PIERS MOR­GAN

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

Just be­fore kick- off at the Arse­nal game to­day Lawrie McMen­emy, leg­endary for­mer man­ager and TV pun­dit, came over and greeted me with sur­pris­ing warmth given I couldn’t re­call ever meet­ing him.

We chat­ted for a few min­utes, then he said: ‘ What are you do­ing here any­way, thought you were a Burn­ley man?’ The penny dropped with a sick­en­ing thud. ‘Lawrie, you think I’m Alas­tair Camp­bell, don’t you?’

His face creased in con­torted con­fu­sion. ‘I’m Piers Mor­gan,’ I clar­i­fied. Grey­hounds have left a trap slower than Lawrie de­parted.

I nar­rowly avoided a sim­i­larly ex­cru­ci­at­ing in­ci­dent last week when I spied Sir Pa­trick Ste­wart emerg­ing from a lift at Clar­idge’s.

Or rather, I thought it was Sir Pa­trick, with whom I re­cently en­joyed a very amenable break­fast in Los An­ge­les. ‘Hi!’ I cried, cheer­fully. ‘Hi,’ he mum­bled back, with oddly muted en­thu­si­asm.

It was only then that I re­alised it was our OTHER great, bald Bri­tish act­ing knight, Sir Ben Kings­ley. trip to Paris to­day, and in­sisted on de­fy­ing my ad­vice not to go.

‘No ter­ror­ist is go­ing to stop me shop­ping,’ she de­clared firmly.

Which is, of course, the per­fect re­sponse.

‘Hi Piers,’ said Char­l­ize, kiss­ing me – to the dis­may of ev­ery other man there

Sean Penn held his an­nual fundrais­ing event for Haiti tonight at the Montage ho­tel in Bev­erly Hills.

Un­like many of his fel­low th­es­pi­ans who talk a good game with their char­ity work but rarely match it with phys­i­cal deeds, Sean has lived in Haiti for nearly half of the past five years, help­ing them re­build their coun­try after the dread­ful earth­quake.

I’ve got to know him quite well over the years and he’s a mag­nif­i­cently com­plex bun­dle of pas­sion, ag­gres­sion, fun, act­ing ge­nius and mis­chief. He’s also dat­ing Char­l­ize Theron, ar­guably the sin­gle most beau­ti­ful woman in Hol­ly­wood. She caught my eye by the bar dur­ing the pre- din­ner cock­tail party tonight and shim­mied over in a breath­tak­ingly sheer, short, sparkly beaded black dress.

‘Hi Piers,’ she said, kiss­ing me on both cheeks to the open­mouthed dis­may of ev­ery other man in the room.

‘ How are you?’ I asked. To which the ac­cu­rate re­sponse would have been ‘a mil­lion dol­lars, thanks’ – but Char­l­ize is more mod­est than me. ‘Ex­hausted!’ she laughed. ‘We had my son’s third birth­day party this af­ter­noon – have you any idea how tir­ing boys of that age can be?’ (Char­l­ize adopted young Jack­son Theron soon after he was born.) ‘Ac­tu­ally I do, I’ve had three of them.’ ‘Re­ally?’ ‘Yes, and I have a three-year- old daugh­ter too.’ ‘Do you have a pic­ture of her?’ I pulled out my phone from my

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