‘It’s official,’ I told Dan Walker. ‘I’m twice as good as you’


The House of Commons today paid tribute to Arsene Wenger, who’s quit as Arsenal manager after a lengthy #WengerOUT campaign driven by frustrated fans like me.

Tory MP Huw Merriman, a fellow Gooner, said: ‘There are 100 million of us across the globe. Some have great notoriety: the Trump family, Osama Bin Laden, and – it gets even worse – Piers Morgan.’

Sorry, WHAT?

It’s quite something to be branded ‘worse’ by your own MPs than the world’s most despicable ever terrorist, so I confidently expected Speaker John Bercow, also an Arsenal fan, to jump in and condemn Merriman.

‘No drafting, Dan,’ I warned on the first tee, to loud cheers from the crowd. ‘No hacking, Piers,’ he retorted, to louder cheers

‘Order!’ Bercow barked, promisingly. ‘The Hon Gentleman did not quite say this, but I think what he’s driving at is there is sometimes a tendency for people on social media to volunteer their opinions with an insistence in inverse proportion to their knowledge of the subject matter under discussion.’

Merriman smirked. ‘Mr Speaker, you are absolutely spot on. I can think only of the words Piers and Morgan when you conjure up those sentiments.’

Obviously, my next two campaigns will now be #BercowOUT and #MerrimanOUT.


I attended Dale Winton’s funeral at a Marylebone church packed with stars.

My favourite anecdote from the many wonderful tributes involved Dale’s audition for Supermarket Sweep. He was worried he’d blown it, so finally delivered a rousing cri de coeur that ended: ‘You will find Shergar and Lord Lucan before you find a better presenter of Supermarket Sweep than me!’

He was right.

As all the speakers attested, all Dale ever wanted to be was a star.

Yet it was the emotional non-celebrity address from his three godsons – the children of his best friend, BBC executive Mark Linsey – that touched me the most.

Their heartfelt words about their ‘kind, generous, funny’ godfather punched through all the showbiz memories to reduce most of the church to tears.

Claire Sweeney sang one of Dale’s favourite songs, Alfie.

‘I believe in love, Alfie,’ she crooned, ‘without true love we just exist, Alfie.’

The sadness for Dale was that though so many people loved him, he himself never found true, lasting love.

But boy did he have fun trying!

Martine McCutcheon read a poem entitled What Should Life Be? that concluded: ‘Life should NOT be a methodical journey to the grave, with the goal being sure, safe arrival in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, flute of champagne in hand, screaming, “What a ride!” ’

Dale Winton had one hell of a ride.


If funerals are the greatest leveller in life, then pro-am golf tournaments are not far behind.

The BMW-PGA competition at Wentworth is a rare chance for amateurs such as me to play with top professionals in front of 20,000 people.

The potential to make a complete numpty of yourself is stratospheric, so I headed to the practice range to whack a few balls next to Irish golf legend Pádraig Harrington.

‘Piers, you’re hitting it all wrong,’ he grimaced, disconcertingly.

Observing this with amusement were actors Jamie Dornan, of Fifty Shades fame, Dougray Scott and Matthew Goode.

The latter recalled how I once interviewed him on US TV for his dreadful movie, Leap Year. ‘Not my best work,’ he frowned.

‘No,’ I nodded.

‘My worst, in fact,’ he added.

‘Yes,’ I concurred. ‘But all great actors make the odd turkey. I mean, Jamie’s making millions out of some at the moment…’

It’s always a good test of a thespian to see if they can laugh at themselves. Dornan spared me a justified spanking, and guffawed.

My team was made up of Scottish pro Richie Ramsay, Kevin Pietersen and my morning TV ‘rival’ Dan Walker.

The latter’s BBC Breakfast colleague Louise Minchin was splashed over the front page of The Sun today for allegedly cheating in a triathlon event by riding, or ‘drafting’, in another cyclist’s slipstream.

‘No drafting, Dan,’ I warned on the first tee, to loud cheers from the crowd.

‘No hacking, Piers,’ he retorted, to louder cheers.

‘The only thing I’m going to hack is your golfing reputation,’ I retorted.

Walker, a much better player than me, promptly drove his ball deep into the trees, to roars of derision. He doesn’t swear but his eyes screamed: ‘Morgan, you ****!’

The vicious ‘banter’ continued for the next five hours.

Richie once played a round with Donald Trump. ‘What was he like?’ asked Walker.

‘Put it this way,’ Richie replied. ‘If he and Piers played together, it would be very interesting to see who managed to get a word in edgeways.’

I played some diabolical shots that Walker gleefully posted on Instagram, but I also played some superb ones, including a glorious 30ft eagle putt – and ended up scoring four team points to his two.

‘It’s official,’ I chortled, ‘I’m twice as good as you on and off screen.’

‘I’ll always be more popular than you,’ Walker spluttered.

‘Mate, you’re sounding like Hillary Clinton.’

I bumped into Chris Evans back at the clubhouse. ‘I don’t know how you handle all the social media c**p you get,’ he chuckled.

‘I enjoy it.’

‘I know, but I don’t know HOW you enjoy it. I try but I find it all too nasty and then retreat. You need the thickest of thick skins to cope with it like you do.’

True. Rhinos crave my hide.

Our team came third, thanks ironically to rhino-lover KP playing out of his skin.

I don’t celebrate bronze medals, but I was definitely happier than Damian Lewis.

‘How did you play?’ I asked in the bar.

‘Terrible,’ he groaned. ‘No… worse than that… diabolical.’

As Mark Twain once observed: ‘Golf is a good walk spoiled.’


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