Do Have Nightmares

Have you ever found an animal - a rabbit, say, or an escaped pet sugar glider - lying dead under a hedge, or in the corner of a field, and in an advanced state of decay, when it's little more than a writhing bag of maggots? Imagine that. Imagine the putrid odour, nature's sickly-sweet regenerative aroma, intermingled with the fumes of distant burning tyres. And nearby, a pool of reasonably fresh vomit from some other unfortunate who passed by perhaps two or three hours ago.

The smell is the first thing that hits you when you meet Piers Morgan. And it hits you hard.

I gag as he approaches, quickly drawing back the hand that I was in the process of extending towards him. I don't want to touch him. He seems unfazed. He must be used to being greeted in such a fashion.

I say hello, but get no reply. Instead he leans in towards me, closes his eyes and inhales deeply through his nostrils.

After several seconds of silence, his expression slowly oozes into a creepy half-smile. "Well! Someone's showered thoroughly today!" he says. "I'm disappointed. Let's feed."

The waitress holds her breath as she shows us to our table. A sticky, translucent fluid begins to seep from Morgan's skin. This, according to the naturalist Terry Nutkins, is a sign of arousal. He makes wet sounds as he moves.

He orders off the menu, then stares at me fixedly, breathing rather more heavily than I'd like him to.

"I believe you wish to talk. Then talk."

I ask him where he gets off, inflicting himself on the world. His face lights up with rage and his skin visibly turns leathery.

"Let me ask you," he hisses... "you!" The word has a strange, liquid quality in his mouth. There's a sort of sexual fury lurking within, bound and gagged. "Tell me, what do you know of Piers Morgan? What do you know of me? You know nothing about me!

"Did you know, for instance, that I'm invertebrate? That I can bend and contract at will? Spend hours, motionless in vents and cracks in the walls of:

• changing room!
  
• gym!
  
• ladies' toilet, etc!

Did you know that I have inhaled the odour of our former Prime Minister's anus? Did you know he eats too much meat? Did you know that my body is covered in hundreds of long, thin tentacles that secrete a powerful anaesthetic? Or that Amanda (Holden, fellow Britain's Got Talent judge) will very soon give birth to my son? You didn't? Neither does she."

The waitress arrives with our food, then turns and leaves, weeping softly. Morgan sits admiring his order: two live and very frightened albino pygmy marmosets strapped to an ornate ivory stand. His smile fades. Unhooking the strap, he grips one of the marmosets in his fist, firmly but delicately, and brings it up to his disgusting face, breathing in its scent. Its fear.

The marmoset struggles, chirruping as Morgan brings it closer. Its eyes widen and the chirruping becomes more urgent, accompanied by some obscene slurping noises. It flails about wildly, almost screaming, then freezes, for the briefest moment, a study in terror, before losing its form completely in an instant, drooping like a deflated balloon over Morgan's fingers, an empty sack.

"Mmmm," sighs Morgan through bloody lips, "just how I like it: rare." He throws his head back, howling with laughter. The laughter becomes a bellow, a long, unbroken bellow. Tears are streaming down his face. He looks at me, still bawling, his face contorted, writhing, as if things are crawling under his skin. Then he stops suddenly, sinks into his seat, his head drooping. He sobs uncontrollably.

I ask him if he's okay. My voice seems to shock him back to reality. He screams at me: "would you like a marmoset! Would you like to try one for yourself, you cocker! It's delicious!"

I shake my head, unable to speak. He begins to sob again.

"I hate beauty," he says with his head in his hands. "Hate it. It's so greedy. If I was to say to a beautiful woman in the street, 'hey bitch, can I fuck a dirt up your pisshole?' she'd be horrified. Disgusted. But what right does she have to be? Does she want respect as well? And from me? (Let's not forget, I am famous.) The world does not work that way. Respect is for the ugly."

But Morgan's proposition doesn't stand up to scrutiny. After all, I'd be hard-pushed to name anyone who respects him even grudgingly, and he's utterly repellant. He takes umbrage at this.

"I am Piers Morgan!" he hisses. "Piers Morgan. Pi-Ers Mor-Gan. Do you get it? Pe Is Mor Gan. He Is More Than. See?"

More than what, exactly? He sits back slowly, freshly composed, bringing the tips of his fingers together, arching an eyebrow.

"Exactly," he says. "More than what. More than what, exactly. He, that is, I am, quite simply, more than. When the answer is 'everything', then the question is redundant."

I try to shut him up, but he is by now lost in the throes of self-satisfaction. The waitress seizes the opportunity to come and clear the table (my plate is more-or-less untouched, with a little bit of sick on it), but Morgan's reverie breaks.

"Ah, Chastity!" he says. She freezes, closes her eyes, hunches her shoulders, unconsciously leans away from him. One of his tentacles appears from under his shirt and caresses her face, leaving snot-trails on her skin. "Chastity, Chastity, Chastity..." I'm frozen to my seat, disgusted - with him, with myself. I feel complicit in his foul behaviour. A tear rolls down her cheek. My eye follows it to where it falls from her chin, past her name badge, which says: Sandra.

"I had the pleasure of Chastity's company last night, didn't I, Chastity?" She nods once. "Only you weren't very good, were you Chastity?" Shake. "Silly little girl. I hate you. Fuck off." He waves her away. "They need to be put in their place. Never let them view themselves in any way other than through the prism of self-loathing. That's my tip to you. You may thank me later."

I rise unsteadily to my feet without saying a word and, clutching my stomach, stagger out of the restaurant. I hear him slurping in the distance, far, far in the distance, through foggy oceans of anger and confusion. All the way home, one thought keeps returning: if Piers Morgan isn't technically human, then would killing him be technically murder?