MONDAY, JANAUARY 8
I returned to work on Good Morning Britain suffering from ‘explosive stomach-related issues’ after contracting a nasty bug during a break in Marrakech.
Sympathy from colleagues was in non-existent supply due to my constant refrain that the modern generation needs to show more grit.
‘Come on Piers, don’t be a snowflake,’ sneered Susanna Reid gleefully as I moaned on air about my condition.
‘I’ve never seen David Dimbleby so enraged. Even Susanna doesn’t get that annoyed with me,’ writes Piers Morgan
GMB viewers were even less understanding. One tweeted: ‘When Piers Morgan dies, can we all chip in to get “MAN UP” engraved on his tombstone?’
Another simply said: ‘You’re always full of s*** anyway, what’s the difference?’
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 10
Turned on Coronation Street to find Eileen Grimshaw watching GMB. I was thrilled. This is the kind of product placement that companies pay millions to secure.
Then Eileen’s murderous husband, Pat Phelan, crashed back into the house with a bag of burned remains of the clothes he was wearing when he killed Luke Britton.
As he slammed the door, Eileen moaned: ‘I get enough of a headache from Piers Morgan, never mind him.’
I was surprised by this unprovoked jibe, until I remembered that actress Sue Cleaver, who plays Eileen, is best friends with Richard Arnold, GMB’s entertainment editor.
By the time I’ve finished with Arnold, I’ll need my own bag of burned clothes.
THURSDAY, JANUARY 11
To Islington for my 22nd appearance on Question Time in 20 years.
‘London crowds can be a bit dull,’ warned veteran host David Dimbleby, 79, during his pre-show pep talk to the panel. ‘So feel free to spice things up.’
I didn’t say a word for ten minutes.
But things erupted into life when Labour’s Women and Equalities Minister, Dawn Butler, claimed her party’s ever-changing position on Europe ‘couldn’t be clearer’.
I burst out laughing. ‘It’s not remotely clear, what are you talking about?’
I then pressed her to say if Britain should try to stay in the single market as part of the Brexit deal, a massive bone of contention among her own colleagues.
Butler repeatedly refused to answer this very simple question, wriggling like a particularly slippery eel on a fishing hook.
In desperation, she played the victim card: ‘Do you want me to speak or do you want to keep attacking me?’
(This prompted a chubby, grubby-looking man sitting near the front to shout: ‘PUT A SOCK IN IT, PIERS!’ He carried on muttering insults at me throughout the show…)
‘I’d like you to answer the question,’ I said.
‘All right, you’ve made your point!’ interjected Dimbleby, saving her – to my annoyance – from having to give an answer.
The debate moved on to Toby Young resigning from a university quango over past dodgy tweets.
As I listed examples of Labour’s hypocrisy over this, given its own politicians have said far worse things (Shadow Chancellor John McDonnell once declared he wanted to assassinate Margaret Thatcher and repeated a ‘joke’ that Esther McVey should be lynched), Dimbleby jumped in to save her again: ‘Piers, Piers, PIERS! I do not want a monologue…’
I finished my point, which Butler ignored.
‘He [Young] deleted 45,000 tweets!’ she raged. ‘I don’t know how many people are prolific tweeters in the audience but to have to delete over 45,000 offensive tweets…’
‘It’s a day’s work for me,’ I quipped.
‘PIERS!’ exclaimed a now very animated Dimbleby, ‘can you KEEP QUIET while she speaks, please? Thank you.’
‘She asked a question,’ I responded.
‘She was asking the audience. Stop this nonsense. Come on Dawn…’
‘I swear he thinks this is his show!’ said Butler.
‘It might be one day,’ I observed, causing the audience to laugh and cheer – and Dimbleby to throw me a stare that could melt steel girders.
Later, as we discussed the NHS, I was genuinely curious how many of the audience would pay a special tax to help save this great institution.
‘Let’s ask them,’ I said, only for Dimbleby to completely lose his rag.
‘No, no, NO! Piers, we will NOT have a show of hands. I don’t know what you do on your show but we do NOT do shows of hands on this show!’
(This isn’t true. They often do – but only when Dimbleby suggests it…)
‘We do shows of hands!’ I joked.
‘Fine,’ he spat, ‘go back to your show. YOU’RE NOT CHAIRING THIS ONE!’
I’ve never seen him so enraged. Even Susanna doesn’t get that annoyed with me.
As the credits rolled, I offered my hand to Dawn Butler, who grimaced, initially said ‘NO!’ but eventually shook it. Then I offered it to Dimbleby, who declined.
At the after-show dinner (Butler did a runner…) I finally discovered what might have prompted his bad mood.
‘Not drinking?’ I said, as he passed on a glass of wine.
‘No, had a bad stomach bug,’ he said.
‘Me too. Shall we do an “all friends again now” photo for social media?’
‘I don’t do fake news,’ Dimbleby growled, but did the picture anyway and we enjoyed a convivial chat over our meal.
When I got home, my wife Celia gasped in horror, which is not an unusual occurrence.
‘Your suit trousers are split completely open at the back!’ she exclaimed. ‘Were they like that all night?’
Horrifyingly, I had no idea.
After the show aired (it’s recorded ‘as live’ two hours before transmission), columnist Rod Liddle emailed: ‘Thought I’d share an observation from a friend about QT: “When Piers Morgan is the only likeable and sensible person on a programme, we are all in deep s***.” ’
My week thus ended on a similar theme to how it started.