As a native English speaker living in Egypt, I’ve developed a hobby.

I enjoy rewriting the lyrics to Arabic pop songs I barely understand into my own melodious versions, with lyrics that I can fully understand, but no one else can.

This never fails to earn a long, suffering groan from my native Arabic-speaking wife, which of course only encourages me.

For years, this has been our private little arrangement.

Which was all well and good… until her favorite band came to town.

They’re called the Sharmoofers. (Fantastic band, by the way. Look them up. You won’t regret it.)

The wife had never been to a concert before, so I splurged, 3000-pound VIP tickets with a meet-and-greet afterward. Sounds impressive, until you realize that’s about 60 bucks American. Still. VIP is VIP.

So there we are, meeting one of the biggest pop bands in the Middle East.

And my wife, this cunning, desert-forged creature of chaos, chooses that exact moment to betray me.

She proceeds to tell them all about my rewritten lyrics.

Great hits such as:

“The reason that I’m single… is because I ate all of the pickled fish…”

(Trust me, it sounds better in Arabic.)

And let me tell you, there is no feeling quite like standing in front of a pop superstar while they politely pretend to laugh at you absolutely desecrating their life’s work.

A private joke… became an international incident.

My back has never been so thoroughly stabbed.