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Debbie Leigh: Send him off, Cheryl
I IMAGINE women up and down the country have been shouting the same thing at their TVs and newspapers over the weekend – DUMP HIM!
I could be talking about any number of unlucky ladies and their badly behaved partners, Toni Poole and Tess Daly, for two, but I am of course referring to poor old Chezza Cole, whose immature husband Ashley has found himself caught up in yet another compromising position involving a blonde.
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Of course, it's not his fault.
The England player had just been absent-mindedly snapping away, shooting pictures of himself in the buff as he lounged around a hotel room with nothing better to do.
Unluckily, he foolishly took the snaps on a pay-as-you-go phone, which he then gave away to a friend, then some other friend decided to text the raunchy images, along with some "sexy" messages, to some fame-hungry glamour model.
Never mind "Something Kinda Oooh", more like something kinda ugh.
Still, you can see how easily something like that could happen.
It's just a wonder it doesn't happen more often really.
To avoid future, similar accidents I would suggest next time he's stuck for something to do he could perhaps try reading a good book.
The thing is, even if on this occasion he is innocent, as he insists he is, there's surely not a woman in the country, aside from Cheryl, that would give him the benefit of the doubt.
It's time for her to "Call the Shots" – to coin the title of a Girls Aloud track.
Let's face it, he's not got the best track record.
Who could forget "puke-gate" when he apparently vomited in a girl's car – then said she should feel "privileged".
That same night a hairdresser claimed she'd had a one-night stand with the Chelsea player.
He's been caught misbehaving before, so wouldn't you think he'd take extra care not to do anything which could even be misconstrued as deserving a red card from the wife?
It has always baffled me, and most people I've ever spoken to, what on earth Cheryl sees in him.
I don't mean that like that famous Mrs Merton question to Debbie McGee: "So, what first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels?"
It's just that Cheryl is that rare WAG who has actually made an honest living for herself, lucrative enough to keep her in Louboutin shoes and Herve Leger dresses until she's old and wrinkled – as if that will ever happen.
So she doesn't need to put up with a buffoon just because of his pay packet – although I suppose being driven around in a Lamborghini Gallardo and sporting a 160,000 wedding ring goes some way to easing any pain.
She clearly sees something in him that we don't.
But while half the country would sell their own mothers just for the chance to have her gaze misty-eyed at them at an X Factor audition, her hubby would perhaps prefer her to be standing at the kitchen sink, rather than constantly stealing his limelight.
After this latest embarrassment, if I was Cheryl I'd be threatening him with a second broken ankle if he didn't promise to take more care of his mobile phone in future.
Plus, if he's anything like most men when it comes to whingeing – and somehow I can't help imagining he'd be infinitely worse – who can blame Chez for choosing to get out of the house at the weekend to rehearse for tonight's Brits performance.
I wonder whether Cheryl really feels like she wants to "fight, fight, fight, fight, fight for this love" anymore.
She's previously flashed her huge diamond ring and tweeted "3 words – diamonds are forever".
To the relief of WAGS everywhere, yes they are.
However, here's another three words: marriages often aren't.
Lack of make-up leaves me made up
IT'S a rarity these days that I set foot outside the house without my slap on, as I'm going through what can only be described as a long-term skin malfunction.
But sometimes you just have to dash out to the supermarket for last-minute dinner party ingredients and there isn't time to make yourself look presentable.
It's the time when you dread seeing anyone you know – head down, gaze firmly fixed on shopping list, speed walking up and down the aisles.
Usually any kind of human interaction is highly undesirable.
But on this occasion there was a pleasant surprise round the corner.
As I plonked my bottle of sauvignon blanc on the conveyor belt the checkout assistant looked up and demanded ID.
"Seriously?", I asked. I'm 33.
So there you go, it might be horrendous waking up to a new zit every morning but if it gets you mistaken for a teenager, it can't be all bad.
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Wednesday 23 May 2012
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