Last night, a stag party for the old housemate. Kehoes then a restaurant called Venu then outside McDaids, I think.
Anyway, as I waited for my monkfish (edible but hardly transcendant) the brother of the man in question came up to me.
"How would you like to send Ronan Keating a text message?"
"WOULD I?" I responded. "In case I'm not being clear, I would, yeah."
I'm not sure how he got the number, with the amount of drink taken I'm having trouble recalling the finer points, but he called it out to me.
I texted: 'We're right behind you boss. Fair play and God bless.'
Sorrily for us the message wasn't delivered. Fucker must have changed up.