Tuesday, August 29
Two weeks ago, during a lads’ holiday with my three sons in Antigua, I slipped in a rainstorm and crashed on to my back like a two-ton truck tumbling off the roof of a multi-storey car park.
‘Pull yourself together, Father,’ was the boys’ scornful response when I moaned about the pain.
Today, I got back to London and finally had an X-ray that confirmed three broken ribs.
God I’d love Mourinho to be Arsenal manager, writes Piers Morgan
This is my third such injury in the past decade, all achieved in similarly humiliating circumstances.
First, I fell off a Segway in Santa Monica in 2007, breaking five ribs and partially collapsing a lung.
Then, in 2013, Australian fast bowler Brett Lee broke another one trying to kill me in a televised cricket net session.
Now, I’m facing yet more weeks of unrelenting physical torment; a state of affairs considerably worsened by Arsenal’s shocking start to the season, culminating in a 4-0 thrashing by Liverpool on Sunday.
To cheer myself up, I went shopping at Harrods with my youngest son, Bertie, 16.
As we bought some shirts, the shop assistant asked me who I thought would win this year’s Premier League.
‘Manchester United,’ I said without hesitation. ‘José Mourinho’s a natural born winner.’
With that, by an extraordinary coincidence, Mourinho wandered right past us.
‘José!’ I exclaimed loudly, prompting him to stop in his tracks.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed back with a massive grin, and shaking my hand so hard my ribs rattled. ‘It is good to see you, Piers! I watch you on TV and you make me laugh!’
For the next 20 minutes, we talked football. He was just as charismatic, passionate and forthright as his public persona suggests.
‘I feel so sorry for you Arsenal fans,’ he chuckled, not looking remotely sorry. ‘I have some very good friends who love Arsenal like you do and they are just as depressed as you about the club. They suffer so badly, it is a terrible thing to observe.’
Mourinho then burst out laughing. ‘Terrible… hahahahaha.’
‘How the hell is Arsene Wenger still in his job?’ I asked.
‘No idea,’ Mourinho smirked, ‘but I hope he stays in it for a very long time…’
‘You have a brilliant team now,’ I sighed.
‘I am happy,’ he smiled. ‘Very happy.’
I toyed with asking him for a photo but he’d already swatted away one over-eager fan while we were talking and I feared it might spoil our new-found friendship.
Then he said: ‘Piers, I would not normally request such a thing, but would you mind doing a photo with me? I would like to send my Arsenal friends a photo of us together.’
It was my turn to laugh.
‘Of course, José, it would be my pleasure.’
Bertie, who could scarcely believe what he was hearing, took the photo on Mourinho’s phone. Then we said our goodbyes and Bertie and I returned to finish buying the shirts.
‘That,’ chuckled the assistant, ‘was… weird!’
It was heartbreaking, too.
God I’d love Mourinho to be Arsenal manager.
Wednesday, August 30
‘Dinner?’ suggested my Good Morning Britain co-host Susanna Reid. We rarely socialise together, but when we do, it’s invariably complete carnage and tonight was no exception.
I arrived before her at the Groucho club in Soho and found myself at the bar with James Norton, one of Britain’s hottest young actors thanks to Grantchester and Happy Valley.
He’s a smart, charming guy and we had a lively half-hour debate about everything from Brexit and Trump to the perils of long-distance romance.
Then Susanna appeared.
‘Big night planned?’ asked Norton.
‘I fear so,’ groaned Susanna.
‘Last time we met in this place,’ I explained, ‘we got thrown INSIDE for making too much noise on the balcony.’
Six hours later, after a very salubrious dinner with a group including Richard Bacon, the Groucho shut and we began wandering the streets of Soho trying to source ‘one for the road’.
‘Leave this to me,’ declared Bacon, who was pestered for money by various homeless people with the curiously familiar words: ‘Dickie mate, come on, you promised.’ He led us down several dark alleyways to suspiciously boarded-up places from which weird-looking heads would eventually poke out to whisper: ‘We’re closed.’
Eventually, we passed a well-known gay nightspot, Freedom, which was open and buzzing.
‘Well?’ said Bacon.
‘Piers?’ said Susanna.
‘I’m game for anything at this stage,’ I nodded.
Later, I tweeted a photo of the three of us, very much the worse for wear, with the caption: ‘2.43am. A gay bar in Soho. Good Morning Britain!’
Of course, this provoked immediate PC outrage.
‘Do you mean a bar in Soho?’ ranted one furiously offended critic. ‘You’ll be going to a black bar next.’
Another asked: ‘Why do you feel the need to inform everyone of the sexual orientation of the people in the bar?’
Good point.
I can only apologise for calling a gay bar a gay bar.
The fact it markets itself as a gay bar and was packed with gay people is irrelevant.
For all I know, it could have been identifying as a non-binary, gender-neutral bar.
Others were more concerned about our appearance.
‘You two look dog rough without make-up,’ tweeted a Mr Rob Jones about Susanna and me. ‘Both got faces a dog wouldn’t lick.’
This is an outrageous assertion.
I’m certain most dogs would lick Susanna’s face given half the chance.
Thursday, August 31
Susanna texted me the perfect review of our night: ‘OMG.’