Johnny Come Lately.

My husband, Johnny, and I are definitely going through a funny patch. Perhaps we're too close at the moment.

Yesterday, Johnny left his actual wife and child in Dublin to continue being my husband in London. We had a great day doing manly things like playing pool, drinking beer and talking about how many holes real women have (17, we concluded). It was a very macho day being manly, great, tough guys like what we normally are. Then Johnny and I went our separate ways to our gigs, shaking hands as we parted (none of that well bent hugging crap). Johnny agreed to meet me at The Funny Side of Covent Garden after his gig. I waited for him. I waited and waited. Then I waited again. Then I had a drink. Then I waited for Johnny again. He was late. Very late.

I texted him telling him that my phone's battery was about to die like an unmanly man in my hands so he'd better hurry up. I wanted to go home. I have the keys so he needs to meet up with me if he wants to get in. God, why does he always do this every time we go out? The lousy bastard. Why do men do this? They treat us like shit and expect us to just accept it. So, I waited some more for Johnny, thinking about how long I would give him the silent treatment for when he finally turned up. Then it got too close to midnight. I was going to miss my....no, OUR last train. I left. I left without my husband.

My phone died, along with a little bit of me, on the way back home. There was now no way for Johnny to contact me. And, of course, I couldn't contact him. BASTARD! How could he know that I'm not talking to him if I can't text him to let him know? I hate stupid Johnny. I don't know why I pretended to marry him. I sat and stewed on the train thinking of all the fun Johnny was getting up to without me. He was probably drinking with another comedian behind my back. With every passing day of my life I connect more and more with Cheryl Cole. I know EXACTLY how she feels.

I got home, ignored Jerk and immediately plugged my phone in. I'll show the cheating cunt. I'll switch my phone on and listen to all his grovelling messages of apology that he's bound to have left on my voicemail. The little weed. If that spineless shit thinks I'm going to accept his snivelling sorrys then he's got another thing coming. Hmmmm. There were no messages. I see.

Well, I'll leave him another one then. I called him a fucking prick (this is all completely true, by the way. Depressing, isn't it?). I've learned a lot from my man-marriage to Johnny over the years. If you want him to stop ignoring your calls then just abuse him. He gets upset that you're angry with him and grovels immediately. After half an hour there was STILL no reply. I fucking HATE it that he's winning.

I texted him one more time before taking off my make-up and going to bed. It read "Hope you have somewhere to stay tonight. See you tomorrow". HA! That would show him.

FUUUUUUUUUCK! Why is he ignoring me? I stayed in bed reading for another half hour. Finally a cab pulls up outside my house. The cab door opens then slams shut. It's bound to be Johnny. The cunt. Johnny the cunt. I continue reading my magazine in an up-yours-Johnny way, even though he has no idea that I'm doing it. Three minutes after the cab door is slammed closed there is a knock on my door. How did it take that stupid prick three minutes to walk from the cab to my front door? He better not have been drinking.

He HAD been drinking! I didn't answer the door immediately. I finished reading an article about Planet Of The Dead (an article I know Johnny would love to read. HA!) and then finally went downstairs to let him in. I was furious but I played it cool.

"WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, YOU CUNTBAG CUNT?"

Johnny was speechless. Not because I had confronted him on letting me, and our marriage, down but because he was so pissed that all knowledge of speech and language had been tinkled out of him. He literally couldn't talk. He pointed to his phone while both laughing and being deadly serious at the same time. That was his excuse. Pointing at a phone. "Bed!", I said. He nodded and bollocksed himself up the stairs.

I'm worried about me and Johnny. Is this how married we've really become? I sort of laughed it all off when I woke up this morning but after me discussing Sondheim at length this afternoon,us getting our hair done together and Johnny actual declaring "Soho comes alive in Spring", I'm really seeing a softer side to both of us. It might be the romanticest story ever written. Or the tale of two drunks who are spending a stupid amount of time together. Either way, it's really lovely. Lovely and terrifying.

Every word of that is worryingly true. Except the bit about my make-up. I left it on.

Fucking hell. My April Fool's blog might have voodoo qualities. I've never wanted theatre tickets more: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/7979891.stm

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