FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 16
Played golf in Los Angeles with Welsh actor Ioan Gruffudd. He’s a good player but I fear his recent massive success on Liar has gone to his sporting-ego head.
‘I’ll give you an extra shot a hole,’ he declared on the first tee, implying he’s Tiger Woods to my village thrasher.
‘P*** off, you cheeky b******,’ I retorted. ‘I’ll take eight.’
Three hours later, I was one up with two to play. ‘I can’t wait to tweet this to my 6.4 million followers,’ I chortled.
Ioan won on the last hole, with the very last putt – winking before he rolled it in.
‘Of all the people you want to meet at such a moment of crushing failure, Vinnie Jones is not one of them,’ writes Piers
‘Never in doubt, boyo,’ he smirked.
As we trudged off, I was greeted by a loud cry of: ‘Morgan – you useless ****!’
Of all the people you want to meet at such a moment of crushing failure, Vinnie Jones is not one of them.
‘Stuffed by a Taff again?’ guffawed the former Wales football captain.
Vinnie revealed he’s joining Talksport, live from Hollywood.
‘I’ve got all my golf mates lined up for interviews,’ he said. ‘Pesch [Joe Pesci], Garc [Andy Garcia], Gerry [Gerard Butler] and Timbers [Justin Timberlake]. May do you as well if I duck down below the A-list.’
I can’t stand name-droppers.
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 18
Took my wife to the cinema, and as we reached the bottom of a long escalator, a loud American voice boomed from the top: ‘Piers! PIERS!’
I peered back up to see a guy frantically waving at me, so I waved regally back, assuming it was a starstruck admirer.
‘Who was that?’ asked Celia.
‘No idea,’ I replied, ‘though he looked a bit like Michael Brandon.’
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 19
Breakfast at Urth Caffé in Beverly Hills with my six-year-old daughter Elise. She was not in the best of moods after a fitful night’s sleep.
‘I’m SO HUNGRY!’ she announced as we sat down. This plea was swiftly upgraded to repeated anguished cries of ‘I’m STARVING!’ every 30 seconds until the order finally arrived. At which point she promptly fell asleep at the table.
As I enjoyed the sudden peace, I spied Oscar-winning actor Jon Voight in the corner. Elise soon stirred, declined to eat her now-cold food and demanded to leave immediately.
‘Let’s just say hello to that man first,’ I said, escorting her over to Voight.
‘Why? I WANT TO GO NOW!’
I walked over anyway. ‘Jon!’
The great man, currently a huge hit in US TV series Ray Donovan, stood up.
‘Piers! Good to see you! You’re back in the UK now?’
‘I am, yes,’ I replied. ‘They laugh at my jokes there, well some of them anyway, and I don’t have to worry about being shot.’
Voight chuckled, then said, ‘And who’s this beautiful little girl?’
‘This is my daughter Elise,’ I said proudly.
She scowled ferociously.
‘I’m afraid she’s rather tired…’
Elise then shouted ‘DADDY, I’M SO BORED!’ before grabbing my arm and forcefully trying to pull me away.
As she did so, she tumbled to the floor, so began frantically tugging my leg instead, exclaiming: ‘Can we get a cake?’
‘Sorry, Jon,’ I sighed, ‘but I’m afraid it’s either you or cake – and the cake just won.’
‘I remember those days,’ Voight smiled.
Of course, HIS beautiful little girl was Angelina Jolie.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 20
Joan Collins and her husband Percy threw a splendid house-warming party at their beautiful new Beverly Hills apartment.
The room was packed with Hollywood figures, including… Michael Brandon.
‘Michael! I don’t suppose you were…’
‘YES!’ laughed the Dempsey And Makepeace legend. ‘I felt such an a** shouting your name like that, you must have thought I was some crazy man.’
‘Actually, it’s more disturbing than that,’ said Celia, ‘he thought you were a fan.’
Designer Tom Ford arrived. ‘I’m wearing one of your shirts,’ I told him.
‘That’s nice,’ he replied.
‘In fact, I have more than 100 of your shirts!’ I added, excitedly. (I wear them for all my TV work.)
‘That’s nice too,’ he replied, without a single tonal change to his unimpressed voice.
I guess if you’re a friend of, and dresser to, Sir Elton John, then you’re used to more Imelda Marcos-style levels of sartorial extravagance.
Stefanie Powers and I got into a lively guns debate.
‘I have a firearm,’ said the Hart To Hart beauty whose on-screen romance with Robert Wagner electrified the world in the Eighties. ‘You have to in this country because there are so many of them out there.’
‘Would you fire it?’ I asked.
‘Honey,’ she retorted, ‘if someone broke into my home, damn right I would. And I’d shoot to kill, not wound.’
I had an amusing chat with George Hamilton, the man with the world’s most famous orange face until Donald Trump became President.
‘What do you make of him?’ I asked.
‘Best reality TV show ever,’ he laughed. ‘He’s made politics entertaining and exciting. I tune into the news every night to see what’s happened next. Whether that’s a good thing is another matter.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘Yes. He once threatened to sue me over some trivial thing involving Miss Universe when I co-hosted it with his ex-wife Marla, so I called him up and we went at it for a bit, then he suddenly laughed and said, “OK, let’s forget it and have dinner.” Everything with Donald is negotiable.’
Stefanie walked past and blew him a lingering kiss. ‘It must be great being George Hamilton,’ I sighed.
‘Relax, Piers,’ he chuckled, ‘she thinks I’m Robert Wagner.’