Ronan Keating abused me in Yiddish, said my musician friend.
What? How the fuck did that happen?
Well, I was at the Tom Petty gig the other night in the O2, and we were heading to the bar for a fresh one, but I noticed it was closed, so I turned around to tell the lads.
How did that happen?
He had his leg sprawled out in the aisle where people were walking.
It was Ronan Keating, right?
Ronan Keating the Z-lister mini-celeb?
The very man. And because he had his foot stuck out in the aisle, I accidentally stepped on his hand-tooled lizard-penis cowboy boot.
But you apologised, no doubt?
I tried to apologise. I said sorry about that, but he called me a fucking klutz.
A klutz? I didn’t know they spoke Yiddish on De Naartsoide.
They don’t. Who says Klutz, already?
And you replied?
Of course I withdrew my apology and said Fuck you, schtickholtz! You fucking schmuck.
Oy vey! I bet he didn’t like that. Did he jump up and hit you?
No. He might be a shtarker, but he’s also a fucking pakhdn. Kish m’in toukhes, I told him, you fucking schlemiel!
And what happened then?
Come on, he told his little pal. We’re leaving. And they left, half way through the show!
I was astounded. They missed a Tom Petty gig because Ronan didn’t like you accidentally stepping on his toe?
Yep. He’s a fucking shvantz. Stup ir! I shouted at him as he left but he didn’t answer.
You can do anything but stay off of my lizard-penis boots? I ventured.
That about sums it up, replied my buddy. I didn’t know he was a midget though.
That might explain it right enough. Pint?
Sure. Why not? Meshuggeneh!
Saying nothing. How to do it properly.