We were seated in the Green Lizzard, a pub across the road from the Tivoli Theater. Full of rowdy young lads whose favourite passtime seems to be grabbing each other’s arses and balls. All in a studly, manly beer drinking way, of course. If they could only see themselves.

They burst into football chants every ten minutes.

We’re there for the the-atre, don’t you know, fans of the highest order, spending our hard earned on tickets. A motley crew, Dutch, Irish, American. I suppose we stick out.

‘I hear your out of town voices,’ he says, ‘I’m not from around here either, can I join you?’ A young man with floppy Hugh Grant hair and trendy specs, enunciating dulcet Dublin 2 tones.

I’m wary, want to say ‘No’, but am too polite to do so. He joins us. Immediately, he dominates the conversation. ‘Yes, I’m here to review the show for the Evening Herald.’ he confesses and continues: ‘I have no idea what to expect. I mean I KNOW Gavin. I’ve met him at various ligs, you know, these parties, I’ve talked to him. But I don’t know his music.’

Journalist alert. The hair stands up at the back of my neck. At least he’s big enough to admit he doesn’t know shite.

‘Talk to her,’ says someone, pointing at me. ‘She basically… um, wrote the book.’

I wince and brace myself. ‘So you know him?’ I do. He grills me. I say ‘I can’t comment’ on some of his questions and I know I sound like a prat.

Journo keeps talking. We find out he’s really not Irish, he’s American. His posh Dublin accent is an uncanny put on, but he falls for mine too.

On finding out we’re all fans, he tries to impress us with his U2 talk. ‘Oh yes, I’ve met Guggi and Strongman,’ and ‘I’ve been to Bono’s house’. He explains he was down and out and homeless once and the security man on Bono’s gates was a cousin.. He let him stay in the shed, ‘But don’t tell anyone, he’d get in trouble.’

It doesn’t impress me. His Gavin stories are all familiar, and there isn’t a soul in Dublin who hasn’t got some ‘cousin’ who repaired Bono’s car.

He makes me talk about the show, what it’s about, what to expect and I’m comfortable doing that. ‘No, it isn’t a play.’ In the queue at the venue, he introduces me to a colleague, the showbiz editor. She too grills me on Gav’s recent and not so recent career. Neither of them take notes.

We demand they write a good review, ‘or else.’ The two of them leave the show early, to make their deadlines.

In all honesty, his review of the show is decent and objective. He uses some of my quotes, as does the showbiz editor, verbatim. They must have some amazing memory.

Floppy haired prat with a heart. Who would have thought.