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Home > People

WAWIBF... Leslie Ash

30 April 2004

Domestic violence is so tear-pluckingly unpleasant a subject and so clearly not-an-area-to-be-mined-for-cheap-laughs that even if the aggressor were dressed as a clown, it would still fail to raise so much as a smile. Thank God then, that the dreadful injuries sustained by Leslie Ash last Saturday morning were merely the result of careless whoopee. Thank heavens that when Lee Chapman inadvertently slammed his wife off the marital bed, broke a rib and cracked a lung, all he was doing was making sweet love. Blimey. Imagine him with a cob on. You wouldn't like him with a cob on.

As Miss Ash herself put it: "The injuries happened when I hit a bedside table. We were making love and this happens. How embarrassing is that?" Not so much embarrassing perhaps, as uncomfortably implausible. But so be it. The last thing we want to do is add another braying voice to the mass of column-inch banalysis over what is after all the private affair of a pair of perfect strangers. But sadly, the urge is too strong.

So, they were making love, and strapping Lee Chapman pleasured his lippy wife into the middle of next week. But was it really merely rough nookie? Or were those five days in hospital rather the result of a distinctly unhorny fist-fucking? Chapman and Ash are threatening anyone who says so with legal action. But what about all that circumstantial nonsense that's probably made up but you never know? The suspiciously abandoned call to the ambulance, for example. The fact that Ash recently blabbed to loose-lipped insiders that Chapman's temper was causing her to consider leaving him. Her perpetually fat lip. The rubber knuckle-dusters found lodged in her anus.

To say nothing of the fact that Chapman has form. Kind of. It got as far as assault charges being brought by Ms Ash six years ago, then mysteriously dropped. Good enough.

But anyway. Enough of this trash. It isn't for us to make snide comments about what is, on the face of it at least, a decidedly suspect and really rather vulgar business. Neither is it for us to make tasteless, infantile jokes about battering trout. Instead it is for us to wilfully wallow in the foetid news-latrine of celebrities private lives whilst simultaneously and quite misguidedly assuming a tone that would suggest we are in some way above it all. And then saying something utterly condescending like "Poor Leslie" at the end.

Poor Leslie.



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