Piers Morgan's heroes and villains of 2007

Piers Morgan has finally become a celebrity in his own right after a somewhat coloured journalistic past.

Here is his spin on Celebs in 2007 that appeared in Mail On Sunday

It's that time of year again... when outspoken columnist and man-about-town Piers Morgan heaps praise or scorn on the celebrities making the headlines.

Find out who provided inspiration in 2007, who wins the award for the nastiest set of parents and just who is the "wally with a brolly"...

THE ULTIMATE SPOILT HOLLYWOOD BRAT

LINDSAY LOHAN: The people who really get my goat are those with obvious ability but the behaviour of diseased aardvarks.

Step forward Ms Lohan, rapidly becoming the personification of a spoilt Hollywood brat. The girl can act; that is undeniable after her performance in Mean Girls.

But she seems determined to live down to every expectation of a young starlet by taking barrel-loads of drugs; getting publicly panned by movie bosses for unprofessionalism, smashing up cars, and finally getting arrested twice for drink-driving for which she received a derisory one-day jail sentence.
Throughout all this mayhem Lindsay, left, insists none of it is her fault: a classic symptom of a 'me-me-me' narcissistic nightmare. But my ire towards her is more specific. One of my favourite pastimes on long, boring flights is asking stewardesses who has been the most unpleasant star they have ever served.

Of Lindsay Lohan, one said: 'She had no respect for us at all, and by the end of the flight, we had no respect for her, either.'

Lindsay Lohan is a repellent celebrity cliche, and I hope her dwindling career continues to spiral ever downwards.

A BEEHIVE OF TALENT

Amy Winehouse has had a bad year

AMY WINEHOUSE: Many of you will be thinking why on earth am I putting this slightly mad junkie on my list of heroes? Well, because I feel rather sorry for her, but mainly because I think Amy, right, is one of the greatest new musical talents to emerge in decades.

This tiny, beehive-haired, tattooed stick insect has an unbelievably soulful voice.

But barely a week has passed this year without some new outrage involving the tormented Ms Winehouse - be it drugs, rows with her husband Blake Fielder-Civil, all-day drunken pub binges, trips to rehab or legal wrangles.

But when she's not making headlines for the wrong reasons, she is racking up award after award for her talent - and has been nominated for an astonishing six Grammys.

I heard her speak once, when she received an Ivor Novello earlier this year, and she could hardly string a coherent sentence together.

But when she walked back through the audience a minute later, I saw a cynical musicindustry audience react with awe and respect.

I despair for the cliche-ridden lifestyle Amy is leading and wish someone would look after her. But from a musical perspective she is about as good as it gets.

POTTS OF INSPIRATION

PAUL POTTS: Imagine this: you're a short, chubby, balding bloke from Wales selling mobile phones. For years you've dreamed of being an opera singer, but never got the break. Inside you, though, burns an intense desire - a will to succeed at the thing you love: music.

One day you apply to go on a new TV show called Britain's Got Talent, and a few months later you perform in front of 1,000 people, and three judges: Simon Cowell, Amanda Holden - and me.

I remember that day well. The guy's name was Paul Potts, he was sweating, badly dressed, and his teeth were broken. When he said he was going to sing opera, I turned to Cowell and said: "Oh Christ, here we go."

But then he sang, and melted not just our hard old hearts but the hearts of the nation. Paul admits he is not the best technical opera singer in the world, but for sheer passion and emotion he's up there with the best of them.

I stood next to him at the Royal Variety Performance earlier this month when he met the Queen, and when she told him he was "very good", he took a deep bow of pride.

Afterwards, still shaking, he said to me: "That was the greatest moment of my life."

Reality television gets a bad rap, much of it well deserved.

But people like Paul Potts are an inspiration to us all.

PARKY'S A KNIGHT TO REMEMBER

Michael Parkinson conducted his final interview

MICHAEL PARKINSON: When Parky finally hung up his well grappled knee, he attracted dollops of cynicism. People said he "always had his mates on", and "he thought he was bigger than the stars he interviewed".

But Parky, left, deserved a better TV epitaph, for he was a brilliant interviewer. I recently watched a rerun of his famous Muhammad Ali encounters and they were fantastic. He interviewed all the big names, and he could be tough when he wanted to be.

I spent a wonderful day at the cricket with him in his box at Lord's this summer, and asked him what his greatest TV moment had been.

He replied: "I don't think you can ever beat using the words, 'Ladies and gentlemen, Mr Fred Astaire!'" And you can't.

Parky is smart, charming, mischievous, loyal, occasionally irascible and was the best chatshow host ofmy generation. Arise, SirMichael.

THE NASTIEST SET OF PARENTS?

John and Anne Darwin could be the nastiest parents

JOHN AND ANNE DARWIN: There was something deliciously entertaining about the canoe couple, wasn't there? As the scale of their alleged deception was laid bare, the most shocking aspect was how utterly normal they appeared, right.

People often ask me if I miss newspapers and usually I say, truthfully, no.

But I would have loved still to have been an editor when the bombshell was dropped that there was a photo on the internet of the Darwins together in Panama, in 2006 - four years after John "died".

And yet, when I stopped laughing, I thought of his 90-year-old father, the sons and the rest of the family who had wasted their time and emotions comforting Anne.

And I realised this might turn out to be one of the nastiest, greediest, most despicable acts by parents that I can remember.

SERIAL WHINGER

Hugh Grant can't stop complaining

HUGH GRANT: He and I have not seen eye to eye since he was caught in the act with the delightful Ms Divine Brown in that car on Sunset Boulevard. I was editor of the News of the World at the time, and paid Ms Brown handsomely to reveal every spit and cough, literally, of their liaison.

It was one of the biggest-selling issues of all time, and provoked one of the biggest-ever sulks from poor old Hugh, who prefers to blame the media for his own sins of the flesh.

I once bumped into him at an Arsenal game, where he spent most of the time pretending he didn't enjoy being recognised by everyone. He eyed me with undisguised contempt. I eyed him with undisguised amusement.

My problem with Grant isn't his taste in women (well, Liz Hurley's a bit rough but Jemima Khan is very nice), or his movies. No, my problem is that he is such an appalling serial whinger.

Not a month goes by when he isn't moaning about his dreadful life - all the while being photographed with a bunch of university students. He's one of the most crashing, sanctimonious and hypocritical bores in Britain.

PAMPERED LUVVIE

RUPERT EVERETT: Anyone who ingratiates himself with Madonna by being her gay best friend should be avoided, but Everett, above, and I were brought together for the Comic Relief special edition of The Apprentice, and, sure enough, it ended in tears.

It was quite clear within an hour or so that this poor old pampered luvvie was incapable of doing any hard graft to raise money for needy people. He just sat there with a vacant, shell-shocked expression on his overly massaged face.

"I'm not very good without a script," he wailed.

"Just start calling your mates, like Madonna, and get them to pledge cash," I said firmly.

"You can't just call Madonna," he replied. "You have to write to her, then she calls you back."

The insufferably effeminate lanky goon quit the next morning without raising a penny for charity. Pathetic.

THE WALLY WITH A BROLLY

STEVE McCLAREN: Has there ever been a more ridiculous figure than the England football manager hiding what remains of his dodgy red barnet under a large umbrella, left, as our "golden boys" crashed out of the European Championships?

As the Daily Mail so rightly dubbed him, McClaren was the "Wally with a brolly". Quite what possessed the FA to give the greatest job in British sport to this preening, over-promoted bank manager clone is beyond me.

He talked perpetual corporate nonsense, wanted to be Mr Nice Guy to everyone, and was more concerned about his hair than the national team.

At the end of that horrific Croatia match he insisted: "I won't be resigning." And I thought: "That's the first thing you've got right, my friend, because you're getting your sorry little a** fired."

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