It’ll take a lot more than a bunch of whiny woke weasels to cancel Sharon

MONDAY, OCTOBER 4

It’s been a rough 18 months for everyone, but nothing quite prepared me for the devastating hammer-blow that crashed down on my head this morning.

For 12 years, I’ve dined out on the fact that Susan Boyle, the greatest break-out star from any talent show in history, only entered Britain’s Got Talent because she fancied me, or as she put it in her own inimitable way: ‘I had a wee crush on Piers.’

She even had a pillow with my face on it. But today, Susan appeared on my former BGT co-judge Amanda Holden’s Heart Breakfast show and dropped a bombshell.

‘You don’t fancy Piers any more, I gather?’ said Amanda.

‘Who?’ Susan replied, witheringly, before adding: ‘I respect him. But I don’t fancy him. I’ve grown up a bit now.’

Wow. Brutal.

As Susan sang in that immortal BGT audition that touched the world:

‘I had a dream my life would be, so different from the hell I’m living, so different now from what it seemed, now life has killed the dream, I dreamed.’

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 5

By coincidence, I met up today with another feisty lady from my talentshow days, the indomitable Sharon Osbourne, with whom I worked on America’s Got Talent for years.

We hadn’t seen each other since Sharon lost her job on CBS show The Talk back in March for defending me over the Markle debacle that led to my departure from Good Morning Britain.

She was on sparkling form, and looked fabulous, but there was no hiding her deep anger at the despicable way she was treated simply for exercising her own right to free speech.

It really is an absurd state of affairs, in two supposed great democracies like Britain and

America, when I’m not allowed to disbelieve a brazen fibber, and Sharon’s not allowed to stand by a friend because it makes her a ‘racist-supporter’, even though I never said anything racist about Princess Pinocchio.

But one thing I’ve learnt about Mrs O over the years is that, like me, it will take a lot more than a bunch of whiny woke weasels to cancel her for long.

Over a 90-minute breakfast at Claridge’s, (right), we laughed like drains, swapped tales of ghastly disloyal celebrities who ran a mile when we hit our icebergs – you know who you are, and we won’t forget – and there were occasional tears too (Sharon’s had an awful time in the past year with family health issues).

We also discussed future career collaborations, because there are few people that I would rather work with again.

At the end, we stood up and hugged goodbye and a guy at a nearby table jumped to his feet and exclaimed loudly: ‘I want to see you both back on TV very soon! Preferably together!’

We thanked him, and then I winked at Sharon before replying:

‘Watch this space, mate.’

SUNDAY, OCTOBER 10 Ted Lasso, the smash-hit US sports comedy-drama about an American football coach who comes to manage an English football team, AFC Richmond, has been rightly lauded around the world as a wonderfully uplifting celebration of the power of kindness and empathy.

So I tuned in to the season two finale tonight, prepared to be bathed in a soothing televisual bath of old-fashioned decency, and was especially excited after an American friend tipped me the wink that I got a namecheck.

It’s true, I did.

My big moment came when AFC Richmond’s PR lady Keeley Jones (played by

Juno Temple) is seen speaking on the phone to an unseen pushy journalist.

‘It definitely sounds both helpful and compassionate,’ she says, ‘but I don’t think that you moderating a session between Coach Lasso and a celebrity psychiatrist is the best move right now. All his attention is on Brentford. Thank you very much.’

She then hangs up and mutters: ‘F*** you, Piers Morgan.’

FRIDAY, OCTOBER 15 The new Bond film No Time To Die is a great action extravaganza with brilliant stunts, and there’s no question that Daniel Craig is one of the best 007s. In fact, I’d put him third behind Sean Connery and Roger Moore, though at the launch party at Mark’s Club in Mayfair tonight for her outrageously funny new book,

My Unapologetic Diaries, Dame Joan Collins surprised me by saying she reckons Pierce Brosnan was No 1.

But where the latest movie fails is that it contains virtually no humour, devilish charm, or seduction.

James Bond has been neutered by the PC brigade to the extent that he’s not even allowed to chat up Miss Moneypenny, presumably for fear she would immediately call HR to have him suspended for inappropriate conduct in the workplace.

And when confronted by one of the hottest ever Bond girls (sorry, I mean ‘brainy Bond people’) in the form of scene-stealing Ana de Armas, Hollywood’s most legendary womaniser morphs into a bashful asexual monk.

It’s as if the script had been written by The Guardian’s editorial team.

If I were casting the next Bond, I’d go for Idris Elba, who I bumped into at the recent Arsenal/Spurs game.

He’s Connery-proportioned physically and exudes the required simmering menace. But he’s also got a mischievous twinkle, and a keenly appreciative eye for pretty ladies (he once directed it at my then fiancee Celia in a way that I had to swiftly rebuff, Oddjob-style) and he’d restore some much needed old-school Bond sexual charisma to the role.

MONDAY, OCTOBER 18 The Miss France beauty pageant is being sued for ‘selecting contestants based on their appearance.’ OK, that’s it, I’m done.

If Sir Richard Branson or Jeff Bezos are reading this, can one of you please rocket me off Planet Earth before I’m woked into an early grave by these joy-destroying lunatics.

I’ll take my chances on Uranus, if it’s still allowed to be called that by the time I get there.