Piers Morgan – or Piers Stefan Pughe-Morgan, as he is known when visiting his family seat – is rapidly turning into one of the most risible individuals within the lumpen-commentariat on social media.
You may recognise Morgan as that smug, sneering, entitled posh-boy that thinks he is an expert on any subject you care to mention, who is forever correcting grammatical errors on Twitter and winning arguments by telling you how many followers he has. To be fair to Morgan we shouldn’t expect too much from someone whose moral compass was calibrated in the newsroom of Kelvin Mackenzie at the Sun in the late 1980s.
Morgan’s fast-track apprenticeship in soaking-up Mackenzie’s insidious brand of bonk journalism and fake news has been a feature of his career and runs through him like a stick of Blackpool rock, staining everything he touches.
Morgan kick-started his Fleet Street career and obsession with brown-nosing celebrities when he was snatched from relative obscurity and given the dubious honour of editing the Sun’s Bizarre gossip column in 1989. Undoubtedly the nadir of his time at the Sun was his penning of an article titled “The Poofters of Pop” in which Morgan ‘outed’ musicians who were rumoured to be gay. Such blatant homophobia was rife at the Sun in the late 1980s as Kelvin Mackenzie was wholly obsessed with the subject of celebrities sexuality, and how he could use it to ruin their lives and careers.
Morgan’s affinity with the gutter coupled with Mackenzie’s glowing recommendation led Rupert Murdoch gave him the opportunity to become editor of the News of The World in 1994, aged just 29. Morgan took to his new job like a turd does the u-bend, yet just two years later – and not for the last time in his career – he left under a cloud. Within months he was back plumbing-the-depths as the new editor at the Daily Mirror.
Morgan lasted at the Daily Mirror for the best part of a decade until he was sacked for taking the Kelvin Mackenzie approach to fact-checking and publishing lies about British soldiers in Iraq. This was not the only controversy to arise during Morgan’s inglorious time at the helm. He published lies about Arsenal supporters and their involvement in acts of hooliganism abroad, and he was investigated over allegations of insider-dealing.
In recent years Trinity Mirror has had to pay out millions in compensation to the many victims of phone-hacking that had taken place at the Daily Mirror during Morgan’s grubby watch.
Since being dumped by the Daily Mirror, Morgan has made a fortune working on both sides of the Atlantic from hosting mediocre talk-shows, making reality TV appearances, judging talent shows, and conducting celebrity interviews with all the challenging questioning and fearless probing as Michael Parkinson high on a mug of Horlicks. Slurping E-Coli from celebrity rectums may be a dirty job, but for Morgan it has been an extremely profitable endeavour.
Currently, Morgan divides his time between tweeting inanely, scribbling pious dirges for the Daily Mail and co-presenting the breakfast show, Good Morning Britain. Woodward and Bernstein, eat your fucking heart out.
Since Donald Trump announced he was running for the Presidency, Morgan identified the possibilities for his bank balance and subsequently clung to Team-Trump like a particularly stubborn clinker. Morgan met Donald Trump years ago, and just like every other celebrity he has ever met, Morgan claims that Trump is a good friend and is forever making reference to how well and how long he has known him. Morgan’s faux-familiarity is excruciatingly cringe-inducing and laughably transparent.
Following Donald Trump becoming President, Brand Morgan has gone into overdrive. This fawning toady has become a carbuncle on Trump’s backside. Even a narcissist like Trump must feel slightly nauseous at the sight and sound of the perennially supine Morgan licking dog-shit from the tread of his hand-stitched shoes, in the hope of landing an interview, a quote, a photograph opportunity, or any kind of crumb flicked from the White House table by Team-Trump or their overlord’s tiny orange hands.
Morgan has even taken on Trump’s puerile stock phrases and reactions. If you have the audacity to challenge Morgan he behaves like a petulant brat, claiming that he hasn’t read, watched, or ever liked your work – while at the same time claiming it is overrated or even quoting it in his own work. Which lie is it, Piers?
Quite possibly Morgan’s biggest pet hate is his irritation at celebrities – or ‘luvvies’ if they disagree with him – having the cheek to comment on social or political matters. This is an odd position to take from someone whose questioning of celebrities has formed a large part of his career and earnings. Of course, if a celebrity has an opinion approved by Morgan, then all is well with the world..
Since becoming a Trump fan-boy Morgan now does that yawn inducing right-wing internet thing of referring to anyone that disagrees with him as a snowflake and(or) a virtue signaller. Morgan, and the sycophants, neck-beards, alt-right drones, pencil-neck box-room lurkers, and other fellow travellers engage in reverse virtue signalling. They go out of their way to show how uncaring, selfish, intolerant and how far on the right they are. Maybe a descriptor should be created to describe this phenomenon. It could be referred to as Bastard Signalling, for example.
Falling out with celebrities, brown-nosing Trump, and espousing controversial opinions is the entire raison d’etre of Brand Morgan. He has seen how profitable this unpleasant approach has been for for his Augean stablemate, Katie Hopkins, and is ploughing a similar furrow for himself – albeit slightly less offensively. What he lacks in chin and branches of a family tree, Morgan more than compensates with his brass fucking neck and rawhide thick skin.
As much as he tries to portray himself as a rung above, the vainglorious plum Morgan, is cut from the very same cloth as his mentor, Kelvin Mackenzie, and from fellow bigot herders, parasites on the back of misery, and Bastard Signallers – Gary Bushell, Richard Littlejohn, Nick Ferrari, Jon Gaunt, Katie Hopkins, and Rod Liddle.