TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 5
During a recent Good Morning Britain debate, I self-identified as a ‘two-spirit Penguin’ to illustrate the insanity of the BBC now telling kids in educational videos there are at least 100 genders.
After all, if people can now identify as anything they like (one of them is ‘astral-gender’ – an affinity with outer space…) then why should I not be free to align myself with fellow globally beloved carnivorous creatures that waddle when they walk?
‘Let’s do a photo together,’ I suggested to Rebekah when the game started. ‘It may actually get you the sympathy vote…’ ‘What caption did you put on it?’ she asked suspiciously, after I posted the snap. ‘It’s… Rebekah Vardy,’ I answered
Of course, there was an immediate Twitter campaign to have me ‘cancelled,’ such is the modern illiberal liberal snowflake’s obligatory response to everyone who dares challenge their often absurd world view.
This inspired nearly 1,000 complaints about my supposed ‘transphobia’ to television regulator Ofcom, which apparently was a record for any show in 2019.
Today, Ofcom ruled in my favour, rejecting all the complaints and pointing out my ‘clearly expressed support and respect for the transgender guest on the programme’.
(That guest was India Willoughby, Britain’s first transgender TV newsreader, who like many people who have actually transitioned feels even more incensed about this 100 genders nonsense than me, because it makes a mockery of what they go through.)
So, I am free to continue identifying as a two-spirit penguin, and the ghastly ‘CANCEL EVERYONE!’ woke mob have been temporarily put back in their virtue-signalling little box.
All of which is very p-p-p-pleasing.
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 9
‘Fancy coming to a proper football match when we play Arsenal on Nov 9?’ texted Rebekah Vardy, wife of Leicester City and England striker Jamie, six weeks ago. ‘I’ll sort a vegan platter for half-time…’
‘Yes to the game, no to the vegan platter,’ I replied.
A few days later, Ms Vardy was engulfed in a sensational social-media scandal with another Wag, Wayne Rooney’s wife Coleen.
In a saga dubbed ‘Wagatha Christie’, Ms Rooney conducted a clandestine detective investigation to discover who was leaking stories from her private Instagram account – and named the suspect in a dramatic statement: ‘It’s… Rebekah Vardy’s account.’
Rebekah, whom I’ve known for a few years, vehemently denied the allegation, has now hired lawyers to prove her innocence, and the jury’s still out on what exactly happened.
But the media naturally gorged on every salivating drop of the titillating showdown, and she quickly became public enemy No 1.
I walked into the Vardy box at Leicester’s King Power Stadium, hugged Rebekah, now eight months pregnant with her fifth child, and announced: ‘I’m here to repair your public image!’
‘Oh Christ,’ she chuckled, ‘that’s all I need…’
‘You OK?’ I asked, more seriously.
‘Just about,’ she replied, ‘but it’s been very hard, for me and the whole family, especially with the baby coming.’ I can imagine.
Whatever the truth, and Rebekah’s just as emphatic – and convincingly so – in private with her denials that she’s the leaker, Coleen’s decision to humiliate her friend at that stage of a pregnancy was very ill-advised.
Indeed, the disgusting abuse Rebekah’s received as a result, including death threats, has been so bad that Robbie Williams today attacked Coleen for playing a ‘dangerous game’, provoking a ‘level of shame’ that could be ‘suicide-causing’.
‘Let’s do a photo together,’ I suggested to Rebekah when the game started. ‘It may actually get you the sympathy vote…’
‘What caption did you put on it?’ she asked suspiciously, after I posted the snap.
‘It’s… Rebekah Vardy,’ I answered.
She burst out laughing.
But her laughter turned to weary sighs when Arsenal fans in the away end began loudly chanting ‘Jamie Vardy… your wife is a grass’! ‘Here we go,’ she grimaced ruefully. ‘I get this at every game now. All the opposition fans think it will wind up Jamie, but they’re wasting their time because he never lets stuff like that get to him – it just makes him play even better!’
Inevitably, her husband soon scored a terrific goal. And then made the assist for Leicester’s second.
‘Told you…’ Rebekah smirked.
To compound my misery, ITV began screening GMB’s The Chase Celebrity Special, which featured me failing to know what the cockney rhyming slang phrase ‘borrow and beg’ means (‘egg’) and saying the letter ‘o’ is a consonant.
‘Your team’s almost as bad as your performance on The Chase,’ tweeted Gary Lineker. ‘Thoughts are with you at this difficult time.’
The only upside to my horrific day was that lunch turned out to be roast turkey with all the trimmings. ‘I couldn’t make you eat the vegan platter, Piers,’ said Rebekah. ‘Not knowing how much pain Jamie was already going to inflict on you.’
The disgusting abuse Rebekah’s received, including death threats, has been so bad that Robbie Williams today attacked Coleen for playing a ‘dangerous game’
Leicester won 2-0, and her hero – who’s scored nine goals in his last nine games against Arsenal – bounded into the box afterwards with a beaming grin, grabbed a celebratory beer from the fridge and exclaimed: ‘Where’s the Penguin?’
‘Keeping his bloody beak down,’ I grimaced.
Leicester have surged to second in the Premier League, and are playing so well I wouldn’t rule out them pulling off another miracle like their 5,000-1 title win in 2016.
Jamie introduced me to Aiyawatt Srivaddhanaprabha, the club’s chairman known as ‘Top’, whose father Vichai was tragically killed in a helicopter crash a year ago as he left the stadium. ‘Your family has built something very special here,’ I said.
‘Thank you,’ he replied. ‘The people here are very special.’
They are. I’ve rarely encountered more friendly, welcoming staff and fans at any football ground – a group united by both extraordinary triumph and desperate tragedy.
Before I left, a few locals entered the box to ask me for a selfie. ‘Of course!’ I replied. ‘Let me get my personal photographer to take them.’ I passed their phones to Jamie, who slowly shook his head and laughed, then took the pictures.
‘Last laugh to the Penguin,’ I chortled.