LIGHTS, CAMERA, PIERS.
Doesn't quite scan, does it? It doesn't so much trip off the tongue as trip and fall to the floor, landing thud, the sort of tone-deaf dud a Democratic consultant might come up with.
Piers is Piers Morgan, the throbbingly virile replacement who intends to snap free of Larry King's suspenders with one flex of his Superman chest. In his first week of CNN celebrity interviews (all of them pre-taped for that special tin-can freshness), he reportedly asks what it would take hypothetically for a man to seduce her, which won't do much for the dead children of Iraq, but is what the late Phil Hartman would call quite "a splash of sassy."
Unlike King, who hung upside down from the ceiling in the studio suspended in cobwebs like Spiderman's uncle, Morgan is leaning forward in the motorcycle as he races through the first weeks of meetings and tapings like a man possessed, alloted only fifteen minutes to shower before a GQ party by his whiplash assistant. Well, that's what it takes to make a Marine, as I learned the hard way at Cape Lejeune, whose hospitality suite was on the spartan side.
Celia Walden, the wife of Piers Morgan, has an entertaining piece in the UK Telegraph about the human cannonball blur her husband is experiencing in the initiation phase.
With five days to go, we decide to brave the six inches of snow and walk to a ''Colin Firth Luncheon?? (?Luncheon?? - what are we, in a Henry James novel?) nearby. New Yorkers have started to recognise Piers and a couple of them come up and high-five him. ?Hey! Good luck with the show!? There?s a lot of boxing rhetoric - ?Take em? down Pierce,? ?Knock 'em out, bro? - but a notable lack of deference. They?re faintly interested in this Brit (once familiar to reality-TV audiences for judging piano-playing pigs) but not so much that they want to stop and talk for longer than a few seconds. He?ll probably still get the cheery arm-punch (albeit accompanied by an ?Off home soon, Pierce??) if the show tanks.
Our ''luncheon?? is rammed with New York socialites in Chanel twinsets and Harry Winston broaches - one of whom makes a beeline for Piers as soon as we arrive. ?I loved you in The King?s Speech,? she coos, and it takes a second for us both to realise that she thinks Piers is Colin Firth. Even if you accept that we Brits might look alike to our Stateside counterparts - pallid and vaguely unkempt with teeth the wrong side of ''eggshell?? - this is a stretch. Only Firth, bafflingly, tells us he?s had the same problem. When my husband offers his commiserations, Firth gallantly replies that it?s not so bad. People used to mistake him for Nick Clegg.
Four days to go and half way through his gluten-free granola (it?s a short step from there to hair transplants and dermal fillers) Piers puts his spoon down: ?Right, I?ve got to go and talk to Clooney about the Sudan.? Of course, I mutter to myself as he disappears. Of course.
The interviews themselves are so intense that my husband has developed a worrying habit of taking on some of his interviewees? characteristics for a short period in the immediate aftermath. He comes back from Clooney an earnest espresso drinker, from the Texan TV Pastor Joel Osteen slightly bug-eyed and fervent, and for at least an hour after Kid Rock things were alarming, to say the least. Thankfully, I was out when he came back from talking to shock jock Howard Stern.
He probably headed straight to the shower, eager to put Howard's shampoo secrets into foaming action.
Source: http://www.vanityfair.com/online/wolcott/2011/01/a-full-page-ad-in-this.html
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