DIANA WAS (ALMOST) MY LOVER

Yes, it true, and it came out of an exciting experience when I was a young croupier in a London casino, an experience that when I re-live it now, was just magical! But first, allow me to get a bit sentimental by showing you an early picture of me

Yes, I know, you are finding it hard to believe that this is a picture of me, Lyin’ Brian Wales, but it’s one of my favourites. It's a picture I took of myself in one of those Soho photo kiosks when I was just a kid of 17. Whenever I see it, my eyes invariably mist over, but I know you will forgive me, as you know what a sentimental fool I am.You see, it takes me back to those wonderful days when my character was developing and I was learning the basic skills of surviving in a world where nothing comes for free (unless you manage to con a heiress into marrying you and get her to sign it all over to you).

Obviously, I was a handsome dog even then, when I was a carefree hustler-in-training working for a pimp in London's East End. To me, it's a wonderful picture taken when my character was developing, one that Joan (my future and now late wife) always carried in her change purse, and I in my wallet (that is, until police searchung my person during a later arraignment, noticed that it bore a remarkable resemblance to a certain middle-Eastern terrorist, and I thought it prudent, thereafter, to not carry it around with me).Well, now to get on with the story:

It begins with the arraignment referred to above. That day, April One 1982, also happened to be my birthday, and it was a day of police INFAMY. It was the day I was arrested by the police on the utterly FALSE charge of attempting to violate the cleavage of a Member of the Royal Family. I hang my head in shame, not for myself, but for the London Metropolitan Police , the rascals of which, tried to bring down a true English gentleman, a lover of truth and beauty, one who never knowingly spoke a profanity in his WHOLE life, and has dedicated his life, as God is my witness, to bringing truth and justice to the English-speaking world. But, again, I digress.

HOW I (ALMOST) SLEPT WITH DIANA, PRINCESS OF WALES!

Here it is:You all know that I met Osama bin Laden when Joan, my late wife and I lived in Saudi Arabia , and that Osama and I became fast friends. (We still exchange jokes over the internet and he has me almost dying laughing over some of his stories. Speaking of dying, it wasn't a laughing matter, peculiar perhaps, that when Joan died suddenly in bed while we were visiting our daughter who lived in Spain. She died, evidently, of asthma, or maybe it was a bad cup of tea, no one seems to know.)

I’ll bet you didn’t know that before that, Joan and I were working in Napoleon’s Casino and Restaurant in London, England, Joan as a waitress, and I as a croupier. It was at Napoleon's where I honed all the skills necessary for my continuing career as a con-artist, hustler, card shark, double-dealer, cheater, philanderer, swindler, etc.

It was there, too, after my croupier shift ended, I learned all the skills of quality cooking, where in the vast kitchens of Napoleon’s, my critical eye observed how the cooks made fabulous meals from the carcasses of road kill brought in by London bus and lorry drivers. (It was also where I learned how to use small animal sphincters as flavouring, years later in my fabulous Ducksplatz del Pantherpiss wines in the Dominican Republic).

But, again, I’m getting ahead of my story. Now, I want to tell you of how I met the late Diana, Princess of Wales, and HOW, almost, but not quite, I slept with her! When Charles was out making speeches about some silly cause or other, Diana would be a frequent guest in the Casino, ‘sowing her wild oats’, as it were.

One night, she was at my table playing wild-card poker, when her ever-roving eye caught a glimpse of the massive bulge in my pants. As she gave me a sly ‘come-hither’ look, I leaned over the table and had a deep look at her fabulous cleavage. I leaned over so far, in fact, one of the marked cards in the deck I was holding (an ace of hearts as it happened) accidentally fell into the deep exposed valley between Diana's creamy boobs, and in my desperation, made the mistake of trying to fish it out!

Well, ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE as two of Diana's bodyguards frog-marched me out of the casino and into a waiting police car! Before the night was over I had been charged with, “Indecently Fondling the Exposed Mammaries of a Royal Princess Without Express Permission”. Before I could even say, “Holy Cupcake, Miranda!” I found myself in a dank cell of the ‘Croupier Compound’ in Brixton prison.

Of course, the incident made its way into the tabloids and those sleazy bastards of the press cruelly mocked me and tried to make theatre of my innocent fishing game in Diana’s cleavage. But I had the last laugh, as the incident led to Diana and I (almost) becoming lovers, and WHAT’S MORE I HAVE HER LETTERS TO PROVE IT!

Any doubting Thomases, thinking this is all made up, here’s the story that appeared in the London Daily Star, 15 October 1991, written by the famous Marjorie Proops, the Star's Social Correspondent.

DIANA'S SHOCKING AFFAIR WITH JAILED CROUPIER

London, 10 December, AP. Fleet Street and Royals watchers are in frenzy over the latest in a series of scandals to emerge out of the Royal Household and those who were close to Diana, Princess of Wales. Still reeling from the sordid details of previous royal peccadilloes, this latest bombshell is certain to cause a sensation and provide more ammunition for those parasites of the press and others who make their dirty living sensationalizing the latest 'folie de jour' by members of the Royal Family.

I had the extreme good fortune to have an exclusive interview with Lyin’ Brian Wales when I was able to slip into Brixton prison last Wednesday evening. On a pretext, I told the gatekeeper that I was on a service call to change the sperm oil in the lamps that continually burn at 50-foot intervals along the perimeter of the forbidding walls that enclose Brixton prison. This ploy has always stood me on good stead whenever I need immediate access to any of Her Majesty's prisons to interview inmates for an exclusive story such as this one.

Lyin Brian, though now in drab prison garb rather than the spiffy tight pants of a croupier in a London Casino, is a ruggedly handsome, masculine man, who I could well imagine might easily turn the head of the headstrong and lonely princess, especially one like her who had a penchant for liaisons with any male who could "turn her on," so to speak.

I must admit he had my ‘thingy’ tingling as I slipped into his cell, my sperm oil lamp burning low and casting seductive shadows over the rugged stones of his tiny cell in the ‘croupier-isolation’ section of Brixton prison. I established my bone fides and Lyin’ Brian agreed to answer honestly and completely my questions after I had given him my assurances that I wasn't using him to make cheap journalism. Then we got down to business (not "monkey business", though' I blush to confess I wouldn't have minded had he made the suggestion).

From a box under his bunk, he pulled out a large sheaf of letters. These were tied with a pink ribbon and with a look of tender regard he loosed the strings and handed me the top one. "Look at this," he said.

I quickly read through. Written on a plain, white notepad, it had no royal emblem or anything to suggest it was from a royal princess. And it was in pencil and written clumsily in block letters. 'Lyin’ Brian’ (he insisted I call him by his first name) then explained that in later conversations with the princess before she died, she didn't want forensic experts to connect any of the letters with her.

I readily acquiesced with his understandable concern that evil persons would take advantage of her naiveté. But I reeled while reading the words in the letter! This is an exclusive as I type and I blush that a Royal Princess would write such un-royal trash! Behold:

"Dear Lyin’ Brian Wales (the first letter said), How about you an me gettin' our thingys together some Sat Eve after a few beers in the in the Royal Casino’s bistro, Whaddaya say, you hot, fuckin' croupier, YOU!" I was shocked, but I knew it was genuine because I recognized the signature, "Diana, Princess of Wales."

Stunned, I looked quickly through several other letters handed to me by Lyin’ Brian, one by one. All of Diana's notes were written in the same earthy language that, I suppose, Diana felt appropriate to use in her love letters to her randy croupier paramour. They were sensational and I knew he had Fleet Street, not to mention Wall Street, by the short and curlies with them!

Lyin’ Brian wants at least one million pounds for each letter and I had to assure him, they're worth every penny if he can verify that they are genuine, as I know they are. My pulse was racing as he gave me a gentle pat on my behind as we parted, our fortune soon to be realized. My thingy was wet with desire, but I knew we could not indulge our passion until we had at least sold the first letter. The News of the World first, then with Lord Black, The Canadian Crossover, in the Telegraph.”

The above column, splashed over page 1 of the London Daily Star was signed, Marjorie Proops, Chief Social Correspondent. After this story appeared, not surprisingly, I was soon released from Brixton prison on a Royal Warrant, signed by Prince Charles, himself. The only condition was that I had to endure an immediate, overnight face transplant, and relocate “quickly” to Saudi Arabia.

I had little choice but to agree to the terms of my release, though I demanded, and got, 200,000 pounds in compensation for the inconvenience of having to leave England within twenty-four hours. Well, there you have it. What else could I have done!

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