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Fifty Shades Of Grey star Jamie Dor­nan must spend his en­tire life hav­ing to fend off ques­tions about kinky sex from breath­less fe­male fans.

Yet his real-life pas­sion doesn’t ac­tu­ally in­volve whips, pad­dles or blind­folds – more clubs, balls and wild shanks.

To­day we were on the same flight to Los An­ge­les. When we landed, he came over to say hello and had only one thing on his mind.

‘Piers, good to see you. How was the Dun­hill?’

He was re­fer­ring to the re­cent Al­fred Dun­hill Links Cham­pi­onship golf tour­na­ment up in Scot­land, which pits am­a­teurs with pro­fes­sion­als. He usu­ally plays but couldn’t this year due to film­ing com­mit­ments.

‘I saw you made your de­but,’ he sighed. ‘I was SO jeal­ous…’

Jamie’s eyes were sparkling with al­most as much ex­cite­ment as Chris­tian Grey’s when Anas­ta­sia Steele first ar­rives to in­ter­view him.

Like me, his en­thu­si­asm for golf ex­ceeds his abil­ity.

But as US golf le­gend Jimmy De­maret once put it: ‘Golf and sex are about the only things you can en­joy without be­ing good at.’


A text mes­sage from Holly Wil­loughby: ‘Piers, as you know I’m a global style icon. This Morn­ing is do­ing a fea­ture where I help peo­ple with ab­so­lutely no dress sense and I im­me­di­ately thought of you. What WAS that hideous thing you were wear­ing last time I saw you?’ Sorry, WHAT? ‘Hope you won’t be of­fended but could you come in with a few of your out­fits for Phil and I to laugh at? In re­turn you’ll get a whole new wardrobe. Need to know ASAP, love Holly xxx.’ What a damn cheek. ‘NO!’ I replied, bristling with in­dig­nant rage. ‘I am al­ready a bloody style icon!’

I was still seething sev­eral hours later when an­other text ar­rived: ‘Don’t worry, that last text wasn’t real. I’ve just been part of Michael McIn­tyre’s show where I gave him my phone and he sent out a text to some of my con­tacts. I chose you be­cause I thought you’d en­joy the laugh.’ Ho ho. Mil­lions of view­ers will now not only see me cru­elly mocked for my style but also suf­fer­ing a chronic sense of hu­mour fail­ure.


Foot­ball su­per­star Cris­tiano Ron­aldo to­day over­took singer Se­lena Gomez to be­come the most pop­u­lar per­son on In­sta­gram, with a stag­ger­ing 144 mil­lion fol­low­ers.

I can con­firm he’s a very ac­tive user of the so­cial-me­dia plat­form.

Two weeks ago, a pri­vate mes­sage popped up in my own In­sta­gram in­box – from Ron­aldo, who I have never met.

‘Hello sir! How are you?’ it be­gan. ‘I saw your doc­u­men­tary on Net­flix!’

We ex­changed a few mes­sages be­fore he sug­gested we have a chat on the phone. So he rang, and we had a great chat for nearly an hour.

It turns out Ron­aldo is an avid fan of my Killer Women and Se­rial Killer crime se­ries.

‘I watch them all with my girl­friend in bed,’ he said, ‘and we love them. She said I should tell you that, so I am now telling you!’

We spoke about a lot of other stuff too, in­clud­ing how he nearly signed for Arse­nal when he was a teenager, be­fore join­ing Man­ches­ter United. ‘Yes, it nearly hap­pened,’ he said. ‘Ssshhh Cris­tiano, I don’t want to hear it,’ I in­ter­rupted, ‘it’s too painful.’

When the rather sur­real con­ver­sa­tion ended, I re­alised I had no way of prov­ing it had ever hap­pened to my three foot­ball-mad sons. I mes­saged Ron­aldo to ex­plain the prob­lem, and two min­utes later a What­sApp video popped back.

‘Spencer, Stan­ley and Ber­tie!’ he be­gan, ‘just to say how are you? I hope to see you one day! I spoke with your Daddy and any time you want to come and watch a game here in Torino, you’re very wel­come. OK guys, bye bye.’ He even saluted them at the end. If this doesn’t win me Fa­ther of the Mil­len­nium, noth­ing will.


A text mes­sage from Ch­eryl Cole: ‘Hi Piers, babe! I’m get­ting pri­vate art les­sons and my home­work this week is life draw­ing. Would you come round and pose naked for me? It’ll only take a few hours, we can have a good nat­ter, and don’t worry, I’ll whack the heat­ing up! If you’d rather, we can po­si­tion fruit and stuff in front of your naughty bits. Let me know, love Ch­eryl xxx.’

For a very brief nano-sec­ond, my ego con­vinced my­self that this was a gen­uine in­vi­ta­tion. Af­ter all, Ch­eryl once will­ingly mar­ried Ash­ley Cole, so her bar for male nu­dity is clearly very low.

Then I re­alised it was the ex­act same time on a Sun­day night that Holly Wil­loughby’s text had ar­rived last week, did the maths and replied: ‘Of course! I thought you’d never ask.’

Sure enough, an­other text from Ch­eryl ar­rived an hour later: ‘Don’t worry, that last text wasn’t real. I’ve just been part of Michael McIn­tyre’s show…’


YouGov has launched a new web­site that tracks real-time pop­u­lar­ity of ev­ery­thing from politi­cians to choco­late bars.

Its first sur­vey re­vealed that I am cur­rently the fifth-most fa­mous per­son in the UK with a 98% recog­ni­tion rat­ing, only trail­ing David Beck­ham (100%), Theresa May (100%), Prince Wil­liam (99%) and Paul Mc­Cart­ney (99%) – but beat­ing Prince Harry, John Len­non, Daniel Craig, Oprah Win­frey, Boris John­son and the Eng­land foot­ball team (all 97%).

I must say, I’m ab­so­lutely stunned by this re­sult. How can two per cent of the Bri­tish pop­u­la­tion not know who I am?

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