Don't You Know Who I Was? The Outsider Diaries of Piers Morgan Sunday April 1: Who says I'm a has-been? I've just landed a three-day stint co-presenting Good Morning Basingstoke on the prestigious cable TV channel Basingstoke Magic! I take to this interviewing lark like a natural. Yes, I'm a brilliant success! First up is a local postman called Albert who's retiring after 50 years devoted blah blah service. "So, mate, you've been delivering letters to housewives all this time, so c'mon, you can tell me - who's the sexiest chick you've ever bedded on your rounds, then?" I ask. He turns out to be a sanctimonious hypocrite, like so many postmen in my experience. Claims he's been faithful to his wife for 40-odd years. What a dead loss he turns out to be! "Look, mate," I say. "I'm a mate of some of this country's top people. Sven-Goran Eriksson. Russell Brand. Gordon Brown. Simon Cowell. The lot. So let's have it straight, mate - in your time as a postman, just how many thousands of letters have you steamed open and read?" He goes all hoity-toity on me. "I've never done anything like that," he sniffs, absurdly. "Don't get on your high-horse with me, mate!" I say. "Hey, lighten up! Frankly, you remind me of Cherie Blair, who used to be a great mate when I was the world-famous editor of the Daily Mirror, but then had a total sense of humour failure on me when I tried to have a bit of fun by calling her a stuck-up cow! Honestly - these Prime Ministers' wives! Who do they think they are? "And you postmen are just the bloody same, mate! Next time I want to interview a retiring postmen, I'll go to a professional!" I once met Muhammad Ali. Big bloke, good with his fists. Monday April 2: Can you believe it? The cable TV channel Basingstoke Magic called to tell me they don't need me any more. Typical two-faced losers! Apparently, they didn't like the way I managed to pull that pompous tight-arsed postman down to size. Have they never heard of truth-telling? I'm just too hot for these guys too handle. The word they use is "unsuitable". Which, as everyone knows, is shorthand for "principled, dignified and a fierce opponent of injustice wheresoever it may occur". "Tell you what, mate," I say to the MD, as he's showing me the door. "Your deadly rivals at BBC Radio Andover are crying out for me. And you know what, mate? I might just take up their offer!" That'll show 'em! Incidentally, I once met Mother Teresa. She wore a shapeless frock all the way down to her ankles, which suggested to me her legs were pretty frightful - not like my mate Jordan's! Tuesday April 3: Strolling along the Mall, I see HM the Queen passing in her VIP limousine. She's obviously loving her little moment of B-list fame. The crowds all stop and stare. The Queen makes a tremendous show of waving at me, trying to catch my eye, obviously so she can boast to her friends that I'm a mate. From the look of her, you can just tell she's desperate to be accepted in my circle. But unlike the Queen, I've never let fame go to my head, and I've managed to keep my feet firmly on the ground, so I don't bother to wave back. That'll teach her! Doesn't she realise her career is on the skids? Frankly, it's high time she reinvented herself. When did she last feature on the cover of FHM magazine, for instance? Not so me. Only the other day, I was asked if I'd be the subject of a prime-time slot on Channel 4, a prestigious new programme called Where Are They Now?, along with top mega-rocker Gary Glitter and leading philosopher Father Abraham, of Smurf fame. I've met other Royals, so know the inside gossip. Apparently, Prince Charles is the Queen's son. You heard it here first. It seems he thinks he'll inherit the throne when she dies. Which goes some way towards explaining why he's always shaking hands, making trips abroad, and generally schmoozing fit to bust. Wednesday April 4: Down to the stadium to watch my good mates The Gunners in a game of footers. All eyes from the other side of the stadium are on me, needless to say. Before the game, the players all stand to attention, as a mark of respect. "Come on, guys!" I think. "Just treat me like a normal bloke!" On television tonight, my old drinking partner President George Bush is looking out at me, pausing for quite some time between words, as if wanting my advice or approval. But I am firmly committed to the belief that we should never have gone into Iraq. Saddam Hussein may not have been a TV natural, but he was bloody brilliant as the guy you love to hate, and things aren't nearly as colourful now he's gone. I'm reliably informed by my top sources that his last words were: "Please tell Piers he could absolutely be mega on daytime TV, if he plays his cards right." OK, the guy was no saint, but he went from nothing to being easily the most famous Iraqi who ever lived, and you've got to respect him for that. Thursday April 5: I go up to a bloke in the Strand in my new role as London's top PR. I can tell he's impressed by the mega board I'm wearing saying "Eat at Joe's". But he's nothing special, and I tell him so, then say, "No hard feelings, mate", and touch him for some money. His reaction - can you believe it? - is to start moving away down the street, so I pull him back. He resists, so I tug some more on his jacket, and he scarpers. "Please, mate! Try to keep some dignity!" I say. Weird, the way some people just don't mind how they behave in public. Friday April 6: I'm sitting beneath some of the greatest newspapers in the world in one of the most prestigious gutters in the universe, under the must-have arches at London's exclusive Charing Cross. I'm in the VIP lounge, up the fashionable end of the gutter, with some of the leading movers and shakers in the whole gutter world. "Come on then, mate - what's the best sex you ever had?" I'm quizzing one of the biggest rats in the area - a huge figure in the rat world, internationally acclaimed for the size of his whiskers and the length of his tail. The rat takes one look at me and scurries away. That kind of envy is nothing new. Pathetically, he's convinced himself that it'll make him look "good" if he turns up his nose at me in public. He's just the sort of pompous, intellectually lightweight rat I've spent a lifetime avoiding, so I call back to him: "Look, mate - lighten up! - don't you realise I was once best mates with Sharon Osbourne?" http://www.telegraph.co.uk/opinion/main.jhtml?xml=/opinion/2007/04/07/do0707.xml Was it not an ARRSER who started him down this road?