I’m not in the least sur­prised Beck­ham has been ex­posed as a sham. He has al­ways been a two-faced piece of work

The Irish Mail on Sunday - TV Week - - FRONT PAGE -


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.


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.’


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.

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