Once upon a time — and not that long ago — Piers Morgan was loudly, proudly pro-Israel. He stood against antisemitism, condemned Hamas, and didn’t need a colour-coded chart to distinguish between a democracy and a death cult.
But then something shifted.
Was it a spiritual rebirth? A rebrand for better ratings? Or—just spitballing here—did Qatar accidentally drop off a suitcase marked “Al Jazeera budget: miscellaneous”? We may never know. We’re just asking questions.
What we do know is this: after Tucker Carlson exposed Morgan’s earlier defences of Israel—and reportedly said off camera that Piers told him he "hates Israel with every fibre of his body"—the man bolted in the opposite direction like a Daily Mail columnist spotting nuance.
The result? A new and improved Piers — softer on terror, louder with moral grandstanding, and absolutely unhingedwhen confronted by a woman who dares to know what she’s talking about.
That’s exactly what happened when lawyer Natasha Hausdorff appeared on his show. She came equipped with reason, facts, and—God forbid—composure. Morgan brought along a blogger to “balance” her. It was like pairing a neurosurgeon with a guy who once watched Grey’s Anatomy and now thinks he can operate on a brain with a spoon.
From the moment Natasha opened her mouth, Piers went full colonial blowhard: interrupting, misquoting, mocking, and shouting like a man who knows he's losing and needs to make noise to cover it.
She tried to explain why Israel restricts journalistic access to Gaza. You know—minor details like the safety of reporters, operational security, and Hamas operatives posing as press. Morgan didn’t want to hear it. Literally. He cut her off at every turn, declared her arguments “bullshit” before hearing them, and demanded she justify every Israeli action while he played devil’s advocate for Hamas—in a three-piece suit and a superiority complex.
Let’s be clear: this wasn’t journalism. It was theatre. It was a one-man tantrum wrapped in a Union Jack, hiding behind the word “truth” while refusing to let it be spoken.
And when Natasha refused to shrink, he snapped.
This is the same Piers Morgan who stormed off his own show in a huff when someone dared to challenge his opinion. The man who talks tough about "free speech" but throws his toys the moment a woman interrupts his monologue. Thick skin? No. He’s got the hide of a soap bubble and the grace of a pub bouncer who just lost an argument with a pint glass.
When Natasha didn’t laugh at his jokes or smile through his sneers at a party afterwards, he ran to social media to mock her. “I’ve had more convivial chats with serial killers,” he posted. That’s Piers for you—self-pity disguised as banter, bullying rebranded as wit.
But here’s the real kicker: she won.
Natasha stood her ground. She didn’t flinch. She brought substance into a room built for spectacle. She refused to be a prop for Morgan’s ego or a punching bag for his insecurities. And for that, he tried to humiliate her—first on air, then online.
But here’s the thing about Piers Morgan: the louder he shouts, the more he reveals. And behind all that thunder? Fragility. Fear. And maybe— just maybe—the ghost of his own convictions, crumpled in a back room somewhere with a Qatari cheque and a copy of Free Speech for Me, Not for Thee.