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Never Forget
Donkey Watch
Dylan Macallister
81 minutes without a goal
Last Goal: 31 August 2008
John Aloisi
675 minutes without a goal
Last Goal: 19 January 2008
Vaughan Coveny
1162 minutes without a goal
Last Goal: 30 September 2007
Jason Hoffman
1164 minutes without a goal
Last Goal: n/a in professional football
David Zdrilic
1707 minutes without a goal
Last Goal: 10 November 2006
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Written by JayFC The Internet Warrior God
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Wednesday, 05 December 2007 |
One week ago, the Australian landscape had its eyes solely focused on Sydney FC as David Beckham pwned the living shit out of Clint Bolton with that epic freekick. Yes, the 27th of November, what a great day for football and more importantly, what a great day for bandwagoners. The 79,000 fans who attended got more than they bargained for, when the man they paid $500 to see, renowned for his unbelievable freekicks, lined up in front of the goal and got bodychecked by Robbie Middleby, having to spend the rest of the game hobbling on one foot. The stadium really had that European feel to it that day, mainly due to all the random European shirts in the stadium. Even though technically, Sydney FC won the game because they scored more goals than LA, the real winner was football. Now onto the real losers, ie, mankind.
Yoga is the most heterosexually challenged form of exercise on this planet. In fact, being double penetrated by a couple of bears, with your face covered in so much white, gooey stuff that it looks like a Proactiv® commercial is not as gay as yoga. The next day following the friendly, not only did Sydney incorporate Yoga into its training program, they invited the press along too to photograph their pussyness. The day after that, Brosque was posing like the Y-chromosome deserter that he, doing modeling in the fashion section of the Sydney Morning Herald Magazine despite having a face that looks like Big Kev had used it as a trampoline. And on the weekend, the local derby got postponed because the Sydney players refused to play in the wet because the rain may mess up their hair. Oh sure, the FFA said that the game was canceled because the mass rain would have lowered the quality of the game but they were just falsely advertising the a-league, as they suggested the league has quality.
This is the problem with David Beckham. He is a multi-millionaire not because of his pinpoint accurate passing and monumental freekicks; he is a rich bastard because marketing gurus have branded him the ultimate metrosexual icon of his generation, being the inspiration for sissy kids worldwide. This brings us to this article’s title, The Knock-on Effect. Sydney saw first hand what the punce can bring thanks to a few Ralph Lauren suits and the odd shitty haircut, which is why the Sydney team has been imitating his outrageousness lately in a bid to bring in the popped-collared, moisturizer-using, foundation-wearing fucktarded metrosexual demographic. I hate to see what they are going to do next week to help bring them through the gate. Spa treatments? Yogurt ads? Gay centerfolds in next month’s FourFourTwo magazine? Fucken hell Sydney, your sissy-emulating styles has already had a knock-on effect with the fans as The Cove are now so fruity that they actually named their Sunday soccer team after the Kylie Minogue song, Lokomotion.
Has Sydney FC ever tried to appeal to football fans? Seriously? They signed Kazu to "win over the Japanese." They sent players as guests on Rove Live in a bid to lure some of the no-hope losers who no doubt rate going to a Big Day Out concert as one of their top 5 experiences in their life (behind getting a blowjob at schoolies, meeting Boonie in the flesh and starting their own concrete-laying business). They gave a shareholding to Anthony LaPaglia hoping that the daytime soap opera audience will be swayed by his American accent he developed from watching too many Macho Man Randy Savage interviews. They organized all their games to avoid clashing with Centrelink dole payment days in an attempt to bring in the Kiwis and just last week, Sydney held this terrible spectacle in a push to get the teenyboppers, Pommy expats, metrosexualists and some of the other densest forms of life who would have forgotten the names of the teams playing by the time they got home to resume their pathetic lives. Quit with the band-aids and start selling the game without the gimmicks. Soccer is a sport, not sports entertainment.
Sydney, it’s time to remember that you’re a soccer club, not a modeling agency. You hire footballers, not soft-cock extras from the Saddle Club. Stop trying to make yourself appealing to whatever this month’s flavour is because all you are doing is bringing in people who, if I was driving, would be converted into speed bumps if I was fortunate enough to see them walking in the middle of the street. So tell your players to cut this metro shit, stop with the designer clothes, slap them a few times across the head if they know what the term “exfoliate” means and tell Adam Biddle to shut the fuck up. Biddle, just because Harmes used your forearm as a stud-cleaner, doesn’t give you a right to run to the media and say shit like this;
“whaaaaaaaaa wha wha whaaaaa wha wha wha wha wha whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa wha”
What do you want me to do? Hold your hand while you go through trauma counseling? I hope some organ donor is gracious enough to give you a set of balls because fuck me, you need them. MAN THE FUCK UP, THE LOT OF YOU!
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Written by JayFC The Internet Warrior God
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Tuesday, 27 November 2007 |
Soccer; the coward’s version of rugby league. The official sport for sissy kids worldwide. They call Rugby the game they play in heaven. That’s because no homosexuals play the sport. So by that logic, soccer is the game they play in hell, unless you’re a Hindu, in which case, this comparison doesn’t affect you because you will just reincarnate into an iguana or something. Despite these poorly thought out metaphors, soccer is spinning out of control into a downward spiral and it all can be blamed on various football federations stripping away all the interesting points of the game in a bid to avoid facing any public liability lawsuits. As a result, football is no longer seen as a manly game, which has been met with mass cheers from the corporate world because that means they can now sell coward shit like shinpads, ankle guards, mouthguards and finger-warming gloves to the players of today. Soccer today makes me sick.
Once upon a time soccer had an ounce of dignity. If the fans were bored, they wouldn’t start a Mexican wave; they would start a riot. Sponsors would have paid players like Danny Tiatto and Kevin Muscat thousands of dollars to have their brand advertised on the bottom of their shoes because their ever-frequent studs up tackles would guarantee plenty of showing. The best midfielder in the world would rather have a case of conjunctivitis than watch a show like Queer Eye for the Straight Eye. American players were so patriotic of their country, they would literally shit out statues of liberty and refuse to play in Europe because of the lack of Bald Eagles there. The most common sound in a football stadium wasn’t applause but rather the sound of ankles being snapped by poorly timed challenges. Only defenders would wear red boots but the only reason their shoes were red was because they weren’t able to wash their opponent’s blood off them. And nobody made any homosexual innuendos about the players wearing short-shorts because every player’s knuckles was coated with various D.N.A. traces of their competitors due to the numerous fist-fights that would break out during the game at any given time. I am of course talking about the 1960’s. Sport was better back then, maybe because things like polyester-blend shirts weren’t worn, the music genre “emo” hadn’t been created and no one voted for The Greens, not even ironically. Now the game has gone to the dogs. Just look at the things that will get you cautioned in soccer nowadays;
- Kicking the ball away
- Tackling with your shoe directed upwards
- Punching wops
- Saying “mine”
- Calling referees cheats
- Putting the opposing coach in a headscissors lock
There are 3 reasons why the sixties was the greatest time for football and that was because people had balls, loyalty and something else but I forget what that was.
Jamie Harnwell. He has all three of those things which is why his fan base is so large today. How many times have you seen Jamie play with a bloody bandage wrapped around his head? Almost as often as you’ve seen him score off his head. That’s because Jamie Harnwell isn’t a pussy. When he celebrates a goal, he doesn’t feel the need to bash up inanimate objects like a flagpole, billboard or Terri Schiavo. He doesn’t feel the need to take off his shirt to taunt and/or arose the opposition. Hell, he doesn’t even feel the need do some choreographed dance he saw while watching the Broadway play, The Boy From Oz. That’s because Jamie is a man’s man. When the game finishes, he doesn’t go to a club with his “homies”; he cuts down trees from heritage listed forests and starts tire fires. When he’s thirsty, he drinks milk straight from the cow’s udder because he isn’t girly enough to have his milk pasteurized like the kids of today. And when he wants sex, he doesn’t slip on a pink polo shirt with some European city’s name written on the back of it, don some excessively oversized Gucci sunglasses, spray himself with $150 cologne to give him that ever alluring smell of cat urine and flirt with extremely slutty women at the local pub; he has a cold shower and remembers god’s teachings. Unfortunately, people like Jamie are hard to come by in the modern game because today, the game is filled with too many David Carneys (read on).
Let us compare David Carney to Willie Mason for a second. David Carney was sick of collecting dicks in the ass at Sydney and wanted to collect splinters in the ass at Sheffield United all because they offered him more money. Where is the loyalty? Sydney FC was the club that had propelled him into a household name by playing him out of position and made him a full fledge international thanks to his form earning him a call up to one of the worst socceroo squads ever assembled, yet he simply runs away from them because he doesn’t want to earn 50% less than what they pay David Zdrilic, a man who hasn’t scored in 1675 minutes. Truly shameless. It brings me to a quote from an intellectual beyond his years at the SFCU forums;
“carney will stay if he loves the emblem enogh and dosent mater what he gets but these datys most of the players move to europ becaus of good money but where is there pride” – macri_boy, Mensa International
Now even though he felt the need for punctuation or correct spelling wasn’t necessary, the point still echoes loud and clear, which is why I brought up Willie Mason at the beginning of this paragraph. At the same time Carney was quick to sell his soul for a donut, Mason turned down a million dollar contract to stay with the club who made him what he is today; an overrated, cocaine-snorting, taxi cab ditching, “alleged” rapist with self-diagnosed Attention Deficit Disorder. Of course, Mason has now left the Bulldogs because they wouldn’t let him fight in a boxing match but even the strongest of loyalties can be tested when your club tells you to act like a pussy and not punch a guy repeatedly in the head until hemorrhaging occurs. Why don’t you just ask him to go nit some cotton doilies for the toilet rolls and read the cooking section in this month’s issue of Women’s Weekly? It’s the same message you’re sending.
The point is, too many players today are just like Carney. They will simply go wherever there is more money. You know who else does that? Prostitutes. Unfortunately, these whores have no heart. And that is solely what is wrong with the game today. As the sport’s governing body eradicate things like studs-up tackles, punch-ups and linesman-ballsack whackin`, they in turn eradicate things such as players having heart. In the sixties, players had heart, which is why shit like finger-gloves and pink soccer boots didn’t exist. Could you imagine a player back then making a career-ending tackle wearing pink soccer boots? Of course you can’t. But sadly, soccer today has been branded as the wimp sport so much so that pink boots are acceptable as are people wearing finger gloves because god forbid players would let their wanking hand suffer the effects of cold weather. If only having balls were still a requirement to play soccer, then maybe today, jersey designs wouldn’t become so outrageous, that the humble soccer field wouldn’t second as a seedy catwalk runway for this winter’s fashion trends. Soccer is dead.
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Written by JayFC The Internet Warrior God
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Friday, 23 November 2007 |
Well, the festive season is right around the corner so what better time to remind you all that the a-league has so much shit in it, that it should be sponsored by septic tanks. Yes, its time to reveal the worst a-league xi of all time. There has been a lot of crap in the a-league over the past 2 years (this may be because only people who should be institutionalized would actually want to play in a competition with lackluster coaches, poor salary wages, below-par training facilities, moronic management and ever sterile crowds), meaning trying to narrow this list down to a worst eleven was quite a task. And you know how bad the a-league has been when players like Reece Tollenaere and Simon Yeo don’t even make this list. Now I could just post the Queensland Roar squad of 2005/06 and this article title would have its desired effect but I feel I’m more professional than that, so let us begin part 1 of the worst a-league xi ever as we induct four worthy people into this team.
 Robbie Middleby - Hope floats and so will the corpses of all the fucktard boardroom members who financed his contract. Yes, that line was pretty terrible but that was only because it was inspired by Robbie’s terrible crossing. Apparently its taboo for him to have a good game; if only it was taboo for teams to offer him a contract. There is absolutely nothing technical about Robbie’s game whatsoever. Simply run as fast as he can with the ball, wait for someone to walk near him, fall, mission accomplished! If no one ever challenged him, he would probably do some Forrest Gump shit and just continue running straight until he crashes into the billboards. Hell, if Robbie Middleby was a food, he would be a Turducken but instead of a chicken, it’s a Jonti Richter stuffed into a Michael Ferrante and then stuffed into Steve McMahon Jr. People are actually working on building a time machine so they can go back in time not to convince the Sydney boardroom to avoid signing him but to make Robbie’s dad sterile. Vampires die when they see crosses; I die from embarrassment when I see your crosses, Robbie.
 Andy Vlahos - Jeez, this guy was so fat, he didn't sweat, he just dripped out pure canola oil. The quickest way to a man's heart is through his stomach, so the guy behind the McDonald's counter must have a huge crush on him. The only thing that was dangerous about Andy was when he was running, you might get slapped in the face by his bitchtits. He was a great advertisement to the kids too. Yes that’s right kiddies, it’s not about how many backheals you can do or how many stepovers you can fool people with or how accurate your freekicks are taken or how much composure you have on the ball; it’s about how many KFC bucket’s you see the bottom of and how many cocks you can suck to stay in the game. And what the fuck is wrong with your hair faggot. Jesus, look what happened when an unfortunate penguin flew into it. Seriously, it’s like that Exxon ship spilled on your head.
 Guy Bates – It may seem harsh to put someone who only made 3 appearances in the a-league into this list but trust me, those 3 appearances were easily enough to warrant entry. It was like he was made out of the spare parts of lesser footballers. He had the composure of Brett Holman, the first touch of Nikolai Topor-Stanley, the finishing of Simon Lynch, the ball skills of Leo Carle (that’s the bad one) and the suckiness of David Zdrilic, put together to create this English beast known as Guy Bates. Then manager Richard Money was quick to inform us to ignore this because Guy has a lot of potential. The word potential has lost all its meaning over the years, as when you look it up in the a-league dictionary, you are greeted with text blacked out by the CIA. This measure was taken because numerous coaches have felt the need over the years to label guys like Guy Bates and Jonti Richter and Alex Brosque as “potential” up until their late 30's. And don't counter this argument by saying "wtf u on about, brosk is goin gud tis season" because Brosque is going good due to the fact he has a $1million player putting everything on a platter for him. Guy Bates would need someone earning ten times that amount to make him look semi-legitimate. Still, I guess one day, Guy may have the potential to have more respect than a Jewish Klansmen if he stopped trying to be the white Mario Jardel except with Down Syndrome. Here’s a pro-tip to all a-league coaches, don’t sign players from countries that are so bad that even our national team can defeat them. Then we wouldn’t be blessed to have Englishmen like Guy Bates or Stuart Young or Sean Devine or Brian Deane or in other words, people worthy enough of making this article possible. Guy’s chin is also used as a landing strip for Boeing 747’s.
 Ricki Herbert - Even the a-league worst xi needs a coach and who else is better for that job than Ricki Herbert aka John Adshead minus the cancer in the ass. The Wellington Phoenix are currently battling their own incompetence to win the wooden spoon this season and that might have to do with Herbert taking the worst points from the New Zealand Knights franchise and transfering them across to Wellington. Their pre-season recruitment drive of signing all the dregs of the a-league and players who fans would only want to see wearing their club's jersey if it had their blood stains and numerous bullet holes through it, has surprisingly backfired. Yes Vince Lia, Karl Dodd, Jeremy Christie, Ross Aloisi, Royce Brownlie, Michael Ferrante and Steven O'Dor have continued their reputation of being utterly useless as they go though the motions of guaranteeing this will be their last professional contract ever. If Ricki ever needed an assistant to help him supply the suck, he would have to get Branko Culina. Branko is quite an expert at supplying it by the truckloads as proven by his “The Man U of Australia” comment towards Sydney FC earlier in the year. Seriously, what the fuck was his intentions with that comment? Was he trying to make a statement that would bite him on the ass in less than a fortnight? Here are some things that sounded more rational than that comment; “Beniot is innocent”, “September 11 was the greatest pyrotechnic show ever”, “No Mistake-a-vich”.
Who else will be inducted into the worst a-league xi ever? Tune in next week when I will probably forget to finish this off.
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