News, Culture & Society

‘You’re going down,’ I hissed at Holly Willoughby as we exchanged fake showbiz air kisses


‘It’s like watching my mother-in-law drive my Bentley over a cliff,’ snarled bitter chat show legend-in-his-own-mind Larry King after I replaced him at CNN.

Today it was revealed that Larry, 85, is divorcing for the eighth time. One thing’s for sure: he’s a world expert in mother-in-laws.

Holly and Phil opened their show by dedicating their [TV Choice] award to me, and extending an invitation: ‘So Piers Morgan, whose middle names are spittle and bile,’ chortled Phil, ‘do pop in and hold it… we love you Piers!’


I was recently approached by TV Choice magazine about their annual awards show.

‘We’re honouring a beloved national daytime TV treasure for their Outstanding Contribution to Television,’ they said.

‘About bloody time!’ I replied.

‘No Piers, not you,’ they hastily clarified, ‘we want you to present it to Lorraine Kelly. But on a more positive note, Good Morning Britain is up for Best Daytime Show!’

Given we’ve lost every single one of the many awards we’ve been nominated for in the past two years, this did nothing to mollify me.

I arrived at the Hilton hotel in Park Lane to find myself at a table directly in front of the stage, and right next to the team from This Morning, who invariably beat us.

‘You’re going down this time,’ I hissed at Holly Willoughby as we exchanged fake showbiz air-kisses.

‘I’m SURE you’ll win, Piers,’ she smiled, annoyingly. ‘You SO deserve to.’

Of course, we lost – to This Morning.

And to rub salt into my already seething wounds, Holly and co-host Phillip Schofield then gushed away at each other in their acceptance speech like Romeo and Juliet.

‘I love you!’ she cooed.

‘I love you more!’ he cooed back.

Finally, after saying how proud they were to be ‘part of the ITV daytime family’, Holly looked down at me and winked.

By the time I got up to present Lorraine with her award, my veins were surging with enraged nausea. ‘Congratulations to This Morning,’ I said. ‘If anybody loves you guys more than you love yourselves, it’s me.’

Pause. ‘Actually, I don’t love you at all. I hate you, you snivelling little b*******. Every time we come to these things, I’m told it’s our time. It’s never our time. It’s always their time. F*** you and f*** your awards.’

There was a momentary stunned silence in the star-studded room as the full horror of my outburst sank into the consciousness of the sycophantic luvvie gathering – then there was raucous laughter.

Emboldened, I added: ‘We’re all part of one big family? Are we f***!’

I left immediately afterwards, and a text message popped up from Holly as I got home: ‘LOVE you!’ it read, with five smirking emojis.


Holly and Phil opened their show today by dedicating their award to me, and extending an invitation: ‘So Piers Morgan, whose middle names are spittle and bile,’ chortled Phil, ‘do pop in and hold it… we love you Piers!’

Of all the offers I’ve had in my life, popping in to see Phillip Schofield and holding it seems the least appealing.


When I was a judge on Britain’s Got Talent, my most savage critic was Jonathan Ross, who said I was not only talentless but also ‘sculpted from lard’.

He savaged my co-judge Amanda Holden too, saying: ‘What’s she ever done? She’s been on a couple of West End shows; she’s not got much going on.’

He concluded: ‘They’re just a waste. So I’m not a fan of those shows.’

Jonathan has just been announced as lead judge on new ITV show The Masked Singer, in which he will assess people’s singing ability despite his own singing experience being restricted, so far as I’m aware, to wailing tunelessly in the bath.

It would appear Mr Ross has had a rather dramatic change of heart about talentless lardy wastrels judging talent shows!


Susanna Reid and I appeared on the cover of this esteemed magazine today under the tantalising headline: ‘If we were single, we’d be at it like stoats in a sack!’

This analogy prompted considerable debate and confusion, not least in my co-presenter.

‘What would, by nature territorial, aggressive and uncooperative stoats, do in a sack?’ she asked today, during a GMB editorial conference chat.

‘Not sure,’ I replied, ‘but apparently female stoats indicate mating submission to male stoats through relentless whining – and it hasn’t escaped my attention that you spend a lot of time whining in my presence.’


I’ve had a few showbiz feuds in my time, but none – not even Jeremy Clarkson! – has ever quite rivalled a lengthy war I once waged with Sinead O’Connor.

It can be best summed up by a four-page ‘Karma Police Report’ the fiery Irish singer sent me at the height of it, in 1994, that detailed my numerous supposed crimes against humanity.

These included: ‘Barefaced lying, cheating, disgusting thoughtlessness, hurting intentionally, being pompously prejudiced, rude and obnoxious, underhand, diabolical, blindly self-serving and self-obsessed, reprehensibly irresponsible, hopelessly spaced out and dangerously unaware.’ It was signed: ‘Sinead O’Connor, Karma Police Officer.’

Just for good measure, there was also a hand-written note saying: ‘Piers, you’re nothing but a crawling, sliming little gutter maggot, a big fat fish in a tiny meaningless pond. So f*** off and die.’

So I was somewhat wary when Sinead was booked to appear on GMB today, the first time we’d have seen each other in 25 years.

But when we met in the corridor, she threw her arms around me and exclaimed: ‘I’ve missed you!’

‘I’ve missed you too,’ I replied.

Sinead then went out and sang, barefoot, an utterly beautiful rendition of her iconic hit Nothing Compares 2 U, and dedicated it to me. This proved two old maxims: Karma’s definitely a b**** and time really IS a great healer.



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