Twenty years ago, when Simon was a whippersnapper presenter on BBC Radio 1, he received thousands of letters from listeners confessing their darkest secrets and worst misdemeanours, begging for his forgiveness. Every day, Father Mayo read out a confession - and then he'd decide whether to grant forgiveness or not.

Read a classic Confession below, then Send Simon Your Confession

Dear Simon,

I grew up in the North Staffordshire countryside. Unfortunately for reasons I won't bore you with I had to move to a town about fifteen miles away. I still kept in touch with a good friend of mine called Paul, and occasionally we'd visit each other. This confession dates from 1990 when we were twenty and had just discovered the delights of clay pigeon shooting. I would drive to his house, we'd pack the equipment in the back of the car and then we'd drive off to find a farmer who'd let us use his land. Most of them were very friendly, almost always allowing us to use one of their fields. We usually had to perform some small favour in exchange. This usually involved taking out a few crows instead of clay pigeons.

Unfortunately, neither of the two farmers who usually let us use their land was able to on this particular Saturday afternoon, so we went slightly further afield.

We'd once visited a farmer by the name of Johnston and remembering him to be a friendly old chap, we decided that he'd be worth a try. I was elected spokesman. After parking the car at the front of the house, I knocked on his door. Eventually he answered, and after I explained what we wanted he asked me in. He explained that his horse was very ill, and needed putting down. He didn't want to pay for a vet, and he couldn't face doing it himself. He said he'd let us use his land if I shot his horse. He just gave me the directions to the stables at the back.

As I opened the door I saw Paul leaning on the bonnet of the car with his broken rifle cradled in his right arm. He looked so relaxed I decided to shake him up a bit.

I stalked over to the car, snatched up my rifle, loaded it and walked purposefully in the direction of the stables. 'What's up, Ian?' Paul asked jumping to his feet.

'The unreasonable elderly gent has denied us permission to use his land.' I replied (although not using those words). Paul followed me. Once we reached the stables I instantly saw the sickly looking grey, and walked over to it.

'I know', I said, 'Let's teach him a lesson. Let's shoot his horse.'

With that, I shot the poor beast. It was quick, clean and painless. Paul's face was a picture of horror. Suddenly, before I had a chance to explain, or even laugh at his expression, the expression changed to something very unpleasant.

'Yeah!' he shouted, 'Let's kill his bull as well!'

Before I could stop him, he spun round and shot the bull, who was looking over his door to see what was going on. There was a vaguely bovine moan followed by the sound of several tonnes of prime beef hitting the floor of a stable.

There was only one course of action to follow: run, very quickly. We dived into the car and sped off.

Once safely back home, I told Paul what had really happened. After he'd calmed down, we decided to become ex-clay pigeon shooters.

We'd just like to apologise to Mr Johnston for murdering his bull, and hope both he and you can find it in your hearts to forgive us.

Ian