I’ve had an argument with Richard Blackwood.

We’ve argued before, but I think that this could be the big one. I said some stupid things. Some things that I shouldn’t have said. But the thing that stops me from picking up that phone - even though I know that right now he is probably sitting in his bedroom, tears streaming down his face, hugging his Tickle-Me Elmo tightly to his chest and listening to that fucking Keith Sweat album over and over and over again – the thing that stops me calling and saying “Richard…. I’m sorry for all those awful things I said” is that I can’t pretend that I didn’t mean them.

I never thought I’d be sitting here saying this. To you of all people. I guess this couldn’t have come at a worse time. I know ‘The Club’ hasn’t been the biggest success, but something tells me that certain journalists would just love it if they could phone their editors and tell them that I was spotted arriving at Dean Gaffney’s house at two o’clock in the morning. Yeah, they would just loooooove it. Fucking leeches.

Anyway, I’m rambling aren’t I? Sorry.

This has been coming for some time if I’m being honest. I’m not saying that I’m in any way blameless, but Richard has been just impossible to live with lately. Impossible. It’s not like he was ever Mr Sensitive, you know, but these past few weeks, the only time he ever even speaks to me is to ask if there have been any calls for him (there never have) and to order me to run down to the off-licence to get him some more Pimms. That damn Pimms.

Every time I try to talk to him, he pushes me away. I would spend hours sitting outside the bathroom door after he’d barricaded himself in there, telling him what it would be like in the future after he got his big Hollywood break. I’d tell him about all the parties we’d go to, how all the talk show hosts would want him. At least this would usually get him speaking. Sometimes he’d make me pretend to be David Letterman, and I would have to ‘interview’ him. I’d try to tell him that David Letterman isn’t going to want to talk to anyone with a mouth full of toilet paper, but it didn’t stop him. Usually, by the time I’d coaxed him out, he’d chewed through dozens of rolls. You know I had to start hiding them? Who knew it would come to this? Me hiding toilet roll from him – having to ration it to him on a poop-by-poop basis. That’s no way for two grown men to live.

I just can’t see where it went wrong. How could we end up like this? Things used to be so different. I can’t believe it was only last summer that we were in our villa in the Maldives. Is this really the same man who taught me to scuba-dive? Who fed me shellfish on the beach at sunset? Who would just sit with me for hours at a time, my head on his lap, and sing me songs from his eponymous debut album ‘Blackwood’, including the top 20 hit ‘Mama Used to Say’? I know it is, but sometimes I can’t believe it.

Anyway, tonight we were at a restaurant opening – some new place in Islington. Smash or Stash or something, I forget. We’d got the invite 3 or 4 days ago – someone had dropped out and we had put ourselves on the reserve list. Richard was elated when his agent called to say we’d snagged the invite. It really perked him up. For the first time in weeks I saw him wearing something else in the house, other than that stinky old grey dressing gown I’ve been trying to make him get rid of since lord-knows-when. He finally had a smile for me. And between you and me, it didn’t take him a bottle and a half of Pimms to get friendly, if you know what I mean! It felt like the start of something, you know?

Looking back, I should have known something was up. There was something odd about him when we were getting ready. As I shaved and dressed him, I was asking him whom he thought was going to be there, and what would we do about the paparazzi (he’s still a little funny about us being photographed together), and while he answered me, it was never anything more than a nod or a grunt, and he had this faraway look in his eyes. But, I thought, that’s just Richard. I guess I reckoned he was just nervous or something.

Even when we got to the restaurant I had no idea what was coming. We pulled up outside, and I let him pose for a few pictures and walk in first, as per the drill, while I followed him inside a couple of minutes later.

When I got inside I saw him talking to a young Black guy I didn’t know. I went and got some drinks and returned to find Richard on his own. “Who was that?” I asked him. Richard looked at me, and I swear there was murder in his eyes. I’d never seen him look like that before.

“Who was that?” he hissed, “That was Eddie fucking Murphy.”

"What?” I spluttered, but I knew exactly what he was talking about.

“You heard me. Eddie Murphy – see I got your message. It must have fallen down the back of the sofa, but I got it. So I called him, and I said ‘Hey Eddie, come down tonight and we can hook up’. You know, given that he’d called me and everything”

You see, the weekend before last was pretty good – he had got a call from his agent to say that the ‘Blackwood’ album had gone silver in Romania, and the people from ‘Oblivious Celebrities’ had contacted him about being part of a practical joke on Bradley Walsh. He was in a good mood, and I woke up on Tuesday morning buzzing. When I turned on the TV, I realise that it was April Fools day, so I thought I’d play a trick on Richard. It seemed appropriate and – what was I thinking? – I somehow imagined he might find it funny. So I took the message pad by the phone, wrote on it ‘Eddie Murphy’s people called – something about Beverly Hills Cop IV’, and ran off to work, knowing that he wouldn’t be up for another 3 or 4 hours.

But as I sat at my desk that morning, I came to thinking that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. That Richard had never been the best when it came to laughing at himself, and that he may just take this the wrong way. I was so worried that I took lunch early and ran home. He heard me come in the door and I only had enough time to rip the message from the pad and stuff it down behind the cushions on the settee before he had got out of bed, and was asking me to knock up some breakfast for him.

Maybe I’m just a stupid-head, but I forgot all about it. Until tonight. Richard was so angry, but I couldn’t help but feel angry too. For God’s sake it was just a little joke. Can I help it if he’s so precious that the only things that make him laugh are ‘You’ve Been Framed’, videos of his own stand-up performances, and the look on my face when he has hidden my car keys again?

And something inside me snapped, just like that. I’d had enough of being treated like his slave, and I told him so in no uncertain terms. I told him that he was lazy, rude, arrogant, and no fun anymore. And I told him…. I told him that it’s no wonder he didn’t get the joke, ‘cos he is not funny. I told Richard that he wasn’t funny.

That’s the last time I saw him. His eyes filled with tears and he just ran out of the place, pushing past people, knocking down the likes of Lily Savage and Martine McCutcheon. I went after him, but it was too late. When I got outside he had dived into a black cab, and was shouting at the driver to just ‘drive, drive!’.

I walked around for hours, but I didn’t know where to go. London can be a pretty lonely place, you know. And I hardly think my family are going to want to talk to me about this. That’s why I came here Dean. Please don’t hate me. I know I said some terrible things, and I could phone him right now and tell him that I’m sorry, that I didn’t mean any of it. But it’s like I said. That would mean lying. No more lies.

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