Dear Piers Morgan ...

Dear Piers Morgan,

I have a problem and I think you can help.

My name is Dave – and I abuse my TV.

On Friday I was a happy man, smiling at work, laughing with my friends and, most importantly, treating my TV with kindness.

On Saturday, I was positively rapturous, smiling as I watched the Manchester derby and enjoyed a relaxing day off work. The sun was shining and I even patted my TV on the way to spending a rare moment of sun-drenched bliss in Manchester.

Life couldn’t have been lovelier.

I had an enjoyable evening meal and thought that I would settle down on my sofa, with my fat black cat and Mrs PM and watch a little TV.

I switched it on.

First I saw Ant and Dec, those two supposedly lovable cheeky Geordie misfits who make old ladies smile by being silly and cracking puerile jokes. I felt deep rumblings of unease; a memory, lost in a fog within my addled brain, began to surface, gently at first, tapping a warning onto the inside of my head: “Turn over”

“Ant and Dec”, I thought as I reached for the remote control. It wasn’t there. Mrs PM tensed beside me.

As my eyes looked for the remote control, which incidentally should have been within my grasp, as it usually is, Ant and Dec were replaced by Amanda Holden, a pointless woman who (and let’s be fair to her) is about as useful and talented as a chocolate teapot.

Frustration began to mount, Piers, frustration really began to mount.

My remote control is like an extension to my hand and, like every full blooded male, must be within easy reach, six inches at most from my fingertips.

My brain went to amber alert. Mrs PM looked at me and the cat sensed something was wrong, waking up from his post nap snooze as his feline alert system moved to DEFCON 4.

As I searched for the remote control, thinking it may have dropped on the floor, my eyes stumbled onto the TV set again and the image of Amanda Holden vanished to be replaced by a weird dancer who, I presume, was trying to impress somebody – clearly not me. Behind this performing pillock I spotted some words at the back of the stage: “Got Talent”.

“Got Talent? That rings a bell,” I thought.

The remote control remained elusive. I looked accusingly at Mrs PM; as my eyes met hers a secret message passed between us.

“Got Talent? Where have I seen that before?”

A memory finally surfaced and shouted at me.

“Find the remote control! TURN IT OFF!”

“Where’s the remote control?” I asked out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs PM taking a deep breath.

The cat’s feline alert system went to DEFCON 3.

I glimpsed the TV again and the image I saw there chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. It was as if a demon had reached into my chest and wrapped his clawed, cold hand around my heart.

Staring back at me was Simon Cowell.

“Quick,” I yelled. “Where is it? Where’s the remote control?”

I was seized by an insane panic. My mind screamed at me but I blocked it out; I had to find the remote control and I had to find it NOW. I stood up and whirled around my eyes hunting for the little device that would stop my transformation from mild mannered Dr Jekyll into the ranting Mr Hyde.

Simon Cowell was on my TV. I had had such a wonderful day. I thought everything was going well. My soapbox was packed away and it had been an unusually pleasant, sunny, warm April day in Manchester. Birds had flocked around my trees whistling happy tunes; children had laughed as they played in the streets; flowers had welcomed bees; clouds and rain had taken a break to allow me to see the lovely blue sky that we see so rarely at this time of year. I had been content, Piers. I was a happy man, skipping down a country lane watching the butterflies dance in the cool breeze. And now this!!!

I was determined not to let this maniac ruin my day.

I had tried, Piers, to let him know what he should do to make me happy. I even wrote a letter to him – you can read it here.

A part of me hoped that he had read my words and changed his ways. I doubted it and this was the reason why I had to get rid of the man before he destroyed the peace and bliss in our house.

The cat’s feline alert system moved to DEFCON 2.

As I frantically searched for my electronic saviour, I found my eyes drawn inexorably to the pap that was on my TV, which was preparing itself for a colossal tirade of abuse. I could sense it sending me signals:

“Please don’t shout at me again. I can’t control the crap that these people make me show you.”

The dancer had finished. The camera drew back to show three people staring at the man.

Amanda Holden – Simon Cowell – and worst of all YOU!!!!!

As soon as I saw your face on the screen something flipped within me. The demon squeezing my heart flipped a switch and transformed me into the ranting monster that my TV despises.

The cat’s feline alert system hit DEFCON 1 and the cat was out of the room in a flash of black fur, which was pretty impressive since the door was closed.

“Oh no,” said Mrs PM, now resigned to the inevitable as she got up and left the room, making a mental note to buy a new door.

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” pleaded the TV set as Mrs PM left the room.

“Busy busy busy,” said my soapbox.

“Britain’s Got Talent?” I screamed as I strode onto my invisible soap box. “NOOO!!!!! Is this bloody shit STILL on my TV? OH MY GOD! It’s a new bloody series? How can they call this monumental pile of shit “Britain’s Got Talent” when in reality it proves once and for all that anybody in Britain who actually DID have any talent wouldn’t come within a mile of this bloody show? The whole show is dreadful and it is yet another way that Simon bloody Cowell is trying to take over my life. You must have read my letter, Cowell and totally ignored it because not only have you returned to my TV with this utter bollocks, you have dug up that arrogant, smug git – Piers bloody Morgan. I hate Piers Morgan. I hate him more than you Simon Cowell. He is like your evil twin. This man has no business on my screen or in my life...”

And on it went, Piers, on and on and on and on.

Mrs PM got herself a glass of wine and sat in the garden with the cat as I marched around my lounge pontificating to my TV about what an utter tosser you are and how much you make me sick to the lowest pits of my stomach.

Well, Piers, it’s been a few days since that unfortunate episode and I think I might have calmed down. And since I fell a little more serene, I have decided to write you an open letter in the hope that you will see my problem and help me.

And yes, Piers Morgan, you are the only person in the world who can help me.

I am a nice guy who loves humanity – honestly, I am. But there are a minority of individuals who bring out the worst in me. When I see them I become Mr Hyde.

So how can you help me, Piers?

It’s easy. I will say this as clearly as I can (I promise my soapbox is away).

GET OFF MY TV AND GET OFF IT NOW!!!!!!!

I do not want to see your face or hear your voice. I do not want to see your picture in my newspaper. I do not want to hear your name bandied around in celebrity circles and have to read about you exploits in newspapers and magazines. I do not want to read anything you have written. I do not want to hear your opinions.

I’m sorry Piers, but I want you completely out of my life.

I’m not being funny but I regard you as an arrogant man whose opinions make me want to throw my dinner at the TV.

Yet somehowI know that beneath that smarmy, egotistical, opinionated exterior there must be a kind thoughtful person trying to escape.

Let that person escape, Piers. You can do it.

Set him free and give him all of your money so that you can start a new life on a remote island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with no cameras, no photographers and no journalists so that nobody in the world (and most importantly ME) can cast their eyes on your smug face again.

I know there is a nice man beneath that harsh exterior, Piers – there must be. Nobody on this planet can keep up the awful charade you are trying to fool everybody with.

Think of the person who championed Susan Boyle, Piers – that’s when the real you emerged for a second at least. That proves that the cold concrete heart inside your chest does have a shred of humanity left.

Retire to that tropical island, Piers.

Do it for me, Piers.

Do it for Mrs PM.

Do it for my cats.

But most of all – do it for my TV. The poor thing is in therapy as we speak after the mauling it received on Saturday.

And while you are at it, take Simon Cowell, Vanessa Feltz and Jeremy Kyle with you.

Yours hopefully,

Plastic Mancunian