‘Poor old Rus­sell Brand has resur­faced and is re­duced to us­ing ME to sell him­self’

The Irish Mail on Sunday - TV Week - - NEWS -


Su­sanna Reid, my Good Morn­ing Bri­tain co-host, took part in the film­ing of Comic Re­lief’s Love Ac­tu­ally mini-se­quel yes­ter­day.

She was re­cruited to be part of a press con­fer­ence in­volv­ing Hugh Grant repris­ing his role as David, the Prime Min­is­ter.

‘How did it go?’ I asked when she ar­rived at work to­day.

‘Great!’ she replied. ‘All the stars were there, in­clud­ing the lovely Hugh.’

Su­sanna calls him that be­cause a) she gen­uinely loves him and b) she knows I can’t stand him. (My feud with Hugh goes back to 1995 when he got caught with that hooker on Sun­set Boule­vard and the News Of The World, for whom I was edi­tor at the time, bought her story…) ‘Did you get to ask any ques­tions?’ ‘Erm… no,’ she replied. ‘Why not?’ ‘Well, I pulled out in the end.’ ‘Re­ally? Why?’ ‘There was a joke Hugh did about you that I didn’t like so I asked not to be sit­ting there as he said it and ev­ery­one laughed at you.’

Su­sanna told me the line, and it’s so un­be­liev­ably of­fen­sive, even I had to laugh. It’s safe to say, as­sum­ing Grant’s jibe makes the fi­nal edit, I’ll be a global laugh­ing stock within sec­onds of him ut­ter­ing it on Fri­day night.

It’s also safe to say I have the most loyal on-screen part­ner imag­in­able; one pre­pared to forego her own mo­ment of mini-movie glory with her favourite dream­boat ac­tor for the sake of her po­lar­is­ing, an­noy­ing, thor­oughly de­serv­ing-of-ridicule TV hus­band.


Nav­i­gat­ing my way through In­ter­na­tional Women’s Day was al­ways go­ing to be a pre­car­i­ous chal­lenge af­ter all the re­cent ‘PIERS MOR­GAN’S A SEX­IST!’ storms.

Things didn’t start well when my GMB col­league Char­lotte Hawkins said the so­lu­tion to my mis­ery over Arse­nal’s 1-5 de­feat to Bay­ern Mu­nich was never to watch them again.

‘Don’t sup­port foot­ball!’ she said. ‘Stop tor­ment­ing your­self!’

‘This is the prob­lem on IWD,’ I sighed, ‘women say very silly things.’

Char­lotte and Su­sanna gasped in mu­tual hor­ror. ‘I think I have to get the gag out again, Piers…’ said the lat­ter, who in­fa­mously si­lenced me with a tie in my mouth at the Na­tional Tele­vi­sion Awards.

‘I thought you’d never of­fer,’ I chuck­led, to more tuts and raised eye­brows.

Re­demp­tion came later as we grilled Pol­ish MEP Janusz Kor­win-Mikke, who thinks women should be paid less than men be­cause they are ‘weaker, smaller and less in­tel­li­gent’.

As this ab­surd old di­nosaur droned on, I fi­nally hushed him with his own il­log­i­cal logic. ‘How can it be pos­si­ble that women are less in­tel­li­gent than men when you say such stupid things, you hor­ren­dous sex­ist pig?’

Our spe­cial IWD guests were An­nie Len­nox and He­len Pankhurst, great-grand­daugh­ter of Suf­fragette hero­ine Em­me­line.

An­nie shared my view about fem­i­nism be­ing let down by the likes of Kim Kar­dashian post­ing top­less self­ies, and Madonna hi­jack­ing the Wash­ing­ton Women’s March by scream­ing about burn­ing down the White House. ‘That’s not my kind of fem­i­nism,’ An­nie said.

We then had a calm, ra­tio­nal dis­cus­sion about what fem­i­nism re­ally is, and all con­cluded there is no sim­ple an­swer but, as with the de­bates over Pres­i­dent Trump and Brexit, hate­ful hys­te­ria is point­lessly self-de­feat­ing.

‘I heard you say ear­lier you de­scribe your­self as a fem­i­nist,’ An­nie told me, ‘and I thought “Wow” be­cause I don’t think you’d have done that a few years ago.’

She’s right, I wouldn’t. But I ab­so­lutely be­lieve in full gen­der equal­ity.

‘I think it’s im­por­tant you bring men with you,’ I said, ‘but the de­bate has to be less hos­tile to men for that to hap­pen.’

‘I agree,’ said An­nie. Then she asked if I would at­tend a fu­ture Women’s March.

‘Yes, if it cel­e­brates women. I’ll even speak at one.’ ‘That would be amaz­ing!’ she ex­claimed. It cer­tainly would. Any­one got a spare p***y hat?


Rus­sell ‘Che Gue­vara’ Brand slith­ered into ob­scu­rity af­ter launch­ing a global po­lit­i­cal revolution that no­body on the planet had any in­ter­est in join­ing. Now he’s re-emerged to fire off more of his in­suf­fer­ably pompous in­ter­net ser­mons.

Last week he laid into me for hav­ing a per­fectly fair GMB con­ver­sa­tion with Lind­say Lo­han about her pos­si­ble con­ver­sion to Is­lam. To­day, he at­tacked me for chal­leng­ing Emma Wat­son over her hypocrisy over nu­dity.

At the end of both videos he shame­lessly flogged his new tour and urged peo­ple to sub­scribe to his pod­cast. Poor old Rus­sell is re­duced to us­ing ME to sell him­self.

I fear no amount of his beloved Kun­dalini yoga, tran­scen­den­tal med­i­ta­tion or ve­gan flap­jacks will ease the pain this must in­evitably cause him.


‘Sir’ Bradley Wig­gins con­tin­ues to deny be­ing a drug cheat de­spite ev­i­dence to the con­trary mount­ing higher than one of the steep climbs he stormed up to win the Tour de France.

An LA doc­tor re­cently pre­scribed me – for a si­nus in­fec­tion – a sim­i­lar type of cor­ti­cos­teroid to the one ‘Sir’ Bradley used for his sup­posed acute asthma.

Mine was in pill form, and sub­stan­tially less po­tent than the amount ‘Sir’ Bradley had in­jected di­rectly into his mus­cles.

Within a few hours I felt in­creas­ingly twitchy and ex­citable. That night I slept hor­ren­dously. My wife later in­formed me I had spent eight hours fren­ziedly kicking her with both legs.

Not the kind of per­for­mance en­hance­ment she was per­haps look­ing for, but enough for me to doubt ‘Sir’ Bradley’s in­no­cence even more.

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