“He wanders into the Aldi – because they’ve given it, like, a recession twist? – then asks the checkout bird whether she has any wives on speshiddle offer. Of course it brings the actual house down

OPERA GLASSES. She alwayshas to be the centre of attention. "It's not The Phantom of thefocking Opera," I go, out of the corner of my mouth. "It's your grandson's Christmas musical." This she decides to ignore – wouldn't give me the pleasure of seeing her upset – then the old man suddenly arrives and it's hugs and kisses all round. Why can't my old pair behave like any normal soon-to-be-divorced couple?

"Finished it last night," he goes, meaning, presumably, this new misery-lit book of hers, Ma, They Said They'd Never Heard of Sundried Tomatoes. "Please tell me we haven't heard the last of little Sarah Mesbur! Tell me the property market recovers and her father returns to quantity surveying and, and, and . . ."

I'm rolling my eyes, as if to say, "Spare me!" when I all of a sudden feel this crunching pain in my left foot and I hear what soundslike a bone actually snap? I'm obviously there, "Aaarrrrggghhh!!!" It's only when I open my eyes that I realise that Blathin – as in, Ronan's ex – has run over my foot with her wheelchair. I'm up, hopping on one foot, going, "You did that on purpose – don't even try to deny it!" and from the hateful way she looks at me I might as well be one of those all-day breakfasts in a tin.

“So,” she goes, “Ronan got off with the entire female cast. That must make you proud.”

I'm there, "It does actually. All Seven Brides. It's called going through the cord. Jesus, I think you might have damaged my medial plantar, by the way."

She just smiles, all sweetness and expensive orthodontics, then goes, “Ronan’s going to find out that he can’t treat girls like that without there being consequences.”

I’m there, “What do you mean by that?” except she doesn’t answer, just wheels herself off, leaving me trying to remember the name of the Bond villain who was in, like, a wheelchair. It might have been Blofeld.

It’s as I’m retaking my seat in the front row that my phone all of a sudden rings. It turns out to be the man himself, and it’s immediately obvious that he’s worried. “Bla’s up to something,” he goes. Bla’s the production manager, by the way, as well as the jealous ex.

"They're allup to something," I try to remind him. "The trick is to figure out what."

“She called a production meetin’ half an hour ago – except it was for just the brides. What are thee up to, Rosser?”

I wish I had an answer for him. But the next thing I know Sr Ildephonsus is clanking out the opening bors of Bless Your Beautiful Hideand Ronan's going, "Here, I'm up," and literally five seconds later he steps out on to the stage in his riding britches and his knee-high boots and his big blousy shirt, singing, "Bless your beautiful hide, wherever you may be, we ain't met yet, but I'm a-willing to bet, you're the girl for me," with the worry obvious on his face, even withthe red beard?

So he wanders into the Aldi – because they've given it, like, a recession twist? – then he delivers his opening line, asking the checkout bird whether she has any wives on special offer – speshiddle offer – this week. Of course it brings the actual house down. I look around and everyone's cracking up. Then they're, like, turning to each other, going, "Oh, he's a real Dub, isn't he? How fun!"

Anyway, Scene 1 runs smoothly enough. You probably all know the Jack. He marries Milly, then he takes her off to live in the backwoods, which in this case – you have to give it to Mount Anville for sheer cleverness – is Lucan.

Then Scene 2 kicks off, with Milly sitting in her bedroom, not a happy bunny with how the marriage is working out. It’s a nice bedroom, actually – I noticed Ikea got a big-up in the programme.

Ro has to knock on the door and go, “It’s Adam. Your husband.” In he steps. The audience genuinely loves him. That’s when Milly, of course, storts giving him an earful. “You don’t want a wife,” she goes. “You want a cook, a cleaner, a washerwoman. Oh! My God! Someone to, like, slave for you?”

I'm sitting there thinking how this could be based on my actual marriage when all of a sudden I notice a change come over Milly's face. It's very, I don't know, subtle, but she seems to be basically smiling. No, not smiling – actually sneering?

"Plus," she all of a sudden goes, "I've been, like, hearingthings about you?" Ro's there, "Errr," because it's immediately obvious that what she said isn't in the original script.

"You've been, like, cheatingon me?"

Ro’s, like, totally speechless. All he can think to say is, “I haven’t, Middy – I swayer.”

"Oh my God," Milly goes, "you're an actualliar, Adam. I know you've been with Dorcas, with Martha, with Ruth, with Sarah, with Alice and with Liza."

Ro tries to, like, regain control of the scene. “I waddunt,” he goes, utter pro that he is. “I don’t know where you’re getting yisser information.”

The old dear takes her opera glasses away from her face and turns to me. “Is this in the play?” she goes.

“In fact,” Milly goes, saying the words like she’s turning over a winning flush, “you’ve probably got someone hidden in that Pax oak-effect wardrobe with sliding doors . . .” You can see the actual fear on Ronan’s face, like he knows he’s pretty much powerless to stop whatever’s about to basically go down here.

Milly's there, "Why don't you open the door then, Ronan?" because she's not even pretendingto follow the script now? "If you think I'm paranoid – open it."

He stares hord at the wardrobe. Then the audience gets in on the act, going, “Open it! Open it! Open it!” Ro looks, it has to be said, totally resigned to whatever’s about to happen. He just walks slowly over to the wardrobe and slides it open. Of course all six of them are in there. They jump out and make a grab for him.

Then the stage goes suddenly dork.

The next thing anyone hears is the sound of, like, cloth ripping, then Ronan struggling and issuing threats. “Get off me,” he screams, “yiz doorty-looken . . .” except his words fall on, like, deaf ears.

“Okay, Blathin,” a voice goes up from the stage. I could be wrong but I think it’s, like, Dorcas. “Now!”

Somewhere a switch is flicked and a single spotlight is suddenly shining on the stage from overhead. There’s, like, a collective gasp from the audience. There, caught in the blue beam – stork Vegas naked, with his clothes in literally flitters at his feet – using his red beard to hide his manhood from the crowd, stands my son.

He looks totally – in a word – humiliated. And I genuinely wonder will he ever forgive me.

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