SUNDAY DECEMBER 3
The Grand Tour, hosted by Jeremy Clarkson, Richard Hammond and James May, is returning for its second series,’ read the invitation today, ‘and we would like Piers to be a guest on the show.’
Hmmm.
‘Piers would first be interviewed by Jeremy,’ the email continued, ‘then Piers will set a lap time on our specially devised track. The lap is a lot of fun, very safe and gives a point of difference that would generate extra focus and media coverage towards Piers’ appearance.’
Piers and Alexander Armstrong battled it out over who’s the most ‘pointless celebrity’
Oh I’m sure it would, especially when my vehicle suddenly loses all four wheels simultaneously at 150mph, or the brakes mysteriously ‘fail’ and it slams me into a giant concrete wall, splattering my torso into minuscule slivers of petrol-drenched mincemeat as Clarkson giggles like a demented chimpanzee into a camera. Pass.
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 8
Carphone Warehouse tycoon Sir Charles Dunstone is the world’s nicest billionaire – a charming, down-to-earth man who hasn’t changed one iota in the 20 years I’ve known him.
He also, with his delightful wife Lady Celia, throws some of the world’s best parties.
Tonight, they hired The Belvedere restaurant in Holland Park for a Christmas thrash. The venue holds a special place in my heart as it’s where Simon Cowell took me for lunch after I was fired from the Daily Mirror, said he wanted to make me a TV star and mapped out on a napkin his idea for a new, ‘anything goes’ talent show. The rest is AGT/BGT history.
The Belvedere entrance was lined with giant flaming fire turrets, always a good sign; it’s how The Rolling Stones often start their concerts.
As I walked inside, a large, gangly, gnarled leg flew up to collide with my hip region and stop me in my tracks in a deliberate act of shocking festive violence.
‘Morgan!’ bellowed Jeremy Clarkson.
‘What was it going to be?’ I replied, coldly. ‘Wheels or brakes?’
He guffawed. ‘Oh, I wasn’t going to have you killed. No, I had a far worse fate in mind; I was going to cut your microphone during our interview so viewers could only hear my voice asking you endless, very embarrassing questions – and you would be incapable of responding.’
He’s right: on balance, I’d rather die in a crumbled mesh of molten steel.
James Blunt was lurking by the stairwell. We recently locked horns on Twitter after I scolded another singer, Olly Murs, for recklessly fuelling the false Oxford Street terror-scare mayhem by tweeting he could hear gunfire going off inside Selfridges.
‘You stirred extra, needless panic by spreading false information,’ I told Murs.
To which Blunt chirped up: ‘From the man who published fake Iraqi torture pictures. LOL.’
‘From the man who really is a James Blunt,’ I snapped back. ‘LOL.’
So tonight we eyed each other like two dogs on a beach, not sure whether to fight or affectionately sniff each other’s backsides, opting eventually for a more edifying version of the latter.
‘You tweet like you sing,’ I told him.
‘Thanks,’ he responded, suspiciously.
‘Yes,’ I continued, ‘every utterance designed to cause maximum pain to the recipient.’
Blunt chuckled. Nobody mocks him more than he mocks himself, which is why I like him. We discussed Jack Whitehall using his name to humiliate me in front of Dick Van Dyke at the Britannia Awards.
‘Do you like being rhyming slang for an incredibly offensive term?’ I asked.
‘I do. Very few contemporary people’s names are used in cockney slang. It’s basically me and Pete Tong (“wrong”). So it’s a real badge of honour. Though unfortunately, Jeremy Hunt is now threatening to take my slot.’
Designer to the stars Kelly Hoppen looked startled when she saw me. ‘Oh my God, you give me so much anxiety!’ she exclaimed.
‘What, generally?’
‘On Good Morning Britain. I never know what you’re going to say next and it terrifies me. I crouch behind the sofa, palpitating.’
I hugged Kelly to calm the anxiety she was now experiencing as she discussed her anxiety, but in the process – it was a very crowded party – my hands inadvertently brushed The Apprentice star Karren Brady’s back.
‘WHO TOUCHED ME!’ she shrieked.
The room froze, fearing a summary sexual harassment execution right before their eyes.
‘It was me,’ I admitted. ‘But I was shoved into you by Hoppen.’
All eyes turned to Kelly.
‘It’s true,’ she confessed.
Then both very formidable ladies roared with laughter. Phew, I was in the clear.
I moved swiftly on and met Jemima Goldsmith in the middle of the room.
‘I’ve been having weird dreams about you,’ she revealed.
‘Sorry?’
‘Yes, after you wrote about your pub rendezvous with Meghan Markle, I had a long dream about doing the same. Very odd.’
Alastair Campbell, as usual, was spewing furiously about Brexit. ‘I’ve never known anything this terrible or divisive,’ he raged.
I snorted with derision.
‘Really? Try 2003. On balance, I’d say that dragging us into an illegal war with fake WMD claims was a little worse.’
Campbell’s beady, spin-doctor eyes narrowed murderously. ‘Oh f**k off, Morgan!’
As I left, I spied Alexander Armstrong getting into his car.
‘It’s your Pointless Celebrities champion!’ I yelled.
‘What?’ he muttered, trying to identify this random nutter shouting at him in the dark.
Then he saw it was me and chuckled.
‘I bet you keep that award on your loo wall, don’t you, Piers…’
‘I do,’ I nodded. ‘I don’t win many awards.’
‘Well it was well deserved,’ he smiled. ‘I honestly can’t think of a more pointless celebrity than you. Merry Christmas.’