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


Bumped into Tom Parker Bowles at the Lon­don Food Month Night Mar­ket in Kens­ing­ton Gar­dens.

‘Mum’s been en­joy­ing you roast­ing all these politi­cians in the morn­ing,’ he said. ‘She gets up es­pe­cially to watch it.’ ‘Mum’, of course, is Camilla Parker Bowles.

This won’t quite land me a ‘By Royal Ap­point­ment’ ad­den­dum to my Good Morn­ing Bri­tain pre­sen­ter ti­tle but it’s a start.


I re­cently en­joyed a very salu­bri­ous week in St Tropez where I drank my body weight in rosé and daily con­sumed vast slabs of cheese and bread. On my re­turn to GMB, I sensed a non-co­in­ci­den­tal tight­en­ing be­tween my neck and shirt col­lar.

An hour into to­day’s show, one of my co­p­re­sen­ters, Char­lotte Hawkins, picked up a white but­ton and said: ‘Is this yours? It just bounced off the desk into my face.’

I checked my shirt but it seemed fine. ‘No.’

The mys­tery re­mained un­re­solved un­til an ea­gle-eyed viewer posted a video on Twit­ter of the of­fend­ing but­ton spring­ing loose from the very top of my shirt, then hang­ing per­ilously to my tie for sev­eral sec­onds, be­fore ping­ing off, smack­ing into the desk and fly­ing up at Char­lotte as she tried to read the news.

I joked about this through­out the rest of the morn­ing un­til an­other viewer tweeted me to beg: ‘Love watch­ing you but I’m re­ally strug­gling to­day. Please stop go­ing on about the but­ton. I have a pho­bia of them and it’s mak­ing me feel sick.’

I burst out laugh­ing but Su­sanna quickly si­lenced me. ‘But­ton pho­bia is a real thing. One of my sons had it. It’s called koum­pouno­pho­bia.’

Graham Brady, chair­man of Par­lia­ment’s pow­er­ful back­bencher 1922 Com­mit­tee, was our next guest.

‘You Tories are only keep­ing Theresa May as leader to save your own scrawny necks, right?’ I bel­lowed.

‘I don’t think we should talk about scrawny necks this morn­ing, Piers,’ he replied, to hi­lar­ity in the stu­dio,

Jeez. Roasted by a politi­cian; Camilla will be so dis­ap­pointed in me.


There have been many he­roes of the re­cent ter­ror at­tacks but I par­tic­u­larly love Roy Larner, the foot­ball fan who sin­gle-hand­edly took on all three ji­hadis in a pub at Bor­ough Mar­ket with the im­mor­tal words: ‘F**K YOU! I’M MILLWALL!’

Roy was stabbed eight times, in­clud­ing a huge ten-inch slice across the back of his neck. But when he ap­peared on GMB to­day, he shrugged it off as just ‘a bit of bother’. Which, to be fair, it prob­a­bly was for a Millwall fan.

Roy’s home­less at the mo­ment, sleep­ing on a mate’s sofa, and hasn’t got a job. Yet he risked his life to save women and young chil­dren from be­ing mur­dered.

His only gripe was a lack of food. ‘I’ve been nil by mouth all morn­ing!’ he groaned.

Bradley Walsh joined him on the sofa. ‘Piers is the one who needs to be nil by mouth,’ he quipped, ‘per­ma­nently!’


‘You look very fa­mil­iar?’ is a line that, like ev­ery­one in the pub­lic eye, I hear sev­eral times a day. I used to put the ques­tion­ers at im­me­di­ate ease and say who I was.

But that of­ten led to crush­ing dis­ap­point­ment. So now I al­ways re­ply: ‘Brad Pitt, nice to meet you.’

It usu­ally gets a good laugh, and very oc­ca­sion­ally they ac­tu­ally be­lieve it and I have to ex­plain why I treated An­gelina so badly. Tonight I was wait­ing in the se­cu­rity line at At­lanta air­port when a very el­e­gant-look­ing African-Amer­i­can lady be­hind me said: ‘You look very fa­mil­iar.’

‘Brad Pitt,’ I replied, shak­ing her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

‘I know you’re not Brad,’ she re­sponded, with un­nerv­ing con­fi­dence.

‘No, I’m ac­tu­ally Piers Mor­gan,’ I con­fessed. ‘Ha! I’m Mary Wil­son,’ she chuck­led. ‘Ha!’ I also chuck­led. ‘Not THE Mary Wil­son?’

Of course, it was in­deed THE Mary Wil­son, the singing leg­end from The Supremes.

‘I’m so sorry for not recog­nis­ing you,’ I stam­mered des­per­ately.

‘Don’t worry, honey, no­body does when I’m not wear­ing any make-up. That’s why I never wear make-up when I travel.’ She looked supremely beau­ti­ful, make-up or no make-up.

‘I’d also like to apol­o­gise for pulling that ridicu­lous Brad Pitt line…’

‘I un­der­stand,’ she said, sti­fling a with­er­ing smirk.

As we shuf­fled on down the line, I at­tempted some face-sav­ing small-talk. ‘Where you headed?’

‘Lon­don, for some shows.’

‘That’s great! What’s the song peo­ple love most when you per­form?’

‘Oh you know… Stop In The Name Of Love and Baby Love.’ ‘Pre­dictable,’ I said. ‘Yes,’ she sighed, wearily. I’d be­come the world’s most an­noy­ing Supremes groupie. To com­plete my ig­nominy, I then set off a se­cu­rity alarm and was led away for a se­ries of ag­gres­sive, full-body pat-downs.

Mary walked on with a be­mused, slightly anx­ious face that sug­gested I had moved from Brad Pitt wannabe to pos­si­ble ter­ror sus­pect.


Very sad to hear of Ant McPartlin’s prob­lems. He’s a great guy, and the very last celebrity mate I’d ex­pect to find in this po­si­tion.

But I’m sure he’ll come through it, not least be­cause he has the de­voted love of his wife Lisa, who’s worked with me as a make-up artist on Life Sto­ries for years and is one of the nicest, most gen­uine peo­ple you could ever wish to meet.

I wish them both all the very best through what I know has been, and will con­tinue to be, an in­cred­i­bly dif­fi­cult time.

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