Special Annnouncement: New Australian National Anthem!

This is a special announcement.

When we get around to voting for the Official God-King of Australia, an election which I shall surely win, I have already decided what my first action as the new ruler shall be.

It came to me some time ago, but the idea really crystallised last night.

You see, official partner of the Chov, known as Queen Samazon the Unforgiving, has given your humble narrator the vague task of selecting wedding music for the upcoming nuptials.

So Chov, starting at "A" for "AC/DC", started through his back catalogue of music in the hopes of selecting suitable and appropriate music for the day.

A quick glance at Chov's notepad of possible tunes after 10 or so minutes reveals that AC/DC could well be the wedding band and save us all the trouble. What says "I love you" better than the soothing tones of "Hell's Bells"? It even contains the peal of bells, surely a wedding-like soundtrack if ever there was one? And if the guests aren't going to dance to "Thunderstruck" then bugger the lot of 'em - they wouldn't know a toe-tapping good time show-tune if it bit them on the wazoo.

And then, in a moment of near-blinding clarity - an epiphany of sorts - an idea so f*cktastically brilliant seized me that I had to open myself a beer just to calm myself down and question myself as to whether it actually happened.

Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to announce Australia's new national anthem when Chov becomes God-King:

For Those About To Rock.

Released: 1981
Written by Young/Young/Johnson
Track length 5:44

This could well be the Greatest Song Ever Written and, therefore, could not be bettered in my mind as the anthem for our great nation.

If there is a God, and the very existence of Natalie Basingthwaite suggests it might be possible, he surely created the human ear JUST SO HUMANKIND COULD F*CKING WELL LISTEN TO THIS SONG.

If you are unfamilar with this masterpiece, nay, GRAND OPUS, then get thee to a place of download immediately.

Even if you have heard it, whip out the CD or the MP3 and LISTEN TO IT A-FRIGGIN-GAIN.

In fact, create a 5000 song playlist on your I-Pod and make every song "For Those About To Rock". And then set the list to "shuffle-random". Forever. You won't need to listen to another song ever again.

As usual, when I assess my own ideas, I can come up with absolutely no flaws.

Imagine every school in Australia starting the new day of learning and academic advancement with a ROUSING RENDITION of "For Those About To Rock"!

All FIVE F*CKEN MINUTES AND FORTY OR SO SECONDS OF IT.

And in case I forgot to mention it, including the FIRING OF REAL MOTHERF*CKING CANNONS. At the appropriate moments.

To hell with you, Saint Kevin, you wimp, and your 'computer on every desk' fairy-whip. This country needs F*CKING CANNNONS in EVERY SCHOOL PLAYGROUND.

Imagine further, if you will, the mighty flag being raised as the cannons fire and the masses of children and teachers greet the new day with HEAD BANGING and HEAVY METAL DEVIL SIGNS. FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK.....BOOOM!....etc etc

F*ck me dead if I don't have a tear in my eye right now I'm SO F*CKEN PROUD to be AUSTRALIAN.

You want to test immigrants before they get here? Well make 'em sing our new national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK! And if they can't imitate an Angus Young headbang whilst air-guitaring the rhythym section to this ORGASM OF THE EARS then they can't get in. Simple. WHAT OTHER PROOF COULD YOU POSSIBLY NEED?

Can you imagine, if you will, how fantastic this would be at every Olympics and Commonwealth Games when one of our great athletes wins a gold medal??!

No, of course you can't - nobody can imagine that NIRVANA ON EARTH, it's too good.

But just TRY to picture how much better Stephanie Rice would have looked on the top step of the medal dias, one fist on the air and PUMPING, head down and BANGING, foot BOUNCING UP AND DOWN, singing along with lung-bursting enthusiasm as "FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK...!".....BOOM! etc etc crashed out of the speakers and echoed around the arena!! ALL FIVE F*CKING GLORIOUS MINUTES OF IT, WITHOUT PAUSE.

Finally, we will have the perfect antidote to the All-Blacks and their womanly 'Haka'! Let 'em do their little girly dance, then roll out the 18 FOOT SUB-WOOFERS onto the field, point 'em right at Richie McCaw and KABLAMMO! "STAND UP AND BE COUNTED...FOR THE A$$-WOOPIN' YOU'RE ABOUT TO RECEIVE!..." BOOM! etc etc. We will wonder why we wasted all that time with Waltzing bloody Matilda.

Wait 'til foreign diplomats and leaders get a load of acka-dacka up their tailpipes at GROUND-SHAKING VOLUME just as they step off the plane. Instant respect!

Think of this added bonus - NO MORE WARS. That's right. See, when other countries hear our national anthem - FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK, in case I forgot to spell it out - they will immediately be so impressed by the size of our MASSIVE BALLS that they will wet themselves at the mere thought of F*CKING WITH US.

Plus, think of all the f*cking CANNONS we'll have! BOOM!

Uruguayan fans annoying us by trying to whistle over the top of our anthem just before playing the Socceroos? TURN IT UP FOR 'EM. In fact, stick one of them IN THE F*CKEN CANNON. Whistle THIS you twat.

State funerals? "PICK UP YOUR BALLS, AND LOAD UP YOUR CANNON....."....BOOM!

Australia Day fireworks? "THE SKY'S ALIGHT WITH THE GUITAR BITE!"....BOOM!

School marching band? "HAIL HAIL TO THE GOOD TIMES, 'COS ROCK HAS GOT THE RIGHT OF WAY"....BOOM!

What am I saying? Cannon in the singular?

I meant TWENTY ONE F*CKEN CANNONS.

In EVERY SCHOOL.

And they better be spit-polished every friggin' day.

ChovBux2K8 Extravaganza Announced!!

The Chov - being his usual, super ultra-cool self.

Born in a time not so long ago, in the experimental birthing unit at Port Kembla Hospital (proudly in the shadow of the Port Kembla "Stack"), in the optimistic land of Wollongong, Matt "Chov" Chrzczonowicz was born.

Admittedly an unusual name, you will be surprised to learn he was named after an unusual saint - the Polish patron saint of haberdashery and quality footwear, Saint Chov. The hero of our tale lived a carefree life with his three brothers amongst the sulphur-laced clouds of the BHP steelworks on the south-western shores of the irradiated blue-green waters of Lake Illawarra.

Early on he had an interest in music and joined now legendary local band "The Doodletown Pipers", playing piano accordion, and later, jazz flute. Their lone full-length LP, "We're the Doodles!" is now a much sought after collector's dream. But it's such a fine line between musical genius and pure insanity, and Chov's musical stylings left all wondering on which side of the line he actually stood.

Disillusioned with the morally vacant life of the wandering troubador, Chov turned to sports in an attempt to distract himself from constant thoughts of self-pollution. The blood of Europe flowed in his veins, drawing him to the round-ball game, where he once, as legend has it, scored from behind halfway TWICE in a single match. He also played his part in helping now defunct Warilla Sports FC lose every single match of the 1992 season, a feat made all the more peculiar considering the fact they were undefeated through the pre-season. Chov's best contribution of the year was to sledge Sasho Petrovski, whose flaccid goal-scoring was of no assistance to Kiama - a fact Chov took no pleasure in reminding him of.

Only a complete and utter lack of talent prevented young Chov from proceeding through the ranks to play Illawarra Steelers first grade, but his ability to hit the net-cord on any tennis court in the greater Illawarra region, from any position on the court, is the sort of skill spoken about in hushed and revered tones.

Undaunted, he eventually found his way onto the gridiron field, where his massivosity served him well. In an unprecedented display of coat-tail riding, Chov the Gridiron Godzilla chop-blocked and blindsided his way to no less than 5 championships in his adopted sport, and will forever remain a legend in his own mind in pads and helmet.

However, when realising that his dreams of achieving stardom in the USA would remain only dreams, he settled into public service, performing a role that even he can't adequately explain with any credibility.

And now Chov is to wed his Princess, the lovely Samazon, thereby ending his wild untamed single life and quelling all rumours of his "lifestyle choice" and love of showtunes in one fell swoop. Despite on-line petitions and court-injunctions, this once famed "DeathMatch Dating" competitor will now hang up his assless leather chaps and abandon the dating scene in favour of wedded bliss.

In a hit-out on the cans befitting one who lived on the cans for so long, we are planning a day and evening of festivities on Saturday September 6th in Wolllongong, ninety minutes from everywhere but a million miles from care. There will be tall tales, a few refreshments, sporting endeavours, dabbling in the black art of gambling and laughs aplenty. If you are worried about missing your loved ones, don't worry - they won't miss you.

The residents of Wollongong have been warned that ChovBux 2K8 is coming, and are speaking with relevant suppliers to ensure stocks of beer and meat for the weekend are sufficient. The dams are being stocked, the livestock tethered and lady folk forewarned. All is in readiness to send Senor Chov into the bliss of married life. We have the relevant sponsors on board.

We are letting you know that you have been specifically chosen from a field of millions by our specialist panel to take part. This early warning siren is so that you can organise leave passes, get the kids minded, arrange for the dog to be fed, think of yet another excuse for a weekend with the lads, ensure your parole is scheduled etc etc.

Whatever it is you need to do, do it!

As the date gets closer, and if you have registered your interest with the committee, final details of the schedule and venue(s) will be forwarded.

If you can come for the entire weekend, that's tops. If you can only make the Saturday evening, the management understands, but your presence at some point is entirely NECESSARY.

If those of you with small, girlish, hairless balls need some assistance in negotiating time away, here's a few excuses compiled by our panel of experts to get you started or that you may even choose to use*:

* "Honey, just going to the shops, see you Monday!"
* "Pumpkin, Kev Rudd has been on the phone, needs my advice on a few things, see you Monday!"
* "Gorgeous, Chov is getting married!! He might need my advice on how to be a good husband, see you Monday!"
* "Sweety, I've just heard that the saints, oh yes the saints, I say the saints are marching in and dammit, for once I'm going to march with them - see you Monday!"
* "Darling, I need to get in touch with my inner child, see you Monday!"
* "Dearest, it's the voices in my head again, telling me to follow a star - see you Monday!"
* "O Love of my life, I am collecting cans for charity this weekend, see you Monday!"
* "Pet, Chov is getting married!! I need some time to get my head around the idea, see you Monday!"

Start making arrangements!

It's going to be a vodkatastic and beeriffic weekend! Head to the Gong, tell people you're off to see the Wizard, the wonderful Wizard of Chov, and leave your inhibitions behind!! DON'T MISS OUT - LAST CHANCE (Chov really thinks this time marriage will be forever)!!!

* Management accepts no responsibility for consequences suffered as a result of usage.

This post was kindly provided by special guest contributor - they call him The Crackmeister, and the day of his coronation surely can't be too far away.

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."

Chov's F*cktacular NRL 2008 Preview #10: St George Illawarra

Team: St George Dragons (when they lose) Illawarra Steelers (when they play in scarlet, play at WIN Stadium, or win)

Why I Hate The F*cken Team / F*cken Coach / F*cken Locality:

There is nothing but love in my heart for the Illawarra Steelers, hailing from country that God Lord H. Geezus Almighty Christ hisself have BLESSED, namely my home-town Wollongong and the Greater Illawarra region.

On the other hand, f*ck the St George Dragons up the f*cken ar$e with a broken bottle.

F*cken crybabys, your poor little f*cken decrepit, run-down $hit-hole at Kogarah might not be used for footy games. The reasons, of course, are apparent to everyone else who has more than 4 brain cells functioning in unison - its a F*CKEN $HITHOLE. The SUBURB is a $HITHOLE. The GROUND is a SHITHOLE. Your area contributes three thirds of F*CK ALL to the team. If it weren't for the Steelers, you f*cking pieces of $hit would be calling yourselves the Eastern Suburbs Rooster-Dragons, or even the Sutherland Dragon-Sharks by now - and your hackneyed, cliche, boring f*cken overly-precious little Red V would exist only in your coveted Johnny Raper Masturbatorium somewhere inside the Saints Leagues Club.

Your 11 successive grand finals is NOT a f*cken world record, there are soccer teams in leagues around the world who have won more successive titles. But like all Saints fans, don't let the FACTS get in the way of your F*CKWITNESS.

Like the following FACT for instance: your so-called "Taj Mahal" St George Leagues Club went from a $1.9 million profit into a $1.7 million dollar loss in ONE YEAR last year. And you f*cken peanuts want to talk about f*cking off Win Stadium in Wollongong? SORT YOUR OWN BACKYARD OUT, F*CKWITS.

CEO Peter Doust's decision to cut costs means no senior feeder side for the Dragons in the NSWRL. Fine by Illawarra, which has not only the Carlton Illawarra League but ALSO the Group 7 competition running down there. So f*ck you, Kogarah, and f*ck your red V, too. Who needs you?

Heard of Graeme Langlands? Illawarra boy. Craig Young? Illawarra boy, and his f*cken PUB isn't in f*cken KOGARAH, A$$HOLES, and his SON DIDN"T START IN THE F*CKEN ST GEORGE JUNIOR COMP EITHER. Bob Fulton? Illawarra. Steve Roach? Illawarra. Warren Ryan? Illawarra.

We were contributing to rugby league without our own team for a long f*cken time, ar$eholes, when clubs like yours got the benefits without doing a f*cken thing in return. So f*ck you. We had no team, and kept the faith anyway. You poor little f*cktards lose a few home games and want to cry and go follow basketball instead. F*ck off. Go the Steelers, instead. Dean Schifilliti will NEVER DIE!

Special F*ckwit Watch:

• Mark "I Wasn't Even There, Except When I Was" Gasnier - When he's not seducing women with his silky-smooth phone-manner from the back of a cab, Gaz is usually threatening to go to rugby union to wring more money out of the NRL and Peter Doust. Or lying on a treatment table.
• Jason "Pillows" Ryles - makes Shane Watson look like the f*cken Iron Man from Planet Indestructible IV. Once dreamed about walking up some stairs; woke up with a torn heart muscle, period pain, an inverted colon, polio, an erection that wouldn't go down and dengue fever. Was out injured for 11 years.
• Any and all former St George players. Ever.
• Bob "Client Number 10" Millward - Here's the former Steelers boss who said NO to Superleague and sentenced the Steelers to 27 lifetimes of f*cken purgatory in his haste to frot Ken Arthurson. "No, no Superleague for us," said the monumental f*ckwit, "far better to die altogether and make Chov listen to the f*cking whining bleating of inane St George fans for ever after." Somewhere I hope Mr Millward is suffering from f*cken piles.

What I'd Like To See Happen In 2008:

• Home-made sex tapes of Peter Doust and Nathan Brown come to light on the internet. Doust and Brown lock themselves into St George Leagues Club and a tense, 392-week hostage stand-off ensues. Finally, Doust agrees to call off the siege if 10,000 Dragons fans who aren't pu$$ies can be found - or else he will detonate 5000000000000kgs of explosives beneath the club and Kogarah Oval and all along Jubilee Ave. 3 fans turn up. 1 satisfies the criteria, but he lives in Finland. Kaboom.
• With the Dragons gone, the Illawarra Steelers return and win 2000 premierships in a row.
• Jason Ryles achieves a personal-best 12 minutes of injury-free time.
• Medical science discovers why the Morris twins are so f*cking ugly. The Pope insists the secret be buried for a million years.

Overall Hate Factor: (Dragons) = 15/10 , (Steelers) = None. I wear my old Steelers jersey to bed, dreaming of the days I wore the scarlet with pride. I love you Craig Walsh! I love you!

Chov's F*cktacular NRL 2008 Preview #9: Souths

Team: South Sydney Rabbitohs. 100 years of F*ckwittery. What the f*ck is a "rabbitoh"? The genetic freak result of a 'sexy' (and unholy) union between George Piggins and a rabbit? A rabbit who says "sorry"? A rabbit everyone claims to be a "fan" of, but nobody goes to f*cken watch? What?

Why I Hate The F*cken Team / F*cken Coach / F*cken Locality:

Oh I have been waiting for this for some time. Where to start?

F*ck you Souths, you f*cken pi$$-stain on the wall beside the urinal. F*ck you, indeed.

You were good in the '60s or something. So was giving expectant mothers lithium. Get the F*CK OVER IT. It gives you no divine right to F*CKEN ANYTHING in the modern age. For every f*cking obnoxious turd who rallied to get you back into the comp, ONE HUNDRED THOUSAND PEOPLE STAYED THE F*CK HOME. No, not everyone loves you! Not everyone is glad you're back! Some people f*cken hate you with a f*cken passion you can only dream about in your pi$$ant little f*cken fairy-floss and pink butterflies "Book of Feuds" - and I AM THEIR F*CKEN KING.

No, Rusty Crowe, you f*ckwit, we don't all think that league goes well when Souths goes well. Your team has been an insignificant wart in the ar$e-crack of rugby league for 30 odd years, and rugby league has been F*CKING FANTASTIC during that time. Giving out Souths jerseys to every f*cken Hollywood celeb you suck-off through a glory-hole in The Viper Room SETS RUGBY LEAGUE'S INTERNATIONAL GROWTH POTENTIAL BACK FOUR THOUSAND YEARS.

So Ray Martin is a fan? Woop de f*cken doo dah. Ray also thinks David Hicks was just separated from his "Kon Tiki Taliban" tour after pausing to help little Afghani children pick wild chocolate in the fields.

Newsflash Souths: scraping into the finals last season and going ONE AND DONE is NOT f*cken cause to start tipping a grand final within the next 12 months. Scooping up turds off your training field before training doesn't mean your "facilities are world class". Wearing jersey sponsors that are just Rusty Crowe movies is F*CKING STUPID. The Charity Shield really DOES MEAN F*CK ALL. George Piggins is a F*CKING PRAT. A turd in an Armani suit is STILL A TURD.

Special F*ckwit Watch:

• Russell "It's For You, Answer It With Your Forehead" Crowe - take the amount of love you have for Souths, cube it, double it, square it again - that's how much HATE I have for them. Take your fairy, jessy, wimpy Little Golden Book of Feuds and shove it into your turd-tunnel and then sit back and read my NRL Preview to understand what it means to HATE.
• David "If You Kids Don't Stop F*cking Around I'll Put My Foot Up Your Ar$e" Kidwell - and he did. And he hurt his knee and missed the rest of the season. I laughed. It couldn't have happened to an uglier man.
• Nathan "Why Don't I Get Picked For NSW" Merritt - because you are pi$$weak. And $hit. So shut the f*ck up, nobody outside of Rusty Crowe's man-harem cares.
• Jeremy "Wrong Option, Every Time" Smith - Souths best signing, because it took him away from Parramatta.
• Nigel "No, It's Not Pronounced That Way" Vagana - you're not the mysterious Fu Manchu. You're just a f*ckwit with a stupid hairstyle and a stupid beard.
• Dean "Bryan Fletcher Just Thinks I Have A Year Round Tan" Widders - good bench player at Parra, got delusions of grandeur and thought he was fit enough to make an impact for 80 minutes. I laughed.
• Craig "Pretty Boy" Wing - Posed in a Souths jersey before actually leaving the Chickens. Mouthed off at everybody at the Chickens from the CEO to the kid who peels the oranges. Mouthed off at everybody who likes the Chickens. Mouthed off at anybody who likes anyone who likes the Chickens. Tried to blow up a Steggles truck. And then sooked for Mummy when the Chickens said they were going to "get him". F*ck you Craig Wing, you f*cken lamby-pamby $hit-squirt.

What I'd Like To See Happen In 2008:

• A petition signed by 3 billion people is presented to David Gallop and the United Nations to eradicate South Sydney from existence. Within hours, armed death squads have hit the streets with orders to shoot on sight. Within weeks of their completing their task, a cure is found for cancer, peace is achieved in the Middle East, Tooheys' research & development division creates 13 new flavours of beer (including one called Tooheys 'Sex with Natalie Bassingthwaite'), petrol is $0.05 a litre and women all over the entire planet elect to live topless, forever after.
• Also, Rusty Crowe makes a movie in which he portrays Muhammad founding South Sydney in 3000 B.C. He is nominated for an Academy Award and loses to the guy who played Screech in Saved By The Bell. Meanwhile, rabid Islamic fundamentalists all over the world issue a fatwah on Rusty's a$$. He is forced to sell up his stake in Souths and live as a hermit, NEVER F*CKEN OPENING HIS MOUTH AGAIN.
• And the Eels beat Souths 224 to nil and 843 to nil.
• Nathan Merritt accidentally runs into a tackle bag at training. He breaks 112 bones and is out for 4 years.
• Craig Wing gets pregnant.

Overall Hate Factor: 7,212/10 - Altogether now...."F*ck You, F*ck You To South Sydney!"