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.

Now Confessions is back on BBC Radio 2 Drivetime. Read a Confession below, then Send Simon Your Confession

Dear Simon

I'd like to take you back to the glorious summer of 1976. The grass was brown and parched, the use of hose pipes banned and we were in the middle of one of the biggest summer droughts the UK had ever seen.

As a 13 year old I was member of a somewhat cool (or so we thought at the time) train spotting gang and our 'manor' was an area in the South West - through which the London to West Coast Mainline passed. We met there every day that summer and stayed well into late evening, collecting train numbers and making enjoyment (for enjoyment read childish 'mischief') in whatever way we could. We were a mix of ages from twelve to sixteen, and a few of the elder members of our gang occasionally smoked the ubiquitous 'No6' brand that was popular at the time.

As everybody knows, smoking goes hand in hand with camp fire making, and the order of the day as the early evenings arrived and the temperature dropped to a bearable 20 degrees was a small camp fire consisting of small logs and sticks, with fresh potatoes plucked from the cupboards of our various homes while are parents attention was diverted. These served as a delicious impromptu dinner as we told rude jokes and generally misbehaved.

Early one evening in the late summer we were gathered around the camp fire, waiting for the latest class 47-hauled express to pass through from the Midlands, and the horseplay commenced as usual, only a bit more boisterous than in previous evenings.

We started to have a roast spud fight. I'd just been struck right behind the left ear with a sizzling spud, which made a popping sound as it exploded around my skull, much to the delight of my friends. In revenge, I scooped up the biggest, blackest old King Eddie I could find and with all the finesse of Babe Ruth I launched it in the direction of the perpetrators head.

My mate was a keen sportsman and possessed lightning quick reflexes, and with little effort managed to dodge the burning projectile with consummate ease. Unfortunately for me and my pals, it didn't miss the embankment, and within seconds of the projectile landing the whole embankment - for about 400 yards - was engulfed in a giant wall of flame.

Panic commenced and after quickly extinguishing and trying to conceal evidence of the campfire the gang silently skulked back to our respective homes where we set about showering and washing our clothes so as to avoid the wrath of our Dads "For lighting fires- again".

Some time later, my mum came in from her job cleaning the local community centre and asked me quite nonchalantly how I'd enjoyed my day's train spotting. "Oh, no problems, it was good" I replied without looking up from my copy of Modern Railways.

"That's strange then." She replied "As I just heard on the radio that the whole of the West Coast AND London main lines have been closed for more than two hours because of a line side fire in this area, I don't suppose YOU know anything at all about that, do you?"

I don't think even my bronze tan could hide my extremely red face, although Mum did of course give me the benefit of the doubt. I went to bed shortly after, mainly because I couldn't think of anything to say without incriminating myself!

Father Simon, now with the benefit of hindsight and age, I would like to seek redemption, Not only for the stupidity of lighting camp fires in the middle of a drought (which obviously is the height of irresponsibility) but also to all the holiday-makers who were packed into sweaty trains for hours on end, the commuters whose journeys home was needlessly extended, the railway drivers who sat at Red signals, the guards who were no doubt the subject of torrents of abuse from angry travellers and most of all to the firemen and the police who I quite selfishly denied a pleasant evening.

Can you bring yourselves to forgive?

Regards,

Martin