Monday, June 7
I’ve had shockingly debilitating hay fever for the past few weeks, just as I did at the same time last year when I thought it was Covid.
Apparently, lockdowns have made many sufferers’ symptoms worse than usual because there’s been less traffic pollution circulating in the air to help break up the pollen particulate before it bombs into our nasal passages.
(I wonder if Greta Thunberg has considered this unfortunate downside to her environmental campaigning?)
Finally, my doctor advised taking ‘nuclear option’ strong corticosteroids of the same type that some of our acclaimed cyclists were allegedly prescribed by medical staff on ‘whiter than white’ Team Sky.
Obviously, I don’t want to cast any aspersions, but three things happened within 12 hours of me starting the steroid course:
1) My hay fever symptoms disappeared.
2) I was consumed with gamma-ray-level energy.
3) I smashed my Peloton exercise-bike record.
Tuesday, June 8
As speculation mounts over my next career move, most of it fuelled by me, Lorraine Kelly has urged Ant and Dec to sign me up for I’m A Celebrity… Get Me Out Of Here!, saying: ‘I think he’d be absolutely amazing in there!’
‘Well, he’s not working at the moment, so he’ll be looking for a job,’ scoffed Ant, as Dec cackled like a slathering hyena at the thought of luring me into their hellish jungle prison camp.
Let me make one thing crystal clear: there’s no way I’m ever exposing myself to a series of ghastly gastronomic humiliations for the delectation of the British public.
When I munch kangaroo testicles, I do so in the privacy of my home.
Friday, June 11
Golf at Wentworth Club with Kevin Pietersen and another former England cricketer, Chris Tremlett, in what KP tweeted was ‘the greatest sporting occasion this summer’.
This may have been slight hyperbole, but it was certainly the one guaranteed to inspire the most savage ‘banter’, of a viciousness that made England v Scotland in the Euros look like a chummy tea party.
When I arrived, a few of the staff started chuckling.
I walked down to find my long-time breakfast TV foe Dan Walker (above, with Piers) smirking in the sunshine. ‘We’re the next group teeing off after you!’ he announced
‘You may want to go to the practice putting green,’ one suggested. ‘An old friend of yours is there.’
I walked down to find my long-time breakfast TV foe Dan Walker smirking in the sunshine.
‘We’re the next group teeing off after you!’ he announced.
‘Trailing in my wake, as usual,’ I retorted.
Then we both laughed, shook hands and had a nice chat about the body-breaking, soul-sapping brutality of doing morning television.
I thoroughly enjoyed our public feud, in which I billed myself as the Minister-mauling rottweiler to his timid poodle.
To be honest, I’ve always needed a rivalry to get me out of bed in the morning, just as Cristiano Ronaldo once told me that thinking of Lionel Messi was his only motivational tool to go to the gym every day.
But once the war’s over, it’s over, and I’m always then happy to break the peace bread with once sworn enemies.
Of course, old habits die hard.
Walker stood behind me on the first tee, phone video camera switched on, willing for me to cock up. As did Pietersen, standing to my side.
I duly horribly shanked my opening drive about 40 yards, prompting an explosion of mocking guffaws and immediate social-media humiliation.
To my horror, I saw Justin Rose, one of the world’s best golfers, standing near where my ball landed, his face laden with disdain.
I screamed in rage, then turned back to Walker, who was cackling so hard I thought his spleen would self-implode.
‘Enjoy this moment,’ I said, ‘because I’m still enjoying Good Morning Britain finally beating BBC Breakfast in the ratings on my last day, and no amount of shank videos will ever heal that pain for you.’
‘They’re definitely helping,’ he chuckled.
Tuesday, June 15
During a recent barbecue at her West London home, singer Katherine Jenkins and I debated random barometers of fame.
‘I’ve received fan mail addressed to just “Katherine Jenkins, Wales” on the envelope,’ she revealed.
‘That’s nothing,’ I retorted. ‘I once had a letter reach me that said, “Piers Morgan, W***er, London.” ’
On a happier note, today I got one addressed to ‘Sir Piers Morgan, National Icon, We Luv Ya! Thank you Mr Postman’.
I may have to make this my new formal postal address.
Wednesday, June 16
Conspiracy-theory whack-job David Icke sent me a copy of his new book, The Answer, personally inscribed with the words: ‘To Piers, enjoy my friend!’
Obviously, I immediately checked the index to see if my ‘friend’ had mentioned me in it.
He had, branding me a permanently screaming ‘legend in his own mind’ prone to ‘I-am-right narcissism’ and living under the self-delusion that I’m a journalist.
To be fair, this is one of Icke’s more accurate assertions.
Conspiracy-theory whack-job David Icke (above) sent me a copy of his new book, The Answer, personally inscribed with the words: ‘To Piers, enjoy my friend!’
But on a positive note, at least I don’t, like him, claim to be the ‘Son of the Godhead’, deny the Holocaust happened, think climate change is a hoax and 9/11 an inside job, tell people that 5G masts spread coronavirus, and believe an inter-dimensional race of reptilian beings called the Archons have hijacked the Earth and are stopping humanity from realising its true potential.
I don’t know what The Answer is, Dave my ‘friend’, but I do know you don’t have it.
Sunday, June 20
The irrepressible Dame Joan Collins is my special guest on Life Stories tonight to celebrate the staggering achievement of her 70th year in the movie business.
She had just one demand before we sat down for what turned out to be a fabulously feisty, entertaining and emotional interview.
‘You’re not allowed to mention my age, Piers,’ she ordered. ‘I’m superstitious, and if you say it and I then die, it will be on you.’
Tune in to ITV at 9pm tonight to see whether I risk a potential eternity of celestial vengeful wrath from the great Dame.