Let me start by saying that I love my husband. I do. Really I do. Okay now that that’s out the way let’s get to the heart of the matter shall we?

My current husband is actually my second. My first, affectionately known as my practice husband (ex-husband is just so cliché), was and I imagine still is a lovely person but he was without a doubt Canadian to the core and by that I mean obsessed with hockey. I’ll spare you the gory details but I will say that there was many a Saturday night when I weighed the legal ramifications of a psychiatrist slipping her mate a Prozac cocktail against the preservation of her own sanity.

When I was between husbands I vowed that never again would I join forces with a sport obsessed sidekick no matter how cool he looked rocking the stage in red leather pants, a cleverly crafted ruse used by groom #1 to lure unsuspecting women like me into his underground hockey lair.

When I met Neil ‘Are you a hockey fan?’ was one of the first questions I asked him. He had me at hello but he kept me at no. And so began what can only be described as a beautiful and relatively sport free partnership. Sure there’s some golf here and there, no problem. And he loses his mind every four years for the Football (soccer) World Cup. He takes time off work, screams at the television and frightens the merde out of me but overall I think I got off easy. That is until we moved to France.

Of course in Europe football is more than a game, it’s a serious illness affecting the masses and it appears my man is not immune. He has discovered a TV channel that plays every football game ever recorded. And I regret to inform you that his condition appears to be rapidly deteriorating into full on hooliganism.

He’s now testing positive for rugby. On the up side the last game of the rugby world cup was played yesterday morning (France lost by one point), on the down side every ‘classic’ rugby game ever played is now being sought out in between the soccer games. Saturday night I came downstairs to find him watching American football, something I’ve never seen in the ten years I’ve known him.

Between you and me I’m starting to get worried. For now I’m taking a wait and see approach but I’m telling you right now if I come home to find him with his painted face under a helmet that holds a beer on either side and waving a giant foam finger I’ll be more than happy to mix him that drink. I’m retired and I have a lot less to lose.

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