Piers visits a public loo in the highlands. What could go wrong?

FRIDAY, APRIL 20

To the wilds of the Scottish Highlands for the wedding of Sir Ian Botham’s daughter, Sarah.

After a flight to Inverness and a tortuously long yet spectacularly scenic four-hour car journey, we arrived at a ferry crossing just as the ferry left.

My phone was dead, so while my wife and I waited for the ferry to return, I walked over to a grim-looking block of toilets to find a power point.

Lord Sugar today celebrated 50 years of marriage to his long-suffering wife, Ann. As I pointed out in a congratulatory note: ‘Some of the serial killers I interview get less severe sentences than poor Ann…’

As I approached, a gaunt-faced, eye-twitching, tattooed local man emerged into the twilight, and stared at me like a suspect in any David Tennant drama series.

I considered my options, then diverted sharp right and around the corner of the building… only to a find a dimly lit dead end.

This, I belatedly realised, may have sent entirely the wrong signal, so I beat a hasty retreat back to the car.

Unfortunately in this social-media era, no such excruciating encounter remains undocumented.

An hour later, I spotted the following tweet: ‘Coming out of the loos at Corran ferry to be met face to face with Piers Morgan, who suddenly decided the back of the toilets was more interesting. #celebrity #cottaging’.

Beefy greeted me on arrival. ‘Wenger’s gone then!’ he exclaimed, referring to the breaking news that Arsenal’s manager has finally been pushed on to his sword after 22 years. ‘You must be the happiest man alive!’

Oddly, I’m not, despite my decade-long ‘Wenger Out’ campaign being the first of many I’ve waged to end in victory. (I failed to stop Manchester United pulling out of the FA Cup in 1999; failed to prevent Britain going to war with Iraq; failed to get Kevin Pietersen back into the England cricket team; and have so far failed to persuade America to introduce new gun laws.)

As with any divorce, however bitter and especially involving someone I once loved more than life itself, at the moment of resolution there’s more a sense of relief it’s all over than ecstatic joy.

‘Done your speech?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes,’ Beefy smirked. ‘I’ve been ordered to do ten minutes and no jokes about Sarah. So I’m doing 15 minutes with plenty of jokes about Sarah, obviously.’

SATURDAY, APRIL 21

Breakfast at Kilcamb Lodge Hotel was notable for the best kippers I’ve ever eaten, and very slow, mournful background music. This prompted a debate with David Gower, Botham’s former England cricket team-mate, over what music would be played in our respective funeral parlours.

‘I’d want Those Magnificent Men In Their Flying Machines,’ said Gower, who once dive-bombed an England tour match in a Tiger Moth plane.

‘I’ll ask Twitter to suggest mine,’ I said.

‘Is that a good idea?’ grinned Gower.

It wasn’t.

At Last by Etta James was the first offering, quickly followed by If You’re Happy And You Know It Clap Your Hands, and ‘if you’re being cremated, then Come On Baby Light My Fire’.

The wedding was a sun-baked, champagne-fuelled, hugely enjoyable affair at the Laudale Estate on Loch Sunart.

I asked Sarah, who married Yorkshire bar owner Darren Shield, what touching words her father had imparted as they walked together to the service.

‘He said it was one of the best days of his life… because his horse had just won and so had Scunthorpe United,’ she replied. ‘So what with that and finally getting rid of me, Dad’s had another hat trick!’

MONDAY, APRIL 23

Every TV presenter, however articulate or eloquent, has a problem with certain words.

For me, it’s ‘political’. I always say it too fast and end up lisping. I discussed this issue with my Good Morning Britain colleagues.

Susanna Reid, whose diction is of Pathé News quality, revealed her own nemesis is ‘curiosity’.

Charlotte Hawkins admitted she always struggles with ‘digital’.

Then ITV weather forecaster Lucy Verasamy trumped us all: ‘You think you’ve got problems… mine’s “rain”.’

TUESDAY, APRIL 24

Two statues made headlines today. One depicted feminist icon Millicent Fawcett, the first female to be commemorated in stone at Parliament Square.

The other was of Kim Kardashian, who is to feminism what Donald Trump is to humility.

It wasn’t actually a ‘statue’ as she claimed; it was a mould of her naked torso to create a perfume bottle, which she then promoted by tweeting crude photographs of her body parts.

Ms Kardashian’s face didn’t appear in any of them. Presumably, it was too ashamed to show itself.

SATURDAY, APRIL 28

Lord Sugar today celebrated 50 years of marriage to his long-suffering wife, Ann. As I pointed out in a congratulatory note: ‘Some of the serial killers I interview get less severe sentences than poor Ann…’

The couple perfectly epitomise ‘for better, for worse’.

Alan couldn’t have done any better.

Ann couldn’t have done any worse.

SUNDAY, APRIL 29

When I was editor of the Daily Mirror, there was a great character in the newsroom named Simon Ferrari.

Simon – brother of radio star Nick Ferrari – had nearly died as a teenager, in a horrific car accident that left him with terrible injuries.

He was unconscious for weeks until medical staff eventually gave up on him and asked his parents to donate his organs for transplant.

They refused.

Simon then made an astonishing recovery and lived for another 34 years.

He was a bright, funny man without a trace of self-pity whom everyone loved – not least his family, who never gave up hope when it seemed there was none.

The moral of this story is that doctors aren’t always right and miracles do happen. That’s why I sided with the parents of Alfie Evans in their fight for their little boy. RIP Alfie.

 



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