The locals choked on their pork scratchings as Jeremy Clarkson and I shook hands and marched to the bar



SATURDAY, MAY 31

'Piers, I thought I'd put a face to the man you've been abusing - Paul Downton'

Ever since he sacked Kevin Pietersen, I have mocked new England cricket boss Paul Downton on Twitter – labelling him ‘Downton-Shabby’ and highlighting both his utter ineptitude and woefully mediocre record as a player.

Leaving Lord’s today, after England lost to Sri Lanka, I was accosted on the steps of the Tavern stand.



'Piers, I thought I’d put a face to the man you’ve been abusing – Paul Downton.’



‘Actually,’ I responded, ‘I can now put a face to the man who stabbed my friend in the back.’



Downton erupted. ‘I didn’t stab anyone in the back!’



‘You did,’ I retorted, ‘and I bet you wish you’d had him back in the team today.’

‘NO!’ he shrieked, turning puce with indignation, ‘he had a TERRIBLE effect on the dressing room!’

‘That’s complete nonsense,’ I countered.

We continued exchanging barbs for several minutes, before he suddenly stopped and announced: ‘Piers, meet my wife Ali...’

I turned to find a stony-faced Mrs Downton glaring at me. Hardly surprising given all I’ve said about her husband.



‘Nice to meet you,’ I said, shaking her hand. And he continued: ‘... and my daughter Phoebe.’

Miss Downton looked even less pleased to make my acquaintance, but grudgingly shook my hand, too.

‘Well, it’s been good meeting you,’ Downton lied, and they all walked off, thus bringing to an end a spectacularly awkward, superbly British encounter.







MONDAY, JUNE 2

A text arrived in the early hours of last Friday morning. 'Morgan, Clarkson here. We should stop it. Drink?'

‘Great feuds often need very few words to resolve them,’ observed Alexander McCall Smith, author of the best-selling No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency series.



‘Disputes, even between nations, can be set to rest with simple acts of contrition and corresponding forgiveness, and can so often be shown to be based on nothing much other than pride and misunderstanding.’

As a serial feuder, I considered this perceptive analysis when a text arrived in the early hours of last Friday morning.



‘Morgan, Clarkson here. We should stop it. Drink?’



After a decade littered with mutual scars of verbal, literary and on one particularly notorious occasion, physical abuse, my bête noir Jeremy Clarkson was offering a peace summit.

‘Pint in the Scarsdale?’ I responded.



We frequent the same west London pub.



At 7pm tonight, we arrived exactly on time, he on a bicycle, me on foot, shook hands and marched to the bar – as startled locals spontaneously choked with disbelief on their pork scratchings.

For the next four hours, we sat outside and drank. I consumed vast quantities of London Pride bitter and Rioja. He had four gallons of house rosé.

And as the alcohol flowed, we agreed that what our mutual friends have always insisted may well be true – the reason we feuded for so long was because we are so similar: quiet, modest, devoid of opinion, and universally loved.







TUESDAY, JUNE 3

I arrived at the Glamour Awards tonight to be greeted with the words ‘MY MAN!’ by Samuel L Jackson, sporting a fluorescent turquoise suit and bright green tie.

‘Did I misinterpret the “Glamour” dress code?’ he asked. ‘Samuel, you ARE the dress code,’ I reassured him.

Sharon Osbourne was less effusive. ‘Come here, you stupid old b*****d!’

As we exchanged furious air-kisses, ‘Saint’ Steve Coogan – self-appointed bastion of press ethics and morality – walked by.



‘Oh, he’s such a kn*b!’ Sharon seethed, echoing my sentiments precisely.

Amanda Holden and Alesha Dixon were on my table, and demanded a selfie in which they both adoringly planted their lips on my cheeks. They then tweeted it to David Walliams and Simon Cowell with the words: ‘Love new BGT judge!’

There’s been speculation that I might return to my old seat on the BGT panel. And who knows? After all, Simon does seem to be in the mood for comeback stories on his shows at the moment.

Amanda and Alesha presented an award to Bridget Jones author Helen Fielding, and I helped them craft their speech.



‘Like Bridget, Alesha and I have counted our alcohol limits and we’ve exceeded them,’ began Amanda when they got up on stage.

‘And as for Spanx,’ said Alesha, ‘I’m keeping my phone in mine tonight [this was true, she showed me] so give me a call, Samuel!’

‘It’s on vibrate,’ leered Amanda.



‘Seriously,’ added Alesha, ‘we’re here to honour a woman who made it OK to be flawed, semi-alcoholic and desperate – like Amanda!’

Ms Holden erupted: ‘As Bridget would say to Daniel Cleaver – do f*** off!’

Then, as Helen walked up, a loud rumbling noise echoed around the stage from some technical malfunction.



And then again, louder. Amanda promptly clutched her backside, feigned apology, and got the biggest laugh of the night. ‘I’ve always been the improv queen!’ she cackled later.



I chatted to Dame Helen Mirren about my CNN exit.



‘What you did on gun control in America was incredibly important, very brave, and you should feel proud of yourself,’ she said.

‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ I replied. It was the nearest I’ll ever get to the Queen dubbing me on the shoulder.



Nicole Kidman was supposed to attend, but pulled out at the last minute claiming sickness, presumably caused by the reviews of her new movie Grace Of Monaco.

She recorded an acceptance speech from her bedside, wearing a night gown but looking absolutely fine. Host Graham Norton was sympathetic.



‘Poor Nicole, she looks SO ill, doesn’t she?’

As I left, I saw Davina McCall, who won an award for her inspiring Comic Relief triathlon stunt. ‘Must be time for you to do Life Stories?’ I suggested.



‘I can NEVER do your show!’ she said. ‘I’d drown in my own tears within the first five minutes.’