A Brief Confession.

I killed Princess Diana. As good as killed her anyway.

This is a story that is often brought up when the subject of the People's Princess is breached in family conversation. It is not something i'm particularly proud of although I do have to admit my foresight as an 8 year old boy was astounding.

Sitting round the table at a summer barbecue on approximately the 24th August 1997, an even rosier cheeked version of myself announced to a table full of adults and children that "it's about time one of the royal family died" to stunned silence, before continuing on with the day's death forecast by saying "how about Princess Diana?". I got a lot of "OH ANDREW"'s and that is the last of that particular memory. I know I didn't lose sleep over being told off because i had achieved my shock value for the day and because I was, well, 8.

Anyhow, we all know what happened next. After that, I was expressly forbidden from wishing death upon any celebrities. Apart from a few notable exceptions like when Neil Morrissey stole Amanda Holden from poor old Les Dennis. Bastard home-wrecker.

The incident still comes back to haunt me though, which is why I was inspired to write this after receiving a text from my mum the other day saying:

I don't believe you, Pete Postlethwaite died. Love mum.

Luckily she had just misconstrued my moving tribute to the great man on The Social Network as me wanting him dead. It is, however, reassuring to know that she would still love me even if I was a fundamentally rotten person. Thank Christ for that.