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‘I stared at Jack Ni­chol­son like a puppy, will­ing him to toss me a tiny bone’


My Good Morn­ing Britain in­ter­view with Pro­fes­sor Stephen Hawk­ing has made waves around the world. Par­tic­u­larly his an­swer about how he’d spend his last day if he knew the world was end­ing: ‘I’d be with my fam­ily, lis­ten­ing to Wag­ner, sip­ping cham­pagne in the sum­mer sun.’

‘How would YOU spend your last day?’ I asked my co-host Su­sanna Reid to­day.

‘Prob­a­bly the same way,’ she replied. ‘You?’ I grinned and raised my right eye­brow. ‘What does THAT mean?’ ‘Well I don’t want to die won­der­ing,’ I clarified.

Her face screwed into in­stant hor­ror as the penny dropped. Then she stared at me for sev­eral sec­onds, slowly shak­ing her head be­fore burst­ing out into fits of laugh­ter.

‘You are in­cor­ri­gi­ble!’ she even­tu­ally gasped.

‘I’ll take that as an­other no then,’ I laughed.

As we went back on air, she was still gig­gling. ‘We were just discussing….’ I said. ‘THE WEATHER!’ she in­ter­rupted. ‘Let’s go to THE WEATHER.’


My 52nd birthday. If I could have scripted how it went, I’d be hav­ing din­ner at Madeo, my favourite restau­rant in Los An­ge­les, and my No 1 movie star and bucket-list in­ter­vie­wee Jack Ni­chol­son would walk in and sit down at the next ta­ble.

We’d get talk­ing, I’d buy him a very ex­pen­sive bot­tle of Barolo and he’d end up agree­ing to his first TV in­ter­view in over 40 years.

Well, tonight I was din­ing at Madeo and in came Ni­chol­son, strid­ing to the ta­ble next to mine. I wish I could say I stayed cool and ex­changed the afore­men­tioned calm words with the great man. But no, I just stared at him like a trem­bling, over-ex­cited puppy, will­ing him to toss me even the sim­ple tiny bone of ac­knowl­edge­ment. He didn’t. And even­tu­ally I left. But at least I can now die know­ing my tomb­stone will read: ‘Here lies Piers Mor­gan. He once ate spaghetti Bolognese two feet from Jack Ni­chol­son.’


At 6am I put my­self through a gru­elling spin­ning ses­sion at the SoulCy­cle gym in Bev­erly Hills used by the likes of Kim Kar­dashian and Char­l­ize Theron.

I emerged drip­ping in sweat but burst­ing with en­ergy and en­thu­si­asm at the last scream­ing words of en­cour­age­ment from my in­struc­tor: ‘This is go­ing to be THE GREAT­EST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!’

(Along with this com­i­cal piece of ad­vice: ‘Re­mem­ber, guys, you can drink col­la­gen too!’)

Then I got in my As­ton Martin Rapide and promptly pranged it into an­other car, caus­ing £20,000 worth of dam­age. To say this slightly dimmed my joy on this his­toric day is the un­der­state­ment of the mil­len­nium.


Emily Rata­jkowski, who along with Chrissy Teigen is one of my favourite celebrity dimwits, has made her name by post­ing end­less naked self­ies on so­cial me­dia in the ab­surdly in­ap­pro­pri­ate name of fem­i­nism.

Now she’s re­vealed that her mother had slightly loftier as­pi­ra­tions for her lit­tle girl.

‘My mum told peo­ple I’d be a brain sur­geon,’ she dis­closed, ‘be­cause she didn’t like the idea that I would think my ap­pear­ance was the only thing I was go­ing to be val­ued for.’

God for­bid any of us would draw that con­clu­sion, Ms Rata­jkowski!


I awoke at my Bev­erly Hills home to dev­as­tat­ing news that a lady I’d never heard of named Ruby Tan­doh has pub­licly re­jected an in­vi­ta­tion to ap­pear on GMB.

She tweeted one of the show’s pro­duc­ers to say: ‘Hi, I know it’s just your job so no hard feel­ings but Piers Mor­gan is a sen­tient ham and frankly I’d rather die.’

It’s bad enough hav­ing to en­dure this non­sense from hyp­o­crit­i­cal stars like Ewan ‘I’m in­cred­i­bly fond of [child rapist] Ro­man Polan­ski’ Mc­Gre­gor. But hav­ing to take it from some­one who came sec­ond in The Great Bri­tish Bake Off is an in­dig­nity too far.

Ruby, my dar­ling, I had no idea who you were un­til to­day. I’m on hol­i­day so wouldn’t have been in the stu­dio any­way, and I have ab­so­lutely no de­sire ever in­ter­view you. Ever.

So pipe down you lu­di­crous crea­ture and learn how to make bet­ter cakes.


By co­in­ci­dence, the new GBBO cast was un­veiled to­day, with­out Mary Berry or pre­sen­ters Mel and Sue. Which is a bit like re-launch­ing The Rolling Stones with­out Mick Jag­ger, Keith Richards or Char­lie Watts.

Sandi Toksvig is one of the re­place­ment hosts, a role she ful­filled for me re­cently af­ter I pulled out of the Royal Tele­vi­sion So­ci­ety Pro­gramme Awards fol­low­ing a cam­paign to oust me by shriek­ing anti-Trump lib­er­als.

She told the au­di­ence: ‘I think you can tell how much we’ve moved on when the least con­tro­ver­sial choice for host is the for­eign les­bian.’


In my New Year pre­dic­tions I joked that Harper Beck­ham, five, would star in her own catwalk show at Lon­don Fash­ion Week and quoted fa­ther David as say­ing: ‘It was en­tirely her idea and ab­so­lutely noth­ing to do with me and Vic­to­ria ex­ploit­ing our young kids to pro­mote Brand Beck­ham.’ In the past week the Beck­hams of­fi­cially reg­is­tered Harper’s name for com­mer­cial rights.

To­day they re­leased a video of her singing Happy Birthday to her mother. Hav­ing failed to pro­mote Cruz, 12, as the new Justin Bieber, they’re clearly now try­ing to cash in on Harper as the new Shirley Tem­ple. They truly have no shame.

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