PIERS MORGAN: DELICIOUSLY INDISCREET
I’m not in the least surprised Beckham has been exposed as a sham. He has always been a two-faced piece of work
TUESDAY, JANUARY 31
Harriet Harman, publicising her new autobiography, says it will be ‘the stock text for the Harriet Harman Institute of Political Correctness’. She added that she wants ME to be the first recipient of this tome, presumably to bring me to rabid feminist heel.
No offence, Harriet luv, but on balance I’d rather read Madonna’s guide to stripping in your late 50s.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 1
Week two of my personal awards season and a chance to bounce back from the debacle of last week’s National Television Awards, where I failed to win anything and was gagged on stage by Susanna Reid.
The Broadcast Awards is one of the most prestigious events in the TV calendar, with more than 1,500 members of our trade piling into London’s Grosvenor Hotel. Host Jonathan Ross took just 90 seconds to whack what turned out to be his two pet subjects of mockery for the evening: me, and Donald Trump.
‘My message to all winners tonight,’ he announced, ‘is feel free to have a go at Trump when you get up here. It won’t make any difference but it will annoy the **** out of Piers Morgan.’
Ross was on amusingly caustic form, dubbing Gary Lineker the ‘Bernie Sanders of football, who wants to let everyone into the penalty area’, expressing relief that the supercautious BBC had scrapped plans for a controversial new show, ‘Rolf’ll Fix It’, and saying of Great British Bake Off’s move to Channel 4: ‘I’m angry, appalled… and available!’ He bemoaned the planet collapsing due to Brexit and Trump but added: ‘Thank God for Ant and Dec, the only constant in this panicky world.
‘They could host the Apocalypse and we’d all feel reassured, or present live water-boarding from the White House and win an NTA.’
Water-boarding is probably less torturous than enduring awards ceremonies like this.
Ross turned his terrible tormenting turrets (at least I can pronounce that better than him) back at me. ‘Ewan McGregor was happy to dive into his own s*** in Trainspotting but couldn’t face sitting on a sofa with Piers Morgan! Dwell on that for a moment, ladies and gentlemen!’
The ladies and gentlemen of the audience duly did dwell on that for a moment, and burst into loud laughter.
One blonde woman sitting at the table next to me nearly burst a blood vessel from her prolonged volcanic heaves of guffawing. ‘All right, calm down,’ I eventually suggested as her shrieking reached Florence Foster Jenkins proportions – a request that, of course, simply set her off squealing again.
The first award category was then announced and, inevitably, it was mine. I was up for Best Documentary Series for my Killer Women crime show.
As soon as Ross read out my name, sections of the crowd began booing, led by Blondie.
Then, when a picture of me with one of my Killer Women appeared on the giant screens, most of the rest of the room gleefully joined in – jeering me, not her.
It’s quite a moment to learn you’re deemed more worthy of disapproval than a mass murderer but I consoled myself with the thought that Churchill was heckled in the House of Commons, and Messi gets savaged every time he plays at the Bernebéu. Genius is irksome to the less gifted. Ross, chuckling raucously himself, eventually pleaded for calm.
‘Come on, everyone. I know Piers is a c*** but at least he’s here.’
Cue even louder booing, to which I responded by standing up and spreading my arms out wide like Leonardo DiCaprio addressing his sales team in The Wolf Of Wall Street. I did eventually get a huge cheer, but only when it was revealed I had lost.
To drown my sorrows, I reached for a magnum of champagne in the ice bucket on our table.
‘Golden rule of opening champagne bottles is to hold the cork and turn the bottle,’ I announced, channelling my inner David Brent. ‘That way you stop the cork exploding.’
I began my masterclass, only for the cork to burst out suddenly and fly 50ft into the air, narrowly avoiding the high-powered ITV executives sitting around me.
‘Not really your night Piers, is it?’ one of them sighed.
At 11pm I sloped off down Park Lane to be met by a small gaggle of fans wanting selfies.
‘I really love you, mate,’ said one of them, which slightly perked me up.
‘Yeah,’ he added as we posed for a photo, ‘I’ve watched every episode of Top Gear.’
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 6
David Beckham’s halo is taking a battering over revelations about his foul-mouthed fury at not getting a knighthood for all his ‘charidee work’.
What particularly irked me was his vicious attack on my friend Katherine Jenkins. ‘OBE for what?’ he sneered about the fabulously talented and very genuine Welsh singer. ‘Singing at the rugby and going to see the troops, taking coke. **** ing joke.’
I’ve only met Beckham once, in April 2011, when we had a chat at Soho House in Los Angeles.
Later that night, he stopped by my table and began gushing over one of my female companions, turning on the full Goldenballs charm.
It was Katherine Jenkins. Eighteen months later he was spewing horrible bile about her to his manager.
So no, I’m not remotely surprised that ‘Saint’ David’s carefully contrived public image has been exposed as a sham, as he’s always been a two-faced piece of work.