Instead, I responded simply: “No.” In fact, I witnessed a more coherent plan of attack from Arsenal in the Carabao Cup final as we were beaten 2-0 by Manchester City the following week. I can usually locate logic behind Trump’s big moves, even if his incendiary and contradictory rhetoric often mars the message. But on this, I’ve got nothing.

Why would a man who campaigned on keeping America out of ruinous Middle Eastern wars, and reviving the US economy, launch the biggest Middle Eastern war imaginable, with its inevitable disastrous economic impact, just months before the US midterm elections? None of it makes any sense, other than – I fear – Trump got carried away by his quick, successful decapitation of Venezuela’s regime leadership and wrongly assumed he could do the same in Iran. And that he got persuaded into it by Benjamin Netanyahu, whose domestic popularity and avoidance of his criminal corruption trial seems to be governed by how many places Israel bombs.

Whatever the reason, it’s spiralling into a global crisis that threatens to ruin Trump’s presidency, and legacy, and flies in the face of his own cardinal rule. “You’ve gotta win,” he once told me. “Muhammad Ali used to talk and talk, but he won. If you talk and talk but you lose, the act doesn’t play.” This act isn’t playing, Mr President. Time to get off the Iran stage.

BBC Breakfast

A perk of appearing on Kuenssberg is the breakfast afterwards hosted by Laura in the BBC canteen, during which the debate often gets much livelier than what occurs on camera. Amusingly, you sit down to find a large, school-like form to fill in your dietary requests. I invariably tick everything, not because I like to eat gigantic breakfasts, but because it’s all free. I’ve worked out that the same eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, tomato, hash browns, coffee, tea, orange juice and toast would cost me £30 at my local café. The BBC licence fee rises to £180 on 1 April. So, I need only do the show six times a year to get my money back.

Memento Morgi

Laura introduced me to viewers as “broadcaster and mischief-maker Piers Morgan”, which I’d happily take as an epitaph. I’ve been thinking more about mortality since tumbling over a step in January, fracturing my femur and requiring a new hip, not least because falls – particularly hip-fracturing ones – are a leading cause of death for over-65s, and I’m 61 on 30 March.

One thing more likely to bring about my imminent demise is Arsenal choking yet another Premier League trophy following our dismal performance on Sunday 22 March.

“I’m beginning to think we could actually win the title,” I texted fellow die-hard Gooner Keir Starmer, in November 2022.

“You’re as bad as my shadow cabinet!” he replied. “Feet on the ground, step by step and we’ll get there.”

We came second that season, and the next, and the next. Three times a bridesmaid, never a bride. Of course, Labour came second in four consecutive elections until Starmer finally led them to victory. Surely, given we’re nine points ahead with seven games left, we’re not going to have to wait another year before walking down the aisle? Just the thought of it is provoking life-threatening rises in my blood pressure. As does the thought of winning it this season, only to then self-implode as rapidly and badly as Labour now has under Starmer.

Cruel fate

I didn’t think anything could be more painful than breaking a femur, but leaving my Wembley seat to chants of “We can see you hobbling out!” from jubilant City fans came close. As did being sledged by Domino’s Pizza, which posted “Piers Morgan has exploded” on X seconds after the final whistle, prompting worried family to ask if Iran’s ballistic missiles had indeed reached London. “We played like your pizzas,” I retorted, “stale, boring and unappetising.”

Holding court, or caught short?

I still can’t cross my legs post-surgery. But sitting near Ed Miliband on Kuenssberg, I noticed the Energy Secretary’s started doing this a lot, smugly, after making what he thinks is a winning point. Trust me, Ed, it doesn’t make you look more statesmanlike, it just makes me think you have a weak bladder.

“Piers Morgan Uncensored” is available on YouTube

[Further reading: Liz Truss is plotting her comeback]

Yes, he’s divisive, polarising, controversial and occasionally downright offensive. Yet many Americans of all ages, colours and creeds absolutely love him, as I’ve witnessed at first hand when we’ve walked the streets of New York together. Trump, to them, is the walking, talking, preening, cocky, chest-thumping embodiment of the American dream – a billionaire who by his own “humble” admission has spent his entire life living up to the title of his bestselling book Think Big and Kick Ass.

Beneath all the inflammatory bluster, though, he’s a skilled dealmaker trying to close the two biggest deals of his life: first, the Republican nomination, which he’s all but wrapped up. Second, the presidency itself. Love him or loathe him, the way Trump has destroyed all his rivals in this race so far is remarkable and has shaken both the Washington elite and the Republican Party to their very foundations. I imagine it’s also keeping Hillary Clinton up at night, as she tries to figure out how on earth to stop him.

Trumping his rivals

When I met Trump in New York recently, he was relaxed, focused and chillingly confident. He doesn’t just think he’s going to win, he has an absolutely unshakeable conviction that he will. It’s that extraordinary self-belief, fuelled by his hugely popular campaign pledge to “Make America Great Again” that has propelled Trump from 200/1 rank outsider to a guy who may well pull off the political shock of all time come November.

I wouldn’t personally vote for him even if I could, not least because of his enthusiastic support for the NRA gun lobby. But it’s not hard to see why Trump’s straight-talking, no-nonsense style is so appealing to many Americans numbed by the professorial, lead-from-behind, “steady-as-we-go” Bar­ack Obama. And I believe that, like with all dealmakers, Trump’s bark will turn out to be a lot scarier than his bite. “See you at the White House,” he chuckled when we said goodbye. President Trump? Stranger things have happened. Just ask Jeremy Corbyn.

Questions for Boris

If there’s one thing even more unnerving to a Briton than the words “President Donald Trump” it is surely “Prime Minister Boris Johnson”. Yet we are now just three weeks away from perhaps having to consider that unthinkable scenario, too.

One of my more enlightening hobbies is to go back over old interviews I’ve conducted with major public figures to see what they said before they really hit the big time and then clam up. In June 2007, Boris was still a lowly MP, David Cameron was leader of the opposition, and this magazine’s guest editor was running the country.

“Do you think you could be prime minister one day?” I asked Boris during a prescient interview that month for GQ. “I think it’s highly unlikely,” he smirked. “That’s bollocks,” I replied. “You do think you can be, don’t you? Is there any reason why you shouldn’t be?” He obfuscated. “What, biological? Intellectual? Moral? Aesthetic?”

I pressed. “Do you think this country would ever elect a buffoon as prime minister?” Boris smirked again. “Have I over-buffooned it? Hmmmm. I think it’s very difficult to be both, I agree. Mind you, there have been quite a few prime ministers who’ve done a pretty good job of it! Roy Jenkins says in his Churchill biography that many great men have an element of comicality about them.”

As for his political motivation, Boris displayed due shameless comicality: “Disraeli was once asked why people went to the House of Commons,” he opined, “and he said, ‘We do it for fame.’ And Achilles said that fame or the desire to be known is not, in itself, necessarily disreputable. He said he was doing it all for the glory of song and immortality.” Yet there is one thing even Boris won’t sacrifice in his fame-hungry charge for immortal power. “You can be prime minister but you have to give up sex. Would you take the deal?” I asked. He looked absolutely horrified. “NO!”

Come off it

On the subject of unlikely victories, can England win the Euros? No. There’s more chance of me becoming archbishop of Canterbury. Germany or France will win it. By all means go along with the usual ­overinflated and illogical hype that the trophy’s “coming home”. Just remember that no international football trophy has actually “come home” since 1966 – when I was 15 months old.

No one knows

Am I “In”, “Out” or “Shake It All About”? Unfortunately, because of my Good Morning Britain “news” presenter status, I can’t tell you until after 23 June. Not that I have great form in this arena. As Daily Mirror editor, I campaigned for Britain to join the euro, believing it would be a disaster if we didn’t. I came to this belief after lobbying from some of the country’s finest financial and political minds. They were all wrong. So I’d view any “certainties” about this EU debate with great scepticism. Nobody really knows.

Au revoir, les journaux

Finally, speaking of France . . . its industrial strikes meant I couldn’t get my usual UK newspapers while holidaying over there. So I read them all online instead and found the experience just as rewarding. I give print versions of papers 15 years, max. 

Piers Morgan writes a weekly diary for the Mail on Sunday’s Event magazine