Three. Blessed. Days. Off. In. A. Row.

I don't ask for much.

Three days in a row once a month.

That's all.

Thank you new-ish job.

We have modified hours, so if you work thirty minutes extra every day, you get a day off every three weeks.

Often I have to work anyways.

But this week I don't.

So I have Three. Days. Off. In. A. Row.

Blissful.....

What shall I do?

Actually, I shouldn't say that, because every time I say that on my blog my life jumps up and bites me in the ass and I end up having to do something I don't want to do.

I see Spike Lee told Rev. Wright to shut up.

I'd say that will work alright.

He accused him of being paid to say these things.

By some nefarious being.

A woman no doubt.

Maybe the sub-text was 'or I'll stop giving you money, because you're not saying what I want anymore'.

Sounded like that to my jaded ear.

Oh, oh, oh, I know what I'll be doing for part of the next three days.

I'll be watching the hockey.

Finally, after almost three years, Himself has turned into hockey dude.

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

Almost three years together is about time to start doing all those things you did when you were on your own and you could scratch your bollox whenever you wanted without having to check whether anyone was looking.

Queenie has no problem with the hockey at all. There being nothing else on tv at the moment.

Unfortunately, Himself likes to do stuff with Queenie in the evening, it being the only part of the day when they're together and she's not mainlining coffee in an attempt to wake up.

So Queenie is expected to watch the hockey too.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnn.

I told him I'd watch on condition I could have a crush on a player and ooh and aah everytime he played.

That was deemed acceptable (I was a bit surprised at that, generally Himself doesn't like my crushes, they being too feminine for him. Or something.)

So then of course, I had to find one.

Yaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwnnnnnnnnnsummore.

They're a bit hairy, hockey players, and they're all so young, too young for me really (hence all the acne-covering hair).

And you can't really see anything, what with the big shirts and the shoulder pads and the baggy shorts and the tights (actually, I was told last night they were socks - they look like those woolly tights you wear in the winter) and the helmets.

Nice butts mostly, but.

Very nice butts, acchewerly.

Much nicer than hurler's arse.

Less rounded.

More sculpted.

Must be the skating.

Or maybe it's the lack of Guinness.

So I just went for the best butt and hoped to god that the face was okay too.

Actually, as you can see, he's a cross between early Bjorn Borg and Viggo Mortensen in Hidalgo.

Not bad at all.

And he was born in 1973.

So that puts him in the ballpark. I mean, if he were in his twenties, that would be a bit ewww.

Not that I'm picking on people with boytoys on my blog, ohgodno. I'm all for love's strange iterations, I am.

There he is above, falling on his impeccable ass.

Wait till I tell himself he was born in 1973, is 6'2" and weighs 222lbs.

He plays for the Montreal Canadiens, which are my new team.

Because, as I said last night:

- they are from Montreal, so they speak French and are cool;

- my new heart-throb Kovy plays for them;

- they are not the effing Maple Leafs;

- they are the only Canadian team left in the play offs

No, the effing Pittsburgh Penguins don't count. I don't care what the guys in your work have decided.

Because they are from America, that's why.

No, I don't care that if they win the play-offs that maybe Sydney Crosby, the pride of the

Bluenosers will bring the Stanley Cup to Nova Scotia.

Because that would be like Tipperary getting off in Tullamore to show us Liam on the way home to Thurles, that's why. (yes, I know it's a different train, poetic licence, okay)

I don't care that you don't understand that simile.

It's deep, okay man.

Friggin' Nova Scotians, why do they perpetuate these pathetic fallacies when Ontario is about to enter the equalization program?? Why?? They should do like the Newfoundlanders and offer to send food packages!!

Why do I live in a place where the people are called Bluenosers?

Anyways, the Stanley Cup is on.

I don't understand the rules of the competition.

I do know that every team has to play another team seven times in about two weeks.

That's called a series.

It's actually really good. Very exciting. Three periods of twenty minutes. Lots of goals if you're lucky and a few fights at the end, when one team realises it's in trouble.

Also, in the last few minutes, the losing team takes their goalie off the ice and so there's always the chance there'll be a sneaky goal. That happened last night.

There are four or five series' going on at any one time.

Games are on at a reasonable time. Or really late.

So every evening there's a game YOU GOTTA WATCH.

Because that's all anyone talks about at work.

I knew something the guys in work didn't know today.

I knew where Avery of the lacerated spleen was from.

How does one lacerate one's spleen?

That fact was greeted by a stunned silence.

he he he.

Anyways, we're in some kind of second round of seven game series right now, I think, because all the series I could remember have changed now.

Well, let me start at the beginning.

Hockey starts in August or September. Teams have pre-season games. So you're walking down the street one day in summer and suddenly everyone you know heads down to the Metro Centre because the Maple Leafs are playing the Mooseheads in a pre-season game (a friendly we'd call it, with all the second tier players that entails).

No one comes to your BBQ.

And you have no idea why.

Because the only sports page you read is your brother's and he doesn't do ice hockey.

Then the season starts.

I think it's some kind of a league.

A television programme called Hockey Night in Canada starts to appear on the schedule.

I think this is September/ October, but I'm not sure.

Psycho Bruce used to watch it all the time, for those of you who remember back that far in the blog.

Oooh, ooh, ooh, I forgot to tell you all, I was in the Lawton's Drug Store on Spring Garden Rd a while back, browsing in the baby card section - I forget which baby - and suddenly, I heard a voice that froze me and sent a ripple of fear up my spine. I slid one of my eyes around and there he was stacking shelves behind me, PsychoB of the boiled chicken sandwiches. Wearing a tie though, so he must be management finally. I slid on out of there and haven't been back since.

I digress.

So the League, or the NHL as it's called drones on and on for a while. And then sometime after Christmas, Himself starts talking about how Toronoto (the Maple Leafs, which is his team) aren't going to make the play offs. (The official term is post-season play I believe. If it's post-season, why is it the most important part of the season?)

So we generally have to watch the game (not match, game) where they get dumped out of the League.

And Himself is sad. And curses the luck that makes him a Leafs fan. Without actually telling me why he is a Leafs fan.

Maybe it's a Canadian citizen lottery or something. Like the Vietnam draft. I haven't figured that out yet.

About a week after that, the League turns into the Cup.

I don't know how that happens.

And then everyone watches hockey all the time for about a month.

There's been a lot of pretty much ignored hockey for a while, so I don't know why it gets so exciting now.

But it's around the time the winter ends yet it's still too cold for BBQ and beer, so maybe it's a cultural holding pattern for Canadian males who have been cooped up with their partners all winter.

I keep trying to figure out what's going on.

But Himself is no Queen Dad.

When I was a teenager I would watch rugby and soccer with the Queen Dad on a Wednesday night

when The Queen Mum was playing bridge, or on a Saturday.

And I would ask him questions.

Which he would totally ignore.

Until the ad break.

During which he would explain what was going on. In typical Queen Dad precise detail.

So I know my soccer. And my rugby.

But the Queen Dad went to a hockey game in Vancouver a year ago and deemed the sport a pointless excuse to eat hot dogs in public (Himself was CRUSHED, they're called weiners and they're lovely), so there'll be no help from that quarter.

Himself is happy to talk all the way through the game (not match).

Which bodes well for the future.

But he's not very good at explaining things.

Because he just knows.

Actually, I'm hoping this post will incite music snob into a tutorial.

Speaking of ad breaks, there's one every seven minutes.

WTF?!

Something to do with wages, I'm told.

How come there aren't ads during the European Cup then, heh, heh, heh, huh???!!!!

Anyways, I'm set for the Cup this year.

I has my team, which is about to get dumped out by the nasty Philadelphia Flyers.

And soon I will know what in the name of jebus is going on on the ice.

Soon.

Big big big big shout out to Luke M whose film is going out on the Irish airwaves tonight.