Piers Morgan | The Spectator columnists & writers

As you may have heard (if you haven’t, I’m losing my narcissistically self-promotional touch) my new TV show Piers Morgan Uncensored launches soon and will air daily in the UK, America and Australia, thus fulfilling my long-held ambition to become a global irritant. The title provokes mirth among those who feel I’ve never shown any sign of being censored. But my enforced removal from Good Morning Britain last year for refusing to apologise for an honest opinion that Meghan Markle is to veracity what Vladimir Putin is to humanity was cowardly corporate censorship, and I’m confident that if Princess Pinocchio writes to my new boss Rupert Murdoch demanding my head on a plate – as she did to ITV’s CEO Dame Carolyn McCall – she won’t be quite so successful.

The Keir Starmer revelation that we didn’t air

Following my abrupt departure from Good Morning Britain after declining to apologise for disbelieving Meghan ‘Princess Pinocchio’ Markle, I’ve been riding a rare wave of public popularity, with my anti-woke, pro-free speech book Wake Up becoming a no. 1 bestseller and people stopping me in the street to offer support. A lady named Marion from Eastbourne wrote to compare my campaign to that of John Lilburne, the 17th-century English political leveller who coined the term ‘freeborn rights’ and became a champion of liberty. She wrote: ‘Lilburne spent his life fighting for freedom of speech, and for this he was whipped, pilloried, half-starved, exiled, imprisoned and twice put on trial for his life by Oliver Cromwell.

Why Donald Trump will win in 2020

Writing in September 2015, I predicted Donald Trump would win the White House — and was ridiculed by political ‘experts’ for being so dumb. Now, I predict that President Trump will be re-elected in 2020. Why? First, because the Democrats are being dragged so far left by ranting young firebrand socialists like Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez they can’t possibly beat a guy who’s got the US economy purring, job numbers flying, Isis fleeing and China blinking. Second, because the Trump-bashing mainstream US media undermined their collective credibility with over-the-top 24/7 coverage that Special Counsel Robert Mueller would find Trump colluded with Russia to fix the 2016 election — only for Mueller to clear him. My friend Donald’s not everyone’s cup of tea.

Diary - 4 April 2019

I voted Remain, and still don’t think Brexit is a good idea. However, if there were to be a second EU referendum, I would vote Leave. Not because I’ve experienced some Damascene conversion to the Brexit cause — I haven’t met anyone who has changed their mind about it and suspect these people don’t exist outside Alastair Campbell’s hysterical Remoaner mind — but because I would be so furious at a second referendum happening at all. What’s going on now is a disgrace: a House of Commons packed with Remainer MPs trying everything in its power to reverse the 2016 result or dilute Brexit so much that it ceases to resemble anything that Leavers voted for. I find this assault on our democracy far more sinister than anything that might befall us in the event of a no-deal departure from Europe, not least because those shouting loudest about what a disaster no deal would be — like Campbell and Tony Blair — all once assured me that if Britain didn’t join the euro, it would also be a disaster, and in fact it was the best thing we never did.

What Donald Trump looks for in a diplomat

Trump unleashed a media firestorm when he tweeted that Nigel Farage would make a great UK ambassador to the United States. Everyone assumed he was joking. He wasn’t. ‘You know what a diplomat is?’ he once told me. ‘It’s a person trained from a young age how to be nice. In other words, Piers, you could never be a diplomat!’ He’s right, I couldn’t. Neither could he, and nor could Farage. But the latter is undeniably a very street-smart, canny operator who knows how to win, and Trump loves people like that. ‘Diplomats may be smart but they don’t have any savvy,’ he explained. ‘We need absolute killers to do our deals with countries like China and India.’ Farage’s only barrier for entry to Trump’s negotiating team may be his beer-guzzling.

What price a First Lady?

What price a First Lady? ‘If I offered you $10 billion,’ I once asked Donald Trump, ‘but you can’t have sex for the next ten years, would you take the deal?’ ‘Not even with your wife?’ Trump replied. ‘Definitely not with my wife.’ ‘I meant my wife!’ ‘No, not even with your wife.’ ‘No, I’d absolutely take my wife.’ So there you have it: Melania Trump is worth at least $10 billion. This is an extract from Piers Morgan's diary. The full article can be found here.

How Donald Trump reveals his morals on the golf course

Trump will be the best golfer ever to become president. Barack Obama is the most prolific, playing more than 300 rounds during his eight-year tenure. But his handicap remains a workmanlike 13. Trump’s is 4, which is not far off professional standard. The only other president to get anywhere close to that was John F. Kennedy, who played off 10 at his peak. If you ever hit the fairways with Trump, though, play fairly or he’ll never forget it. ‘If you cheat in golf you do it in business,’ he told me. ‘I’ve seen it many times. They move the ball an inch and hope nobody sees them, but I always see them. I had a pretty big match and my opponent, a top businessman, hit his drive solidly behind a large tree. There was no way he had a clean hit out of there.

Donald Trump has more time for me than for Theresa May

When I spoke to Trump after he won (I got 15 minutes, five more than Theresa May; not that I’m suggesting for a moment I’m more important than the Prime Minister. Obviously) it was clear that he, too, is highly amused by the sheer scale of the unctuously sycophantic U-turns he’s had to endure since landing the White House. ‘Everybody suddenly loves Trump again!’ he chuckled. Perhaps my most delicious schadenfreude arising from Trump’s ascendancy is the abject humiliation it’s imposed upon that other billionaire Apprentice host, Lord Sugar. The pair of them had a very bitter Twitter exchange a few years ago, during which Sugar informed Trump: ‘Success is measured with what you have in business. I own all my real estate with no bank borrowing — how about you, big shot?’ Sugar followed up with: ‘You only have 1.

This Christmas, I’m basking in Donald Trump’s glory

It’s weird being friends with someone who suddenly becomes President of the United States, not least for the reflected glory that suddenly rains down on one’s own far less powerful cranium. I was roundly ridiculed by numerous high-profile journalists and celebrities for predicting Donald Trump’s victory throughout his 16-month campaign. Now, many of those same egg-faced mockers slither up at festive parties to whisper a variant of: ‘Any chance you could put a good word in for me with Donald?’ To which my preferred response is to place a patronising hand on their shoulder and say: ‘It’s Mr President-elect Trump to you.’ This is an extract from Piers Morgan's Christmas diary. The full article can be found here.

Notebook | 8 December 2016

It’s weird being friends with someone who suddenly becomes President of the United States, not least for the reflected glory that suddenly rains down on one’s own far less powerful cranium. I was roundly ridiculed by numerous high-profile journalists and celebrities for predicting Donald Trump’s victory throughout his 16-month campaign. Now, many of those same egg-faced mockers slither up at festive parties to whisper a variant of: ‘Any chance you could put a good word in for me with Donald?’ To which my preferred response is to place a patronising hand on their shoulder and say: ‘It’s Mr President-elect Trump to you.’ When I spoke to Trump after he won (I got 15 minutes, five more than Theresa May; not that I’m suggesting for a moment I’m more important than the Prime Minister.

Diary - 1 October 2015

Party conference season is the most pointless waste of money, time and liver quality ever devised. I attended these sweaty, drunken gatherings for ten years during my newspaper-editor days and achieved nothing constructive other than clarity over which is the best way to treat a monstrous hangover. (Answer: my late grandmother’s recipe of vine tomatoes on toast, laden with thick Marmite and gargantuan grinds from a pepper mill.) But they were fun, so long as I adhered to the golden rule: always leave the bar before 2 a.m., thus avoiding the moment when enough alcohol emboldens other delegates, and indeed one’s own staff, to tell you what they really think of you. Politicians use their conferences to plot, scheme, shore up support and remind us all that they’re a bunch of self-interested charlatans.

Diary - 20 January 2007

If you have started to fear that Tesco, that rampaging retail beast, is running the country, then you may be right. Let me explain. When Time magazine made everyone who uses the internet their ‘Person of the Year’ last month, it got us all thinking about the nature of ‘power’ in the modern technological age. In pre-internet days, power was fairly easily definable. Politicians and newspaper proprietors essentially ran the country, because they decided how we led our lives, how we got our news, and how we thought. But the emergence of the world wide web has changed everything. I recently interviewed Gordon Brown for a forthcoming GQ ‘power’ issue, and he was fascinatingly honest about the erosion of political influence under this cyperspace onslaught.

Diary - 19 April 2003

If I meet one more smug, smirking pro-war protagonist who greets me with that 'Hey, peacenik – you must feel a right prat' look, I fear I shall arm myself with a few of those elusive WMDs and take out whole swaths of Wapping, Kensington and Downing Street. If there's one thing worse than the world's most powerful military force waging an unlawful, unethical war against a clapped-out old tyrant's ragbag excuse for an army, then it's surely the quite absurd rash of gloating and triumphalism that has engulfed large parts of our country. I am all for saluting the efficiency and bravery of the armed forces in doing their job, but did anybody really ever doubt that we'd win the military conflict? Do we cheer when Australia thrash Bangladesh at cricket, or throw street parties when Brazil drub Lithuania at football? A senior commander of the SAS in the last Gulf war told me last summer that the allies had virtually wiped out Saddam's infamous Republican Guard in 1991 and any fight with them now would be laughably one-sided.

Diary - 5 October 2002

And so to Blackpool. But how? Train: disgracefully expensive, probably delayed, full of broadsheet journalists (apart from the Independent), possibility of being jumped in the buffet carriage by a beaming Richard Branson dispensing pork pies. Car: long, boring, held up by roadworks and impoverished Independent journalists in jalopies. Plane: ten minutes from Canary Wharf to City airport, no queues, prompt 40-minute flight. And, most crucially, via Manchester. Now, I won't labour the football in a rugger bugger's bible, but the last time I went to Manchester was in May to see Arsenal win the double in Sir Alex Ferguson's backyard. Better than sex? It was better than hearing that my great friend Cherie Blair had endured a bad trip to the hairdresser and emerged with bright-red dreadlocks hours before Tony's big speech.

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