SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 16
I’ve flown to Los Angeles after persuading my ITV bosses to let Susanna Reid and me broadcast a special Good Morning Britain live Oscars show from Hollywood.
By way of preparation, I came via Houston, Texas, where I interviewed a psychopathic murderer considered so dangerous that I wasn’t even allowed to sit with him – he had to be behind a protective reinforced screen.
Coincidentally, I played golf today with Vinnie Jones, former hod-carrier, international footballer and now bona-fide movie star with 104 films under his belt.
Piers and Susanna at the Oscars. Piers writes: ‘The Oscars has pathetically bowed to the Twitter political correctness mob and announced it won’t have a host this year, because the Academy can’t find anyone who hasn’t once said something offensive to do the job’
‘You think HE was a psycho, son?’ he growled. ‘Wait until I’ve finished mangling you into a limbless pulp!’
Given that Vinnie once tried to strangle me to death with his bare hands in a London nightclub, I didn’t take this threat lightly.
Playing golf with him is the nearest thing to what I imagine it was like playing football against him in his mad ‘Crazy Gang’ Wimbledon days – an ordeal of severe physical, emotional and psychological trauma.
‘You nervous?’ I asked him before one important putt.
‘NERVOUS?’ he scoffed, chomping on a massive cigar. ‘I didn’t get nervous playing in front of 70,000 people at Wembley, son – why would playing a muppet like you at golf worry me? I’m going to do to you what I did to Gazza’s b*******.’
To help my chances of winning, I roped in top English pro golfer Matt Fitzpatrick, currently No 43 in the world, who played the first nine holes beautifully well.
We were cruising to victory by the time we got to the halfway hut, when a golf cart suddenly appeared bearing Hollywood great Joe Pesci.
‘Joe, meet my friend Piers,’ said Vinnie.
Pesci is now 76 but still looks magnificently fierce, exuding an air of non-fool-suffering that strongly suggests it would be very unwise to annoy him.
My middle son Stanley is about to leave drama school and head off into the world of acting, so as we chatted I asked Joe what advice he had for him. ‘Depends if he wants to be a star, or a good actor,’ he replied. ‘If it’s the latter, I can help, if it’s the former, I can’t.’
‘He wants to be a good actor,’ I said.
‘Good. Then tell him to always work with the best people possible, even if it means not working for much money. You work with good people, the work will be good and you will improve as an actor. And if you’re good enough, stardom may follow. But if you just chase stardom, you’re far less likely to achieve it.’
I relayed this by text to Stan who was duly thrilled. ‘Joe Pesci!?!’ he exclaimed. ‘Please tell him I think he’s a LEGEND!’
I showed the message to Joe, who chuckled ruefully. ‘The word “Legend” always sounds so old…’
He proceeded to follow us around for the rest of our round. To say this was mildly disconcerting is the understatement of the century. I find playing golf hard enough as it is without one of my all-time favourite actors observing my technique, especially one known for playing murderous gangsters.
Equally star-struck Matt suffered from similar issues and began missing important putts.
‘Joe,’ I pleaded, ‘is there any way you could look away when Matt putts? He’s gone to pieces since you joined us… I don’t think he can handle being watched by a Legend.’
Of course, Pesci was loudly encouraged by Vinnie to continue eyeballing us, and Matt duly missed his next easy six-footer.
‘Did The Legend put you off again?’ Pesci asked, as Matt fell about laughing.
‘You going to the Oscars?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think so,’ he sighed. ‘I’m done with all that red-carpet c***. I don’t like talking about myself.’
This is true. Joe gave the shortest acceptance speech in Oscars history when he won Best Supporting Actor in 1991 for his role as a mobster in Goodfellas. ‘It’s my privilege, thank you,’ was all he said.
We were lucky to get that many words from the great man. He’s just finished filming Martin Scorsese’s eagerly awaited new movie The Irishman, with his old friends Al Pacino and Robert De Niro. ‘Last week I was in New York,’ he said, ‘and I got out of a car with Marty and Al to find this camera in my face and a guy asking “Can I have a word, Mr Pesci?” so I replied, “Yes… you just got one,” and kept walking.’
Joe loves his golf.
‘What’s your handicap?’ I asked.
‘It’s now 23,’ he replied. ‘It used to be a lot lower, but I’d rather be honest about my game. People out here have what I call a Hollywood handicap, where they pretend to be better than they are. It’s the only place in the world where golfers would rather show off and lose than admit their correct handicap and perhaps win.’
He asked me how I knew Vinnie, so I explained I used to employ him as a football columnist. ‘How did that go?’ Joe laughed.
‘For the love of God – ironically, given he’s a staunch atheist – give the Oscars hosting gig to Ricky Gervais next year,’ writes Piers
‘Not well,’ I replied. ‘I had to fire him after I sent him to report on a big England match, he skipped the game to go partying, and ended up biting the nose of a journalist from a rival paper.’
Joe burst out laughing. ‘That true, Vin?’
‘It is,’ he cackled. ‘But it was only a nibble.’
Matt and I ended up losing the game, but as he said when I drove him back later, it was one of the greatest golf experiences of both our lives.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 18
The Oscars has pathetically bowed to the Twitter political correctness mob and announced it won’t have a host this year, because the Academy can’t find anyone who hasn’t once said something offensive to do the job.
How best to deal with this tragic new PC-crazed world we live in?
‘Let’s go to Drag Queen Bingo!’ suggested my wife Celia.
Now, it would be fair to say this has never been top of my bucket list. But I always believe in trying everything once, so we rocked up to Hamburger Mary’s in West Hollywood for an event raising money for a dog charity.
The drag queens were as stunned to see me as I was to be there, but it turned out to be an absolutely hilarious night, and as far removed from the newly ‘appropriate’ Oscars imaginable. The chief queen used a large paddle to spank the backsides of anyone who falsely cried ‘BINGO!’ and made those who won run a gauntlet of all the losers in the room as we threw paper balls at them.
The caller was even less ‘woke’, shouting things like ‘Kevin Spacey… must be 14!’ and when the auction began, haranguing us by saying: ‘Remember, the less you bid, the more dogs will die!’
I loved it.
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 19
One person who was even more PC-averse than the West Hollywood drag queens was fashion icon Karl Lagerfeld, who died today.
He was a highly provocative, outspoken and often breathtakingly honest breath of fresh air in an otherwise chronically insincere industry, who regularly sparked firestorms by trashing people and things he didn’t like.
He also specifically hated tattoos, sweatpants, sandals and meetings. Oh, and he made dazzlingly beautiful clothes. All of which made him one of my favourite public figures. RIP Karl, loved your cage-rattling work.
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 20
Jack Whitehall hosted the Brits tonight, so I sat down to watch it on TV with 100 per cent confidence that he would at some stage use me to get a cheap laugh. (‘You’re my go-to pantomime villain for awards shows,’ he once told me).
It didn’t take long. Sitting with my old foes Little Mix, he said: ‘I don’t want to use these words on a family show but… Piers Morgan.’
Their faces promptly turned more glacial than the unseasonal snow that fell in Los Angeles today (it was the first time it has snowed in LA since 1962).
‘Ooohh, it’s frosty now,’ he chirped. ‘Piers didn’t like that picture where you stripped off naked, which is weird because with voluptuous breasts and four chins, it must have been like looking in a mirror for him.’
The Mix ladies gasped in shock.
‘What would you say to that dutty wasteman?’ Whitehall continued. (Apparently this is street slang for someone who is a disagreeable waste of space, so no wonder he is familiar with the term.)
When they declined to rise to his bait, he shrieked: ‘I want some beef at the Brits!’
But still Little Mix said nothing, as a deliciously awkward silence fell on the entire O2 arena. Whitehall’s attempt to humiliate me had spectacularly bombed. He forgot the golden rule: never attack a national treasure.
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 23
Susanna has flown in to LA and we had a fun dinner at Morton’s in Beverly Hills.
I regaled her with tales of my extraordinary night with Ariana Grande (we bumped into each other randomly in a restaurant on Tuesday and made peace during a tearful two-hour drinking session) and especially how the pop superstar insisted I keep eye contact with her as we clinked glasses.
‘You know why that is, right?’ said Susanna.
‘No idea,’ I replied.
‘It’s seven years’ bad sex if you don’t.’
‘WHAT?’
‘It’s true. Very popular superstition.’
It appears I owe Ariana a debt of immense gratitude. Or as she might say: ‘Thank u, sext.’
SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 24
The Oscars threw up some big shocks, not least with Green Book beating Roma to Best Picture, a victory for non-purists like me who prefer watchable entertaining films over beautifully made but unwatchable, eye-wateringly dull cinematic endurance tests (Susanna and I both gave up with Roma halfway through).
My personal highlights included Olivia Colman’s hysterical raspberry-blowing speech, Spike Lee behaving in the same bonkers way he does at basketball games (I’ve sat next to him at the New York Knicks and he makes Vinnie Jones look sane), Rami Malek winning Best Actor for his brilliant portrayal of Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody, and Lady Gaga’s sizzling duet with Bradley Cooper (if those two haven’t enjoyed any off-camera sizzle, then I’m a neutered one-legged aardvark).
But I hated the lack of a funny host, and indeed the lack of any real humour at all.
Our own GMB post-Oscars special was a much more amusing affair, not least because our panel of experts included Vinnie and Mel B, who both kept up a stream of high-energy and hilariously unpredictable commentary.
My favourite Mel moment came when she told Queen rocker Roger Taylor she thought the band’s opening performance had ‘needed a little more pizzazz’.
Roger’s face spread with bemusement. ‘Do you mean the show in general?’
‘No, I mean the opening number… sorry!’
‘Oh blimey!’ replied Roger, now realising he was getting witheringly critiqued on live TV by a Spice Girl.
‘Please don’t walk!’ exclaimed Susanna.
But Roger was more amused than upset and retorted: ‘You should get all your old girls up there next time then…’
As for Vinnie, he returned with a massive mischievous grin on his face from a comfort (non-alcoholic – he hasn’t had a drink for five years) break in the fabled Polo Lounge of the Beverly Hills Hotel where we were filming.
‘I’ve just been with DiCaprio and tried to get him to come on the show, but he said, “Piers who?” ’
‘You made that up,’ I spat back. ‘I’ve met Leonardo and he definitely knows who I am.’
‘He doesn’t. He’s just given you the custard pie, son!’
Of course, Susanna loved this. ‘Hashtag #awks,’ she guffawed. And social media erupted with joy at my apparent humiliation.
But I was determined to disprove Vinnie’s claim, so forced him to escort me live on air to the Polo Lounge to confront DiCaprio.
As we arrived, I spied the Wolf Of Wall Street star lurking at a corner table in a baseball cap. ‘Right, I’m going to ask him if he said, “Piers who?” ’ I said.
Vinnie suddenly got cold feet.
‘Well, he might not have actually said those exact words…’ he spluttered.
I turned to my tormentor.
‘You made it up, didn’t you…’
‘I did, yes,’ Vinnie replied, exploding with laughter.
After the show, Susanna and I went to the Polo Lounge for a celebratory drink. She was still beaming from an encounter we had with Renée Zellweger seconds before going on air.
Renée, who worked with GMB’s team during filming of her last Bridget Jones movie, passed us on the hotel red carpet, stopped and exclaimed to my co-host: ‘You look fabulous!’
It’s true – Susanna did, mainly because she was wearing a dazzling Oscar-coloured dress and more than $1 million worth of borrowed diamonds. ‘I wonder if she knew who I was?’ she pondered.
At which point, a text arrived from our editor Neil containing a message he’d received from Renée: ‘Saw GODDESS Susanna in gold, she looked so beautiful!’ I thought Susanna was going to self-combust with joy.
Renée had also noticed me, adding: ‘She was with Peirs.’
Unfortunately, there was not even a compliment about my appearance to numb the pain of her not knowing how to spell my name.
MONDAY, FEBRUARY 25
GMB ratings were huge for our Oscars special, near to our highest ever, but the actual event’s ratings were the second-worst in its history. This suggests movie-loving viewers do actually like some fun amid all the backslapping sycophancy.
For the love of God – ironically, given he’s a staunch atheist – give the Oscars hosting gig to Ricky Gervais next year. We’d all have a great laugh, the world’s largest egos would get some much-needed deflationary ridicule, and ratings would explode.