The crowd stopped shouting ‘Piers!’ and changed to ‘Kylie!’ I’ve never hated her more

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

To the GQ Men Of The Year Awards, always one of my favourite events.

‘We’re rolling out the longest red carpet the world’s ever seen,’ boasted GQ editor Dylan Jones.

And he wasn’t wrong.

My wife Celia and I arrived to be confronted by an enormous floor of burgundy material stretching for what seemed like miles into the very bowels of Tate Modern, flanked by hundreds of shrieking fans and photographers.

‘KYLIE! KYLIE!’ the crowd began screaming, with ten times the excitement they’d been shouting my name. She may be a national treasure but in that moment I’ve never hated Ms Minogue more

Even more dauntingly, there were no other guests on it as we stepped out of our limo to throw ourselves on the mercy of the throng.

Now, this is my idea of utopia but Celia’s idea of hell.

So she promptly disappeared as I posed for selfies, signed autographs and generally milked the attention like a newborn calf guzzling its first udder of milk.

‘Piers! Piers!’ they kept crying, with pleasing enthusiasm.

Then they suddenly stopped.

‘KYLIE! KYLIE!’ the crowd began screaming, with ten times the excitement they’d been shouting my name.

She may be a national treasure but in that moment I’ve never hated Ms Minogue more.

I ventured out back on to the red carpet. ‘Piers! Piers!’ the crowd cried once more. Of course, I forgave them. When Kylie’s not around, I’m a HUGE star

I sat with Celia and my TV wife Susanna Reid. Gordon Ramsay supplied dinner, and my Dorset crab starter and beef Wellington main course were both superb

I sat with Celia and my TV wife Susanna Reid. Gordon Ramsay supplied dinner, and my Dorset crab starter and beef Wellington main course were both superb

I slunk inside and took refuge at the bar, where I found England World Cup-winning cricket captain Eoin Morgan and his wife.

‘Skipper!’ I exclaimed. ‘Can I just thank you for giving me one of the greatest days of my life?’

He smiled. ‘It was one of mine too…’

Morgan exuded extraordinary serenity as that glorious day at Lord’s reached its thrilling denouement, with England winning off the final ball of the extra super-over.

‘You must have been exploding inside during those last few minutes?’ I suggested.

‘Actually, no,’ he replied. ‘I’m always pretty calm regardless of the situation. But the moment we won, then I exploded!’

I moved on to find fellow cricket fanatic Stephen Fry.

‘You’re going to want to shake my hand,’ I told him.

‘I doubt that,’ he chuckled. ‘But why?’

‘The last person to shake it was Eoin Morgan.’

‘Oh my GOD!’ Fry exclaimed, instantly delirious with excitement. ‘I’m sitting with him tonight, but for now let me indeed shake the hand that shook the hand that lifted the World Cup.’

‘Why’s everyone losing their heads over Brexit?’ I asked him.

‘I fear we’ve fallen foul of the principle of Chesterton’s fence.’

My blank gaze prompted a momentary expression of anguished disappointment on Fry’s cerebral face.

‘You don’t know what that is, do you?’

‘I… erm… of course… well… no,’ I stammered. ‘What is it?’

Fry refused to put me out of my intellectual misery. ‘Look it up later.’

I took my seat for dinner and Googled it.

‘Chesterton’s fence,’ came the answer, ‘is the principle that reforms should not be made until the reasoning behind the existing state of affairs is understood.’

‘You’re going to want to shake my hand,’ I told Stephen Fry. ‘I doubt that,’ he chuckled. ‘But why?’ ‘The last person to shake it was Eoin Morgan.’ ‘Oh my GOD!’ Fry exclaimed. (Pictured: Piers with Elliott Spencer, Ewan Venters and Stephen Fry)

‘You’re going to want to shake my hand,’ I told Stephen Fry. ‘I doubt that,’ he chuckled. ‘But why?’ ‘The last person to shake it was Eoin Morgan.’ ‘Oh my GOD!’ Fry exclaimed. (Pictured: Piers with Elliott Spencer, Ewan Venters and Stephen Fry)

Philosopher G K Chesterton, who coined it (and created the detective priest Father Brown), explained: ‘There exists… a certain institution or law; let us say for the sake of simplicity, a fence or gate erected across the road. The more modern type of reformer goes gaily up to it and says, “I don’t see the use of this; let’s clear it away.” To which the more intelligent type of reformer will do well to answer, “If you don’t see the use of it, I certainly won’t let you clear it away. Go away and think. Then, when you can come back and tell me that you do see the use of it, I may allow you to destroy it.’

There’s obviously merit to this argument with regard to Brexit, but when Remoaners play the superior intelligence card they make the same mistake as never-Trumpers in America; you’ll never win a political debate by portraying your opponents as thick idiots, especially if they’re the ones who actually won power.

I sat with Celia and my TV wife Susanna Reid. Gordon Ramsay supplied dinner, and my Dorset crab starter and beef Wellington main course were both superb.

The ladies got a vile-looking, blackened gruel ‘vegan’ option – Susanna by choice, Celia by mistake.

‘What IS that?’ I asked, feeling nauseated just looking at it.

‘It seems to be lentils in some kind of red-wine reduction,’ grimaced Susanna.

‘Is it as disgusting as it looks?’

‘It’s not… great,’ she replied tactfully.

Celia was less reticent: ‘It’s disgusting.’

At the next table was singer Sam Smith, who arrived wearing high heels and holding hands with another man.

Sam came out as gay several years ago but now identifies as ‘non-binary gender queer’ and ‘floats somewhere between male and female’.

All of which leaves me as confused as he seems to be. Aside from anything else, which categories does he now enter for music awards?

I left early, partly because I had GMB in the morning, and partly to avoid having to endure David Beckham getting his special award… for being David Beckham.

On the way out I bumped into Nicole Kidman gliding towards me in a dazzling yellow Ralph & Russo couture dress.

We’d never met, and I usually refuse to fraternise with any Australians during an Ashes series but I instinctively bellowed: ‘Nicole!’

‘Hi, Piers!’ she replied, warmly but slightly startled.

We chatted for several minutes, and aside from her strikingly statuesque appearance – she’s very tall at 5ft 11in and very slim – she was utterly charming.

I ventured out back on to the red carpet.

‘Piers! Piers!’ the crowd cried once more.

Of course, I forgave them.

When Kylie’s not around, I’m a HUGE star.

 

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