The human eye is an amazing thing. Some ordinary, everyday little rays of light go in at the front and, by magic, they are converted into images that could become indelibly seared onto your brain for the rest of your days. Which is why, under no circumstances, should anyone have looked directly at ‘Katie Price Exclusive – With Piers Morgan’ on ITV last night.
Honestly, when I think about all the things that I could have been doing at nine o’clock on a Saturday night – basically, anything else would have been preferable. But for one reason or another I wasn’t doing anything else. I was at home, flicking through the channels, when I stumbled across two massive tits being interviewed by a smug twat.
This is what you get on primetime Saturday night TV nowadays, apparently. Katie Price, who has started to resemble a badly carved sculpture of Amy Winehouse that’s been gone over by a part-time gardener with one too many coats of Ronseal Quick-Drying Woodstain, being given a good old grilling by Piers Morgan: the human embodiment of one of those fat white slugs that you find behind the bins when taking out the rubbish that induce a gut-punishing fit of retching for half an hour afterwards.
With no detectable glimpse of a soul residing behind his dark, slimy gaze and gallons of smarm and arrogance dripping from every pore in his pointless body, the insidious ex-Daily Mirror editor fired every pertinent question in his armoury to Price – perplexing brain-troublers that cut to the very heart of some of the biggest issues, such as, “What will you do about the fact you’ve got ‘Pete’ tattooed across your wrist?”
What in the name of fuck was the point of this show? It was presented with the production values of some kind of epoch-making moment in television and cultural history – sparse, faintly brooding set, lots of earnest glances and sympathetic nods of understanding. You know, the kind of thing reserved for a post-general election interview with a victorious candidate, perhaps a returning war hero or a film director on the release of a project that represents a career landmark, his award-winning life’s work.
But this wasn’t any of those things. This was an interview with a woman who has constructed a career out of, and let’s not beat around the bush here, getting her comedy bangers out in tacky newspapers.
‘Katie Price Exclusive’ was Heat magazine in 3D, beamed into our living rooms. The pre-show hype used adjectives like ‘explosive’ and ‘no-holds-barred’. Morgan’s website said, “This will be the first time either of the couple have officially spoken out about their spilt and Piers will be quizzing Katie on the reasons behind the breakdown of their nuptials.” Who gives a shit, you might rightly be asking. Sadly, probably quite a lot of people.
As you can no doubt imagine, it was all pretty base stuff. Morgan asking Price about her tits. Price talking about her tits. Morgan asking Price about tits that she’s dated, Price telling him stuff about the tits that she’s dated. Morgan asking Price about getting off her tits in Ibiza. Price telling Morgan about getting her tits out in Ibiza. Basically it was 45 minutes talking about tits. Shocker. At one point she even showed Morgan her tits in the studio, while he sat there egging her on, like a lechy office worker in an insalubrious night spot after knocking back six bottles of cheap gin.
Then, suddenly, in among all the tits, Price decided to nonchalantly sling in a new piece of information – while filming in America she had a miscarriage. Traumatic, horrible: yes. But it all came across so meticulously planned, so loaded with the intention of influencing the press to redress the balance after all the negative stories recently – as Price herself said, she’s fed up with being battered by the papers for the past eight weeks – that I just felt myself starting to dislike her even more. Opportunistic propaganda; playing on people’s heart-strings for the purposes of PR.
In fact, the most challenging thing was trying to work out which of the two to hate more. I mean, obviously it’s Morgan, but Price gave him a good run for his money. Take the following exchange from the show. “I’ve got one word for you: slapper. How do you plead?” Morgan asked Price after a montage of pictures of her frolicking around Ibiza. Price pleaded not guilty. Then, later, she said this: “If I have it my way, once the divorce is over, who knows, by next summer I could be married again.”
So, in summary, a horrible, despicable little piece of television. Then again, I suppose that’s just what you get for being in at nine o’clock on a Saturday night watching ITV.