IN NERETTO SOTTOLINEATO IL PUNTO INTERESSANTE:
Sunday, May 6 Michael Parkinson and I had a little spat on his Radio 2 show today about what constitutes talent.
"Are you seriously trying to tell me that David Hasselhoff has entertained more people than Frank Sinatra?" he asked, before playing Just In Time to prove his point.
"Yes," I answered, when the song finished.
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"You’ve obviously never heard The Hoff sing Jump In My Car, have you?" During a break, I asked Parky if he’d ever interviewed Sinatra.
"No. I met him once, and thought we got along pretty well, but at the end he said, “Goodbye David” and I realised I hadn’t made quite the impression I thought…" Monday, May 7 To the inaugural Jazz Awards at the beautifully restored Ronnie Scott’s tonight.
Just 200 of us watched stunning solo performances from artists such as Van Morrison, Jamie Cullum, Jeff Beck, Mica Paris and Courtney Pine.
Most had played to huge audiences before, but playing to a tiny crowd of their peers was very different.
As Jeff Beck admitted to me, "That was the most nervous I’ve ever been."
When one astonishing young pianist played out of his skin to rapturous applause, I leant down, tapped Jamie Cullum on the shoulder (quite a reach, because he’s about 5ft 2in) and said, "No pressure there, then."
He looked at me with genuine wide-eyed apprehension, "No s***, mate… Christ!"
At 2am, they all clambered up together and jammed for an hour. It was one of the great musical experiences of my life.
Tuesday, May 8 My book tour took me to GMTV this morning to be interviewed by Lorraine Kelly.
She and Fiona Phillips hijacked me in make-up and dragged me to the dressing room they share with Jenni Falconer and Kate Garraway.
"It makes your Hollywood trailer look like a phone box," they insisted. "You’ve got to see it."
We reached a tiny, airless, unbelievably messy, glorified cupboard packed with the cluttered personal effects and clothes of four supposed TV stars.
It was a disgrace to celebritydom. "See?" they giggled in unison. "Fabulous, isn’t it?" By contrast, T4 presenter June Sarpong held a glamorous soirée at the House Of Lords to celebrate getting an MBE for charity work.
When I tell you that Cherie Blair and I were in the same room at the same time, you’ll understand why the presence of former UN chief Kofi Annan was necessary.
I hid in a corner with Dannii Minogue. "How’s Kylie?" I asked. "She’s fine, just a bit tired." ‘
"Yes, I’ve read she’s been quite a busy girl," I joked, alluding to the recent photos of Kylie and that married Chilean bloke.
"You of all people shouldn’t believe what you read in the papers," Dannii retorted. "What she needs is a handsome, intelligent, safe “walker” to be seen with – someone to really enrage Olivier Martinez,"I suggested.
"And who do you have in mind, Piers?" she asked. "I’m available," I said. Dannii grimaced. "How thoughtful – Kylie will be thrilled."
Wednesday, May 9 A familiar unshaven, tousled, swarthy, scowling head slithered past me at the Conrad Hotel in Chelsea this morning.
It was José Mourinho, manager of a 100 billion rouble Chelsea team that has lost out on both the Premiership and Champions League in the last fortnight. I jumped out of my seat.
"José, how do you do, I’m Piers Morgan." He stared ahead with the most vacant, dismissive, "I’m not listening" blankness I’ve been afforded since meeting Prince Philip at Prince Charles’s 50th birthday party.
"Allo," he grunted.
"I just wanted to congratulate you," I said, shaking his hand. He looked bemused. "On what?"
I smiled. "On the last two weeks. I’m an Arsenal season-ticket holder, and it’s been the only thing that’s made us laugh all season." He looked at me with withering revulsion, shook his head, and marched off.
Thursday, May 10 If you’ve ever wondered what it’s like to make a complete fool of yourself in front of all your heroes, I’m now in a position to tell you.
Tonight was the 21st birthday party of a charity celebrity cricket team called The Bunburys, run by a crazy, hilarious guy called David ‘The Loon’ English.
Everywhere I looked in the Great Room of the Grosvenor Hotel was another cricketing legend – Botham, Gower, Lamb, Gooch, Gatting.
From rugby, world champions Martin Johnson and Matt Dawson. From football, my all-time Arsenal favourite Ian Wright. From music, Eric Clapton, Bill Wyman and Bee Gee Robin Gibb.
My role was simple – do a quick live chat with as many stars as I could find.
But organisers specifically told me not to mention Barry Gibb’s name when I interviewed Robin Gibb, because they have recently fallen out.
So, as I walked towards Robin, I kept saying to myself ,"Don’t mention Barry, don’t mention Barry…."
I stopped by the great man and declared: "Ladies and gentlemen, one of the world’s most successful singers ever, Mr… BARRY GIBB!"
I looked down to see a stony-faced Robin. And the next noise I heard was that of 1,000 people hooting with derisive laughter, led by Clapton and Botham who were guffawing so hard I thought they might actually explode all over the top table.
The penny dropped like a large machete on my neck. "Oh God… sorry… erm… what I meant to say was MR… ROBIN GIBB!" But the damage was, of course, horrifically done.
I wanted to be transported to Planet Tharg at a trillion miles per hour. "As you may know from my time at the Daily Mirror, accuracy was never my strong point," I told the still chortling audience.
Bill Wyman tried to cheer me up later. "Don’t worry about it – I got called Keith Moon the other day, and he’s been dead 30 years."
Friday, May 11 Tony Blair’s latest farewell speech yesterday was slick, well choreographed, pressed all the right PR buttons, immaculately presented, and a veritable masterclass in media-friendly populist oratory.
The only problem was that I didn’t believe a word he said.
Gordon Brown’s leadership launch today was, by contrast, a bit of a mess – half an hour late, autocue hiding his face, media all furious.
And yet I thought what he actually said was powerful, passionate, credible and inspiring.
A serious, honest man running the country at last. Halle-bloody-lujah.
Saturday, May 12 I flew to Las Vegas today to film the bootcamp stage of America’s Got Talent. Me and The Hoff in Sin City… pray for me.
Piers Morgan’s book, ‘Don’t You Know Who I Am?’, is out now, published by Ebury Press, priced at £17.99