It’s great to have a manager who’s a true friend as well. I’d trust him with my life.
THURSDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER 2010
Dinner with Martin Cruddace at Soho House in L.A.
We worked together for a tumultuous decade at the Daily Mirror, when he ran the legal department and I ran the editorial side. And became so close that I even shared his apartment for a couple of years when my first marriage ended.
A finer, more loyal, trusted colleague and friend it would be impossible to find.
‘How the fuck have you pulled this off?’ he said with a grin.
‘I have no real idea,’ I replied. It does still feel like some kind of weird dream.
‘Feeling the pressure yet?’
‘Nope.’
‘Liar.’
He knows me too well.
The truth is that of course I am.
This is no ordinary job.
I’m replacing an absolute icon, and a man beloved by the American people.
The fact that I’m a younger British upstart with a history of tabloid journalism and reality television isn’t going to make this takeover process any easier.
I’ve seen what the American media does to people it doesn’t like, and it isn’t pretty.
They’ll give me a few months’ honeymoon period until I actually get on air, but the moment I do, it’s going to be a bloodbath.
If I’m not very careful, the dream will rapidly become a nightmare.
WEDNESDAY, 8 SEPTEMBER 2010
I’ve appeared as a guest on Larry King’s show three times over the years, via satellite.
But until today, we’ve never actually met in person.
CNN wanted to formally announce my appointment by having me and Larry appear together. So I arrived at the network’s bureau on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles at 8 a.m.
A phalanx of security guards led me into the building and down a long, slim corridor boasting huge photos of Larry interviewing people like Oprah.
It was immediately intimidating – the braces, the iconic set, the hugely famous guests.
I turned a corner, and there was Larry, sitting in a chair, having his makeup done.
‘Hi Larry,’ I said, walking forward to shake his hand.
‘Piers, good to meet you.’
It was a surreal moment.
We had a coffee together in the green room.
He was smaller than I imagined, with a slim, wiry, slightly hunched frame.
He wore a dark blue shirt, pinstripe charcoal-grey trousers, black braces and a purple and silver striped tie.
‘I just want you to know what a great honour this is for me,’ I babbled, desperate to try and hit the right tone with someone who must have been thinking: ‘They’re replacing me with this guy?’
‘I feel like the act who followed Sinatra at the Sands in Vegas – I know I can never do as well as you, but I’ll have a go.’
Larry chuckled, then we sat together for twenty minutes and talked about everything from Obama to Clinton, Iraq to Haiti, Murdoch to Mandela. He was exactly as I expected – fiercely intelligent, incredibly knowledgeable, very funny and a quite fantastic name-dropper.
He was also surprisingly candid.
‘I’ll be honest, Piers, this feels like the end of a twenty-five-year marriage for me,’ he admitted. ‘I know it’s time to leave, and I’m excited about having more freedom to do other things, but I’m still going to miss it. It’s been my life for a quarter of a century.’
‘I hope I can live up to even half your extraordinary legacy,’ I replied.
We went out to meet the press, and Larry couldn’t have been more gracious, posing for pictures, welcoming me to the CNN family, and telling everyone what a great success he thought I’d be.
I in turn repeated my Sinatra line, and tried to say all the right things.
Given how awkward these handovers can be, I think it went pretty well.
I was struck by the absolute reverence shown to Larry by all the CNN crew.
They love him, and he’d clearly earned that love with his behaviour towards them.
‘Larry’s one of the genuinely nicest people in the business,’ one of the camera guys told me. ‘And we know, because we meet almost everyone in the business on this show.’
At 9 a.m. I sat in a conference room with CNN’s US president, Jon Klein – the man who had led my first CNN meeting, and who has been the most instrumental since in bringing me to the network – and watched the big TV screen suddenly flash the immortal words: ‘CNN breaking news – Piers Morgan to replace Larry King.’
It was a startling thing to watch.
Reaction around the world was swift and furious – in some cases, genuinely furious!
My oldest friends back in Newick in East Sussex put the news into proper perspective.
Cameron Jones, captain of the village cricket team, texted me on behalf of the lads: ‘A TV pundit just said you have to be ugly, have bad teeth and live in a castle for a Brit to make it in the US. We’re sticking some turrets on your house.’
SUNDAY, 12 SEPTEMBER 2010
I was working out in the Beverly Wilshire gym this morning – I live at the hotel when I’m in L.A. – when I saw Radha Arora, the flamboyant general manager who has transformed the place in spectacular style over the past few years.
‘Who’s going to be your first guest?’ he asked.
‘Not sure yet. I’m trying for President Obama, but I suspect it’s highly unlikely he’ll do the show until he’s seen what it’s like.’
‘What about Oprah?’
‘She’d be incredible, but I don’t know her, or any of her people, and she doesn’t give many interviews.’
‘Oprah’s best friend, Gayle King, is in town right now. Why don’t you ask her?’
I sent an email:
Dear Gayle,
I believe our mutual friend Radha has warned you that I may be in touch. As you may know, I’m replacing Larry King on CNN.
What you may not know is that I am a stupendous fan of Oprah. And I’m desperate to interview her for my launch week.
I know she’s the busiest woman on the planet, but I want to know how I can make this happen. Short of parasailing naked onto the roof of the White House, I’m prepared to do anything.
She replied quickly: ‘I will certainly let team Oprah know of your interest. Please don’t show up at the White House naked, you may be shot and that might hurt.’
MONDAY, 13 SEPTEMBER 2010
A profile has appeared in Vogue, featuring a photograph of me wearing Larry King-style braces, and the headline, the man who would be king.
History, I reminded myself, is littered with the carcasses of would-be kings.
TUESDAY, 14 SEPTEMBER 2010
I went for a routine health screening in L.A. this morning, and the doctor who supervised it suddenly grew concerned when he performed the eye-watering digital rectal examination that all men loathe.
‘I can feel a lump on your prostate.’
I tried to stay calm.
‘OK, what does that mean?’
‘It may mean nothing, but I want to test your PSA levels.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Prostate-specific antigen. If the levels are raised, it could signify something more problematic is going on.’
A few hours later, he called me.
‘I’ve detected some raised PSA levels in your prostate, which again could mean nothing. But combined with the lump that I felt, they are significant enough to suggest that it may indicate a serious condition.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like prostate cancer.’
I’ve always wondered how I’d feel if I ever heard the ‘C’ word, and it’s as bad as I imagined.
‘I don’t want to alarm you,’ he continued, ‘and as I said, it may be nothing. But I want you to undergo a biopsy. And I want you to do it quickly.’
‘OK.’
I hung up and gasped.
; Tonight was the America’s Got Talent finale, which should have been incredibly exciting and fun, but my mind was a million miles away.
David Hasselhoff, a former judge on the show, was in the same building, filming Dancing with the Stars, and came to say hello.
‘I do miss you, Hoff,’ I confessed. ‘Working with you was like a trip to the dentist. Painful while it lasted, but essentially a force for good in my life.’
‘Me too, man,’ he laughed. ‘You’re a wanker, but a good wanker.’
To compound the misery of my day, over in the UK Celia gave an interview to the TV show Daybreak this morning, in which, when asked how she felt about my new job, she replied deadpan: ‘I’m still reeling from the shock. I don’t know what this means for me.’ Pause. ‘I’m sure we’ll survive, it’s fine …’
All delivered with a slightly strained expression, as if she was fighting back tears.
I knew instantly it was all a joke. But unfortunately, that particular brand of sarcasm doesn’t tend to travel well across the Atlantic.
And sure enough, within hours, the entertainment websites over here in the US were buzzing with PIERS MORGAN DITCHES WIFE FOR NEW LIFE IN AMERICA-style headlines.
I was even grilled about it on the America’s Got Talent after-show red carpet tonight.
‘Is your marriage in trouble already?’ asked one of the reporters.
I phoned Celia when I got home.
‘Congratulations. Not only am I dying, but apparently we’re also divorcing.’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry. I won’t talk about you again in public …’
‘I can already hear next week’s Daybreak promo: “Celia reveals how Piers wears her underwear, eats Chinese meals for four at night, and likes to be called Doris in bed—”’
‘Those things,’ she interrupted, ‘will remain strictly entre nous.’
WEDNESDAY, 15 SEPTEMBER 2010
I barely slept last night. Still reeling from what the doctor told me.
Saw John for a drink tonight, and told him.
‘Look, like he said, it is probably nothing. There’s no point worrying about something that may not exist.’
He’s right, but it’s nagging at me like a large, angry worm in my ear.
THURSDAY, 16 SEPTEMBER 2010
I’m due to undergo the biopsy tomorrow. I Googled the procedure this morning and feel alarmed by some of the side effects that can result.
Then I remembered an Irish urologist who once treated me years ago in London, and is renowned as one of the best in the world in prostate-related issues.
I found his number and called him. He listened to all the details, including the lump and PSA levels, and said: ‘Right, do not have the biopsy. American doctors massively over-order these operations in situations like this, and they are almost always unnecessary. This particular procedure can also cause problems of its own. Come and see me next week when you’re back in London.’
I cancelled the biopsy. And suddenly felt hugely better, despite having no factual evidence yet that should make me feel hugely better.
FRIDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER 2010
The single most crucial appointment for my show is going to be the position of executive producer or EP.
That’s the show-runner who makes everything tick. And for this kind of show, he or she has to be very experienced, very talented and very driven.
I’ve interviewed a few candidates, but none have seemed right to me.
The name I keep coming back to is Jonathan Wald.
He’s got a great pedigree, having EP’d both the Today Show and the NBC Nightly News. His father, Richard, was also president of NBC News for four years.
I’ve met him a couple of times with John, who knows him well, and I like him enormously. He’s very clever, super confident and really wants the job. He also makes me laugh, which is extremely important.
Today Jon Klein said he agreed with me, and was going to offer the job to Jonathan.
SATURDAY, 18 SEPTEMBER 2010
I emailed Jonathan to congratulate him.
‘Amen,’ he replied. ‘I sort of feel like the line Robert Redford says at the end of The Candidate: “Now what?”’
MONDAY, 20 SEPTEMBER 2010
Back in London and saw my Irish urologist this morning.
‘Like I thought, there’s no problem here,’ he concluded after a series of tests. ‘I can’t feel any lump, and many men of your age have raised PSA levels. It usually means nothing. The biopsy though can have some bad side effects. That’s why I always try and avoid them unless they are absolutely essential.’
‘So I haven’t got cancer?’
‘You haven’t got cancer.’
FRIDAY, 24 SEPTEMBER 2010
Unbelievable.
Jon Klein’s been fired from CNN.
And Jeff Zucker’s gone from NBC.
The two men who made my deal happen have both departed their jobs on the same day, before my show’s even got to air.
The new CNN US president is Ken Jautz, who was also in the room when I had that first interview back in April.
I spoke to him tonight and he said this changed absolutely nothing about the network’s plans for me.
Still unsettling though.
SATURDAY, 25 SEPTEMBER 2010
Spoke to Jon Klein, who was upset but realistic.
‘I had five good years, it’s just business. You just go and prove I was right to hire you!’
I feel really sorry for him. He’s a great guy, and I know he had huge belief in me.
But as he said, it’s just business. And the cable news business, as I’m quickly discovering, is one of the most ruthless in the world.
SUNDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER 2010
A small memorial celebration took place in Kent today – commemorating the last time our troops engaged in battle with invading forces on home soil.
Seventy years ago, men from the First Battalion London Irish Rifles fought a four-man crew from a German bomber in what became known as the Battle of Graveney Marsh.
The soldiers sprang into action when a new Junkers 88 plane was shot down by Spitfires and landed on nearby marshland.
As they approached, the Germans opened fire with a machine gun, and a twenty-minute firefight ensued before the Rifles apprehended their foe.
This was the first time since Prince Charlie’s defeat at Culloden in 1746 that there had been such a clash on British soil. And it was to be the last of its kind, too.
But what happened next was perhaps even more extraordinary.
The British commanding officer, Captain John Cantopher, overheard one of the captured Germans saying the plane was going to ‘go up’ at any moment.
Realising the Junkers 88 was an invaluable new prototype, Captain Cantopher dashed back to the aircraft, found a bomb under one of the wings, and threw it into a dyke. Thus saving the plane, which was only two weeks old, for British engineers to examine and get the advantage on the Luftwaffe.
For his heroism, he received the George Medal, one of the highest honours for valour in Britain.
Captain Cantopher was my great uncle, brother to my grandmother Margot. Or Grande, as we call the matriarch of my family.
She’s now his only surviving sibling and, fittingly, my brother Jeremy was back from Afghanistan and able to attend the ceremony with Grande today.
John was a great character.
On the night before he was due to receive his medal, he got riotously drunk in London, arriving at the hotel at 3 a.m. and telling the concierge: ‘Wake me at 8 a.m., I’ve got an appointment at Buckingham Palace with the King.’
The concierge assumed he was joking, John overslept, missed the palace presentation, and the huge party organised by the London Irish had to be postponed.
WEDNESDAY, 6 OCTOBER 2010
Had my visa appointment at the US Embassy in London.
My interview lasted about twenty-three seconds, just long enough for the interrogator to ask: ‘Have you bought your new braces yet
?’
FRIDAY, 8 OCTOBER 2010
I’ve flown to New York to meet my new CNN colleagues and do some press to promote the show, which will now launch on 17 January – allowing the quiet Christmas and New Year season to pass.
One of the more amusing questions that keeps being thrown at me is, ‘So, Mr Morgan, are you just going to be chasing ratings?’
It reminds me of when I had to defend scoops I published as a newspaper editor and some pompous BBC interviewer would always sneer: ‘You’re just doing this to sell papers aren’t you?’
The answer to both shocking allegations is quite simple: Of course I am!
I can spout all the ‘it’s not just about ratings’ guff I like. But the truth is that if my ratings tank for a sustained period of time, I’m out.
My new glass-fronted office is on the corner of the seventh floor of the Time Warner skyscraper in Manhattan, with spectacular views over Central Park.
I discovered that I’m going to be sharing a newsroom with Anderson Cooper.
He’s a terrific journalist, who made his name at CNN with his evisceration of George Bush’s administration over its abject failure to help the poor victims of Hurricane Katrina.
I’d been warned that he’s very shy off camera, but Anderson came over to say hello as soon as he saw me.
‘If I can do anything to help, just shout,’ he said.
As we chatted in the middle of our joint battlefield – his side bursting with people, excitement and energy; mine currently devoid of all those things! – I realised how much I’ve missed being in a newsroom.
It’s been six years since I was unceremoniously ejected from the Daily Mirror for publishing supposedly fake photos of British soldiers abusing Iraqi civilians (I’ve never seen conclusive evidence to establish their inauthenticity), and it was great to feel that rush again, unique to banks of journalists at their computers chasing hot stories.
That excitement mounted as I walked around the streets of midtown Manhattan in the late afternoon, and had endless people coming up to wish me luck and offer advice.
‘We love Larry!’ cried one middle-aged lady. ‘Don’t let us down!’
There’s a great deal of affection and admiration for Larry in America, and the sheer scale of the challenge in replacing this man is growing on me every time I venture outside.
Shooting Straight: Guns, Gays, God, and George Clooney Page 3
