THURSDAY, MAY 9
Regular readers of this diary will know I’ve repeatedly lauded Amanda Holden as my closest and most ferociously loyal celebrity friend. Yet deep down, I’ve always wondered what would happen if she were to be presented with a stark choice between supporting me and furthering her career.
Tonight, I got my answer when she appeared on Celebrity Juice, and host Keith Lemon posed this question: ‘Amanda, I’ve got to ask you this: David Walliams, Simon Cowell and Piers Morgan – sh**, marry or kill?’
It’s the third time Camilla and I have been in each other’s company in recent months. ‘We meet again, Mr Morgan!’ she exclaimed at the pre-meal drinks reception, carefully avoiding any tonal suggestion as to whether she felt this was a good or bad thing
My ‘closest and most ferociously loyal celebrity friend’ weighed up the repercussions of her dilemma for several seconds then declared: ‘I’ll sh** Simon, marry David… and kill Piers.’
SATURDAY, MAY 11
On a more positive note, fearless documentarian Louis Theroux has shown his raw courage once again by publicly praising me.
‘I’ve always thought Piers was pretty good,’ he told journalists while promoting his powerful new postnatal depression documentary, Mothers On The Edge. ‘What I like is that he’s not afraid to bring the fight. I mean, he’ll call the bulls***. I enjoy that.’
Louis has hung out with Nazis, scientologists and Jimmy Savile. But this might be the riskiest thing he’s ever done.
SUNDAY, MAY 12
Good Morning Britain has enjoyed a good run of award nominations lately, from the Royal Television Society Programme Awards to the National Television Awards. Sadly, we’ve also had a 100 per cent failure rate to win a gong.
Much as I love Winston Churchill’s definition of success – ‘Going from failure to failure with no discernible loss of enthusiasm’ – it would be really nice, as he eventually did, actually to bloody win something.
Tonight, I headed to the Bafta TV Awards with genuine hope in my heart as GMB was up for two nominations, both in the news coverage category – one for our world exclusive interview with Thomas Markle, the other for a powerful knife-crime special.
‘Think we’ll win?’ asked Susanna Reid as we took our seats. ‘They may finally find it impossible to conjure up a good enough reason to not let me win,’ I replied.
‘Us, Piers,’ she sighed. ‘Let US win.’
‘Right.’
Of course, WE lost – to Channel 4 News and its Cambridge Analytica investigation.
The post-awards dinner was like attending my own funeral, only with marginally less joy in the room. Eventually, I found a kindred spirit in the fabulous Keeley Hawes, who also lost twice tonight, in the leading actress (Bodyguard) and best supporting actress (Mrs Wilson) categories.
‘God, I hate losing,’ I said.
‘Me too,’ she laughed.
‘At least you didn’t lose twice in the same category,’ I replied. ‘Shall we do a p*****-off loser selfie?’
We both grimaced miserably for my phone camera. At which point, Jamie Redknapp bounded up clutching a Bafta. ‘You two want to borrow mine?’ he chortled.
‘WHAT?’ I retorted, incredulously.
‘A League Of Their Own won Best Comedy Entertainment Programme,’ he laughed, kissing his statuette as if it was the FA Cup.
Our humiliation was complete.
TUESDAY, MAY 14
Woody Johnson, the charming billionaire US Ambassador to the UK, and his delightful wife Suzanne invited me to their palatial residence, Winfield House, for a dinner in honour of the Duchess of Cornwall and her work as president of the cancer support charity Maggie’s Centres.
It’s the third time Camilla and I have been in each other’s company in recent months.
‘We meet again, Mr Morgan!’ she exclaimed at the pre-meal drinks reception, carefully avoiding any tonal suggestion as to whether she felt this was a good or bad thing.
‘I can only apologise, your Royal Highness,’ I replied. ‘I’m afraid that I’m the opposite of a No 9 bus: you wait for ages hoping for me not to come along, then you see me three times in rapid succession.’
She roared with laughter, then turned to my wife and said: ‘I hear you’ve got a novel coming out?’
‘I have!’ replied Celia, slightly startled that our future Queen Consort, whom she’d never met, would know about her book. (The Royals are always so skilfully briefed about people they are likely to meet at such events.)
‘What’s it about?’ asked Camilla.
‘A badly behaved man who gets a grisly comeuppance.’
Camilla glanced back to me and chuckled. ‘Oh, that sounds… EXCELLENT!’
I was seated for dinner next to the ambassador and the Duchess, and we had a fascinating (off-the-record) conversation about everything from Donald Trump and Brexit to trophy-hunting and the perils of social media.
Camilla and I get on oddly well, which may be because we originate from neighbouring villages in East Sussex – she’s from Plumpton, and I’m from Newick, a mile away – and are obviously both massively misunderstood and unfairly maligned public figures. She’s great fun in a very natural, down-to-earth way.
‘Right, time for some surprise entertainment,’ announced Ambassador Johnson at the end of the meal (for the culinary fans among you, we ate pea soup, corn-fed chicken breast and apple tarte tatin with vanilla ice cream, washed down with very palatable American wine), standing up and leading the Duchess with him.
‘Are you performing for us, your Royal Highness?’ I joked.
‘Yes, Piers,’ she replied, deadpan. ‘I’m going to do some ballet for you. It’s been a while, so please forgive me as I may be a little rusty.’
‘REALLY?’ I exclaimed.
‘No, Piers.’
In fact the entertainment was in the form of the mezzo-soprano singer Laura Wright, who dazzled us with beautiful renditions of Diamonds Are Forever, A Nightingale Sang In Berkeley Square and, finally, Time To Say Goodbye. Which, sadly, it was.