I’d wanted to keep this a secret out of respect for the children involved and a genuine fear of Mohamed al Fayed’s Harrods’ Kill Squad, but there’s something about the opening of the inquest into Diana and Dodi’s deaths at the High Court that has broken my resolve and compelled me to come forward finally. Maybe it’s the realisation that the truth known is more important than the secret locked away. Perhaps it’s the eroding away of any institution – be it mental or physical – that takes place over time, like the pebbles on the beach that were once meteors or mountains or mountains made out of meteors shaped like mountains. There’s also quite possibly something in the rumour that I’m merely hoping to cash in on news about the inquest with search engine traffic. Who knows?
I shagged Princess Diana.
Of course, this was a long time ago. Before she was a Princess. Before she was even a Diana. She was a Desmond at the time. But in my mind she’ll still always be the People’s Princess.
I met Diana while working on the oil rigs in the North Sea. Do you know the Klingon proverb that tells us revenge is a dish best served cold? Let me tell you: it is very cold in the North Sea. Also, mainly fish dishes.
You seek warmth where you can; anything to counter the indifferent touch of your chilled grey steel home-from-home erect in the deathly grey of the sea under the icy slightly-different-grey of the cloud cover. You bump against your fellow riggers whenever you pass in the narrow corridors. You growl about it because you’re men but you all secretly cherish the fleeting pressing of a fellow human with human heat almost palpable in that environment. And then, one day, I saw her.
The light from a bare bulb glinted off her oil-covered face and I was instantly entranced. She turned her head coyly to the side; you know the way she did that. I was mesmerised. Across a crowded elevator she coughed violently and spat out a wad of phlegm onto the wall. She gripped the bars of the elevator cage with arms like iron, a tattoo of a Russ Meyer SuperVixen spreading its immense cleavage over the contours of her bicep. I fought the urge to push through and grapple with her right there and then.
Over the next few days Diana and I got to talking; small talk mainly. Where was she born? How long had she spent in Borstal? How many bareknuckle fights had she won? I even caught the birth of her lifelong connection with landmines as she explained how she planned to start a private security company and help African dictators conduct wars against their neighbours. I wanted her so bad and she knew it. It was inevitable that our conversation would turn to desire.
I shagged Princess Diana under the leaden skies, the roar of the wind in our ears, and the throbbing pulse of the North Sea rollers crashing against the platform. We did it hard and fast and in front of a crowd of onlookers. We did it for the warmth. I remember every flex of our bodies.
Of course, this was a long time ago. Before shagging meant having sex. It meant arm-wrestling at the time. I won, best three out of five.