To ITV’s London headquarters at the ungodly hour of 3.30 a.m. Piers Morgan is sunning himself in Beverly Hills and I’m sitting in for him on Good Morning Britain. I’ve known and liked Piers for 30 years, from the days when he used to scribble for the Mirror’s showbiz page, and although we could hardly be more different we do have one thing in common: we’re both television Marmite. People either like us or loathe us. But in the mysterious, perverse alchemy of TV ratings, detesting a presenter doesn’t necessarily mean shunning their show. Viewers enjoy shouting at their bêtes noires, so it’s all good for business. I too have presenters I love to hate; household names who’ve never done me any harm but for some reason I can’t abide. If I meet them, all that bile usually melts away; it’s hard to hate a real flesh-and-blood person, yet so easy to casually revile their flat-screen incarnation.
Meanwhile after years in the doldrums, ITV breakfast telly has finally regained confidence and GMB’s ratings are steadily climbing.
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