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?

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.

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.