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SALLY MORGAN, the subject of ITV2's Star Psychic, has "read" for George Michael, Uma Thurman and, most famously, Princess Diana.

Her "powers" to communicate with the dead, predict the future and reveal intimate secrets she cannot have researched have stunned even the biggest sceptics.

This week her autobiography, My Psychic Life, is being serialised in The Sun.

Today she reveals that a year before Diana died in August 1997 she predicted the death of a royal in a car crash in the darkness of a tunnel ...

I SAID, 'Oh my God!' And Fiona said, 'Sally, what is it?' 'Oh my God,' I repeated. 'I really don't like what I'm seeing here.'

'What? What is it?' 'The Queen's going to die. She's going to die in a car accident.'

I could see a car. Blackness seeming to crowd in on it. I wasn't able to make out the car, just the darkness of its colour. And there was a body.

My hands flew to my mouth. 'Oh my God, Fiona,' I repeated. 'I can see them. They're pulling a body out of a car.' I saw the body of a woman on the ground. '... on a road . ...'

Her feet remained in the car. Now I could feel a thumping against my own chest.

In the vision I saw figures crowding around the prone body of the person - it was the Queen; somehow, I knew it to be the Queen.

They were trying to resuscitate her. 'It's very dark,' I said to Fiona. 'I feel like I'm in a tunnel and, oh my goodness me, the next week the Queen Mother dies.'

Fiona was staring at me. 'What? The Queen dies and the Queen Mother dies?'

'Yes,' I insisted. 'It's a week later. I can see her funeral. First the Queen, then the Queen Mother.'

Fiona (an aide of Princess Diana whose name has been changed) took the tape of our conversation to Kensington Palace and I suppose the Princess must have listened to it.

I virtually forgot all about it, and the reading. Then, on August 31, 1997, a prediction I barely remembered came horribly true.

My phone started ringing. It didn't stop all day


I had so many clients who had been introduced to me via my association with the Princess - lords and ladies, members of the aristocracy - they were all ringing to ask what had happened, as though I might have some kind of inside track.

More than what was on TV I couldn't say.


Then, four days after the Princess's funeral, I had a phone call. 'Hello, Sally.' It was Fiona.

'Oh, hello,' I said, surprised. She was the last person I expected to hear from.

'I had to ring you,' she said. 'Don't you remember, Sally? You predicted her death.'

And it clicked. The tunnel, the darkness, a body dragged out of a car. I caught my breath.

'You predicted her death,' Fiona was saying. 'Did I?' 'Yes.'

'I said the Queen, Fiona,' I managed, finding the words difficult.

'Yes, and after that Diana said she wanted to be known as the queen of people's hearts. Then you said that a week later the Queen Mother would die.' 'Well the Queen Mother is still alive.'

'Sally, the Palace has certain funeral plans. State funerals, you know? The funeral given to Diana was the Queen Mother's funeral. That's why you saw the Queen Mother's funeral.'

It hit me then that Fiona would have taken the tape and played it to the Princess. Was that why she broke contact? Somehow me talking about death, so different to our usual conversations about her love life - somehow it had all got a bit too serious for her.


Sally, now 57, got to know Diana in 1992. A friend of the Princess had seen the medium in action and recommended her to Diana, whose marriage was in deep trouble and who was desperate for guidance.

They had several phone conversations before their first face-to-face meeting in the same drawing room at Kensington Palace where Diana would later film her infamous Panorama interview with Martin Bashir.


The thing was, she never wanted a divorce. She still hankered after Charles and she quizzed me about him.

'Why?' she said, leaning forward, looking at me with those wide, wide eyes. 'Why did he do it?'

I used to try to change the subject because I'd already given her the answer. The fact was, she didn't need a psychic to give her the answer.

It was because he was in love with somebody else, simple.

He had loved her, that I knew. And I can tell you that Prince Charles never intended to break Diana's heart. He did love her. The trouble was that in the end he loved Camilla more.

'Well, what sort of women does he like?' she asked me. 'I tell you what, he does love a pair of t**s,' I said. She roared with laughter. Two days later there was a photo of her with the Prince.

All the talk in the Press was of the dress she wore: A tight, cotton dress that accentuated her cleavage.

During their first conversations Di had asked Sally whether her romance with Oliver Hoare would work out. They had yet to be linked in the Press and Diana did not call him by name. Sally only knew - without Di telling her - his initials.


But Sally had qualms about Hoare from the moment an ai

I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.

These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.

I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.

I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its heats;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.

II

But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.

We are the dark deniers, let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp,
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp,
And from the planted womb the man of straw.

We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron,
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the country gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ho the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies,
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry.
O see the poles of promise in the boys.

III

I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggot's barren.
And boys are full and foreign in the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.

Nella loro rovina vedo i ragazzi dell'estate
Desolare i campi d'oro,
Non dare importanza alla messe, raggelare il suolo;
Laggiu nel loro ardore che l'inverno inonda
Di gelidi amori, le loro ragazze essi prendono,
Nelle proprie maree le mele cariche annegano.

Questi ragazzi di luce nella follia coagulano,
E inacidiscono il miele bollente;
Negli alveari col dito le cotte di gelo essi toccano;
Laggiu nel sole con frigidi fili
Di dubbio e oscurita nutrono i loro nervi;
Nei loro vuoti e nulla il quadrante della luna.

Vedo i fanciulli dell'estate nelle loro madri
Fender le muscolose intemperie del grembo,
Notte e giorno dividere coi pollici fatati;
Laggiu nel fondo con ombre inquartate
Di sole e luna le genitrici dipingono
Come luce di sole dipinge il guscio delle loro teste.

Da questi ragazzi m'accorgo che uomini da nulla
Per movimenti esausti cresceranno,
O azzopperanno l'aria dai suoi calori balzando;
Laggiu nei loro cuori il palpito canicolare
D'amore e luce esplode nelle loro gole.
Oh, vedi il palpito, nel ghiaccio, dell'estate.

II

Ma le stagioni han da esser vendicate altrimenti vacillano
In un quartiere di suoni
Dove, come la morte puntuali, faremo squillare le stelle;
Laggiu, nella sua notte, le campane dal cupo linguaggio,
L'insonnolito uomo dell'inverno scuote,
Ne le respinge la luna-e-mezzanotte quando soffia.

Noi siamo coloro che negano oscuri, lasciateci evocare
La morte da una donna dell'estate,
Da stretti amanti una vita muscolosa,
Dai morti di gentile aspetto che inondano il mare
Il verme dal vivido occhio sulla lampada di Davy,
E dal piantato grembo l'uomo trascurabile.

Noi ragazzi dell'estate in questa rotazione quadriventosa,
Verde del ferro dell'alghe marine,
Il fragoroso mare sosteniamo e facciamo gocciare i suoi uccelli,
Raccogliamo la sfera del mondo di flutto e di schiuma
Per soffocar deserti con le sue maree,
Pettiniamo i giardini delle contee per farne una ghirlanda.

In primavera sulle nostre fronti un agrifoglio in croce disponiamo,
Sia gloria al sangue e alla bacca,
Ed inchiodiamo all'albero gli allegri possidenti;
Qui l'umido muscolo amoroso si dissecca e muore,
In cava nessuna d'amore un bacio noi spezziamo.
Oh, vedi, nei ragazzi, della promessa i pali.

III

Nella vostra rovina vi vedo, ragazzi dell'estate.
L'uomo e sterile nella sua larva.
E nella sacca i ragazzi son colmi e stranieri.
lo sono l'uomo che fu vostro padre.
Noi siamo i figli della selce e della pece.
Oh, vedi i pali che si baciano incrociandosi.
DYLAN THOMAS.

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