The Irish Mail on Sunday - TV Week - - RADIO WEEK -

The GQ Men of the Year Awards is a de­li­ciously glam­orous, febrile and un­pre­dictable af­fair.

I was the mag­a­zine’s News­pa­per Ed­i­tor of the Year in 2003 and soon after got fired from the Daily Mir­ror. Last year, I was GQ’s Tele­vi­sion Per­son­al­ity and my CNN show ended a few months later.

For this rea­son, I will never be ac­cept­ing GQ’s ‘Best Liv­ing Hu­man Be­ing’ award.

Rule one of th­ese star- stud­ded af­fairs is: never walk on to the red car­pet in front of or be­hind any­one more fa­mous or hand­some than you.

So imag­ine my dis­may when I spied David Gandy, the world’s top male model, get­ting out of his chauf­feured car at the ex­act same time to ec­static screams from the crowds.

‘ Piers, you’re look­ing good!’ he lied. ‘David, you’re look­ing bet­ter!’ I replied, more truth­fully.

He glided on to the car­pet and be­gan pos­ing for the pho­tog­ra­phers.

I ob­served his tech­nique care­fully: in­sert left hand ca­su­ally into trouser pocket, hang r ight hand ful ly ex­tended, trans­fer weight to left foot, jut out chis­elled jaw, crease face into slight smirk/smoul­der, laser cam­eras with pierc­ing stare.

The prob­lem with try­ing to copy it, as I dis­cov­ered, is that it only re­ally works if you re­sem­ble a Greek god, like Mr Gandy.

For­tu­nately, things perked up at the pre-din­ner drinks party, where Sa­muel L. Jack­son saw me, ex­claimed ‘Piers Mor­gan… my MAN!’ and charged over to give me a bear hug. I held him in close for as long as was de­cently pos­si­ble – to en­sure the largest pos­si­ble num­ber of wit­nesses.

I needn’t have wor­ried. As we un­grap­pled, Ger­ard But­ler swiftly moved in to hug me too. He was my man-date at the White House Cor­re­spon­dents Din­ner last year and is ev­ery bit as amus­ing, and slightly wild, as you’d ex­pect him to be.

My joy at this unant ic­i­pated Hol­ly­wood hugathon was tem­pered by ty­coon Philip Green grab­bing my jowls as if he was chok­ing a Christ­mas turkey and roar­ing: ‘Been over­do­ing the grub, Piersy boy?’

‘Pretty rich com­ing from you!’ I re­torted, tem­po­rar­ily for­get­ting that Philip is in­deed pretty rich.

My dop­pel­ganger Colin Fir th passed by with his Ital­ian wife Livia – who is the most beau­ti­ful and re­fined spouse at any of th­ese events, after my own, ob­vi­ously.

‘ What you did in Amer­ica over gun con­trol was in­cred­i­bly brave,’ he told me. ‘It’s a night­mare pub­licly ex­press­ing any kind of opin­ion on con­tro­ver­sial is­sues like that if you’re an en­ter­tainer be­cause you in­stantly alien­ate large sec­tions of your au­di­ence. I ad­mire you for hav­ing the guts to do it and car­ry­ing on when they were all try­ing to de­port you.’

‘ Thanks,’ I replied. ‘ Talk­ing of nightmares, do you still get mis­taken for me?’ Firth nod­ded. ‘All the bloody time.’

I was then in­tro­duced to Pippa Mid­dle­ton, sis­ter of Kate.

‘Blimey, I didn’t ex­pect to see you here,’ I blurted out. ‘Oh re­ally, why?’ she laughed. ‘Well, it’s a lively old night… I’d def­i­nitely make your es­cape be­fore things turn a lit­tle crazy.’

‘Crazy?’ A flash of panic swept over Pippa’s face. ‘CR-AZY.’ I walked down into the din­ing room to find Kim Kar­dashian and Kanye West stand­ing around slightly self­con­sciously.

Kim was Kim. Warm and friendly. ‘Piers, thanks for al­ways be­ing so sup­port­ive,’ she said, kiss­ing me on both cheeks. ‘I re­ally ap­pre­ci­ate it.’ Kanye was Kanye. He shook my hand like a vice, gave me a stare that could break win­dows, said a quiet ‘Hi’ and went back to tex­ting on his phone. If he tried small talk, he’d kill his brand.

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