I See You, Piers Morgan

I see you, Piers Morgan.

I see your simpering, chinless pout, full of pompous self-regard, the sound of your own voice the only fuel you need to get through the day. I see you using Twitter to thrust yourself into every debate and controversy you can, unfailingly arrogant and unnecessary, like a sommelier in Oddbins banging on about bouquets when all anyone actually wants is a few cans of Red Stripe. You’re riding high on all this, aren’t you, Piers Morgan? It’s in vogue to be a self-serving provocateur again and you’re here to remind us all that you’ve always been the original and best.

It doesn’t matter what you kick up a fuss about, provided it keeps your name trending and your stock high. You were right about the rise of Trump, after all, and you’ll keep shouting it at anyone who’ll listen. You’re a ‘somebody’, and the only riposte you’ll ever need to those who dislike you is that you’ve got loads of followers on Twitter. Well done, Piers Morgan. We can’t stop looking at you, even if we know we probably should. Only you could take the Women’s March - a simple, direct protest against the most powerful man in the world’s obvious and utter contempt for at *least* half of the global population - and make it about your own pathetically fragile masculinity.

Yeah, you’re right. Jim Jefferies telling you to fuck off wasn’t particularly big or clever. But when all you do is puff yourself up on the hot air Trump is intent on blowing, it’s undeniably satisfying to have someone come along and simply prick you in the stomach. The utter defeat in your eyes, the panic on your face as you tried to pander to a crowd who wholeheartedly rejected you - even if you only let it flash across the damp rubber of your features for a second - was a thing of cathartic beauty. It only took a day before you were spinning the whole thing out on Twitter anyway, latching on to JK Rowling and not giving a shit if she handed you your arse, knowing full well that earning her ire would keep your name in the hashtags a lot more effectively than keeping your mouth shut. For someone who's never read her books, you're a pretty archetypal Slytherin.

And it worked, Piers Morgan, the same way it always has done. Who needs discernible talent when you can ride in the wake of others' achievements anyway? You’re a dung beetle chasing a hippo, and nothing makes you happier than getting close enough to get directly shat on. You might even prove yourself useful by toadying up to Trump. He’ll need someone to point out all the fake news to him and you’re the expert.

And anyway, he’s not that bad, is he? The Hitler comparisons are nothing more than hyperbolic frothing at the mouth from the loony left. All he’s done so far is undermine the press and the judiciary and began recasting innocent ethnic minorities he dislikes as dangerous enemies of the state and that totally isn’t a Hitler thing to do. Give the guy a chance, for Christ’s sake.

Maybe you’ll even use your position next to him for good, eh? Maybe you’ll take your past calls for sensible gun control and loudly, vocally call him out on it if he ever does something transparently absurd like repealing the laws that prevent those with severe mental illnesses from buying guns.

Oh dear. Guess not now he’s actually in power, Piers Morgan. Turns out you’ve only got morals when they don’t contradict the prerogatives of your rich and powerful friends.

I see you, Piers Morgan. I see you bounding across the marble floor, your tongue wagging, your thick and glossy coat shimmering in the light. I see you chasing Farage around a gilded pillar, barking happily, rolling and nipping at each other. I see you chase each other up the steps to the golden throne, snuffling and panting as you settle down in to your master’s lap. Life is good here in the White House, isn’t it, Piers Morgan? You and Farage are happy little lapdogs and the master definitely isn’t Hitler. You’re a good boy, aren’t you?

I see the years tick by, Piers Morgan. I hear the raised voices and I see the generals coming and going, the faces taut with stress. I hear you bark as you rush around their ankles, their polished shoes pushing you aside. I hear you whimper, Piers Morgan. Master seems to be dropping fewer treats these days, but life is still good, and he’s definitely still not Hitler. You’re still a good boy.

I see you resting your non-chin on your paws in the back of the armoured car, Piers Morgan. I hear the explosions in the distance, the angry crackle of static on the military radio. I see Farage snoring happily in his own chair, his coat now a little less glossy, matted with dust. I see the Master, his face angry, his hair ridiculous. Where are you going, Piers Morgan? Master seems upset, but at least he’s still not Hitler.

I see you scratching at the thin line of daylight at the bottom of the iron door, Piers Morgan. I see the bare walls, the concrete floors, the harsh industrial lights. I see the Master sitting on the bed, the pistol in his hand. I see him scratching Farage behind the ears. Melania’s gone, hasn’t she? She hasn’t joined you in the bunker, having finally decided she didn’t fancy being Eva Braun.

Not that she ever would be; he’s still not Hitler, after all. Sure, it’s all gone a bit wrong. Sure, his best scientists have fled across the border to the Allies, where they now denounce climate change and vaccinations for the enemy. But he’s still not Hitler and you’re still a good boy.

I see the Master bend down to scratch your belly, Piers Morgan. I see you roll over, your tail wagging, your tongue lolling about with joy. I see the Master raise his gun, pressing it to your blindly loyal forehead.

He’s still not Hitler. He can't be. You’re a good boy. A good, good boy.

I hear the shots, Piers Morgan, one, two, three. What a shame. A while ago, a narcissistic psychopath probably would’ve found it a bit harder to get hold of a handgun.

He’s still not Hitler, though.

I see you, Piers Morgan. I fucking see you.

Sam Gore is a British stand-up comedian. You can read more of the I See You Stories on the Facebook page.