOND OPINION.

Lost in translation...

Now firstly you have to understand that Rot Weiss Essen is a fussball (foopball) team from Germany. Due to certain familial ties to the city of Essen, I support them with gusto - even more so because they are, to be frank, mostly bollocks.

This means that my only real means of keeping up with their results is to check the website, which is unhelpfully published only in Deutsch. Now I can pick up words here and there in the language, but decided to take advantage of Babel-fish on-line translation of the following match report.

I'm not sure it helped.

http://www.rot-weiss-essen.de/main.php

RWE separates from Borussia Dortmund II 0:0

Red white meal missed the hoped for victory in the first heimspiel after the winter break.

Before 8.306 spectators at the port route it was enough only to a 0:0 against the second crew of Borussia Dortmund. Thus RWE with now 31 points occupies further rank eleven and is separate three points from the tenth place in the table, that at the season end for qualification for the single-railed 3. League hand became. Already in the first leg in Dortmund both crews with a torlosen Remis had separated.

"I can actually make no reproach for the crew, her everything tried. Unfortunately we do not create it for the moment to use our gate chances. This point gain is after the play process for us too few," said a disappointed RWE coach Heiko Bonan.

"I am proud on my crew. It accepted the fight and at the end in Unterzahl with one point was recompenced," was a BVB coach Theo cutter contently.

Heiko Bonan had changed its crew only on two positions, had decided however for another tactical concept.

Mario Klinger, in the previous week with the 0:2 in awls only exchanged, stood just as in the starting eleven as surprisingly also the wiedergenesene Rolf Christel Guie Mien. Jozef Kotula had to fit illness (flu), Tim Erfen took first in the bank place.

In contrast to "normal" 3-4-2-1 acted the red-white in the first half with a Viererkette in the defense, a four-determining field and two genuine points.

"We wanted with this variant on the unclear Dortmunder list, which concerns the attack, react and therefore with four defense players began. Unfortunately this concept is come up not whole, " cleared Heiko up Bonan.

In the first half time both crews in the structure of play did heavily. There were hardly successful combinations, but many false passports and duels coined/shaped the play. There were also hardly compelling gate chances.

Only completely at the beginning both crews had one good capital invested possibility each. A shot of Paul Jans was blocked by the Dortmunder defense (3.), on the opposite side missed Sebastian Hille a Hereingabe of Christopher Noethe (4.).

In the further process of the first half time both crews in the offensive did heavily. Most passports in the pointed or flanks came too inaccurately, in order to spread danger. The goal keepers were mostly occupationless.

But the portion became more ruppiger the end of the first passage, arbitrator Patrick Ittrich (Hamburg) had to interrupt again and again and also yellow maps show.

Among other things it got aggressor Paul Jans, who regarded first against a Dortmunder defender the foot "drauf" and short time as a similar passing by the arbitrator for the last time was later admonished.

Coach Heiko Bonan reacted in the half time, of Jans remained in the cab.

For it in the second half Sercan Guevenisik came. Also captain Michael Lorenz, under which week came back flu-weakened, to the second half time not and became replaced by Tim Erfen. Bonan changed also the tactical adjustment, changed over to the classical system.

"One noticed immediately that we came better into the duels and the players felt clearly better," so Bonan for the portion. The red-white actually worked now present and exercised more pressure. In chances sch this superiority did not strike down however first.

Only after a good hour the Dortmunder gate came under bombardment. An attempt of Rolf Christel Guie Mien missed its goal only scarcely, Niklas Andersen one cut back free standing beside the gate.

"Against a deeply standing opponent one must use such possibilities also times," was annoyed coach Heiko Bonan.

As in the 68. Minute of Dortmund Sebastian Hille after a Unsportlichkeit ("herd formation") the yellow-red map saw, tried Bonan again everything.

Rafael Kazior replaced Niklas Andersen one, which had before seen its fifth yellow map and thus on next Saturday (14,00 o'clock) in the appearance with kicker Emden will be missing.

In the conclusion minutes also defender David Czyszczon stormed also. But did not hand to more than one kopfball of Rafael Kazior, which BVB goal keeper Marcel Hoettecke from the corner fished, it any longer.

After approximately three minutes sequel time whistled Patrick Ittrich the portion off. From ranks there was applause for a self-sacrificing fighting RWE crew after initial whistles then nevertheless still.

"We have to time simply no luck, the ball go simply not into the gate. If we fetch ourselves back this luck, we will win," said also again the plays aggressor Markus Kurth after the portion.

"We can make ourselves kaempferisch no reproach, everything tried. Unfortunately again no gate succeeded to us. We must continue working now concentrated. In training we obtain the gates nevertheless ," were also Soeren Brandy dissatisfied.

RWE is now for 361 minutes without gate Sercan Guevenisik promised remedy nevertheless. "I make next week in Emden my first gate and then start we a series. The crew actually believes and becomes rausholen there ", spread that stuermer optimism hurt for a long time last.

****
"Ok I shall try to make certain that I approach the next appearance vs Kickers Emden with stuermer optimism for many kopfballs into the gate and also not so many yellow maps on the Red and White Meal crew," was Chov the smiling politely.

Can't script comedy this good, honestly.

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.