There is a distinct art to being universally reviled, and after six decades on this planet, I flatter myself to think I have mastered it. Most public figures spend millions on PR consultants to be liked; I have achieved unprecedented global consensus entirely by accident. Across continents, political divides, and religious sects, humanity has found exactly one thing to agree upon: a deep, visceral intolerance for my presence.
Which brings me to the matter of my name. It’s actually Nigel.
The name change wasn’t technically a name change. It was an unconditional surrender. Which, coincidently, was the last time I backed down on anything no matter how wrong I happen to be.
For years, my birth certificate read Nigel, but the general public had other plans. It began as a recurring architectural suggestion, screamed at me across crowded streets or typed in furiously capitalized letters on Twitter: “Walk off a pier, you absolute cockwomble.”
After hearing it roughly 4.7 million times, I recognized futility when I saw it. If a global coalition of seven billion people had already christened me, who was I to fight destiny? I embraced the moniker. After all, if the world insists on telling you to walk off a pier every waking second of your life, you might as well save them the syllables and just go by Piers.
My mother, predictably, wasn’t thrilled, but then, she has developed a remarkably robust stomach for my professional catastrophes over the years. She watched me weather the phone-hacking era of British tabloid journalism and presumably thought, Well, at least Nigel can’t possibly sink any lower. Then I became a television talent judge, despite possessing roughly as much musical rhythm as a wet sack of concrete. Next came America, where I was handed the impossible mantle of replacing Larry King. I lasted three years, just long enough for the United States to collectively decide that a suspended-animation corpse interviewing politicians in suspenders was infinitely preferable to me.
“That one hurt, darling,” my mother admitted over tea.
Then there is Arsenal. I have achieved the statistically improbable feat of being voted the absolute worst Arsenal supporter in history. There was an actual poll. This is no minor achievement if you have ever spent 30 around literally any other one. I have spent decades defending my club while simultaneously making every other Gooner wish I supported Tottenham, Chelsea, or a local Sunday league team composed entirely of arsonists. There are fans who would genuinely rather see Spurs win a quadruple than endure one more of my triumphant, gloating tweets.
Yet, perhaps my greatest contribution to modern society is this: I am the human mortar that binds a deeply fractured world.
Conservatives despise me. Liberals loathe me. The British want me deported to a maritime exclusion zone, and Americans look at me and finally understand why 1776 was necessary. I recently sat on a television panel where a fellow guest interrupted my mid-sentence sermon to mutter, “Piers, you’re an insufferable prick.“
The other three panelists nodded immediately.
For a brief, shining moment, absolute bipartisan harmony was achieved in the studio.
My wife tried to offer some comfort over dinner recently. “Not everyone hates you,” she said, her eyes desperately darting toward the nearest exit.
“Really?” I beamed, genuine hope swelling in my chest.
“No. I was just trying to make you feel better.”
Even my mother has finally accepted that Nigel was simply a disastrous branding choice. She still uses my given name when we speak, mostly because she feels a lingering maternal obligation to the boy she birthed, but she completely understands why the rest of the planet prefers the pier.
