Diana, the former Princess of Wales, died on 8.31.97 — exactly a quarter-century ago today.

When I noted the 20th anniversary of her car-crash demise five years ago, the over-saturation of her legend (largely by way of Emma Corrin’s Diana in The Crown and Kristen Stewart’s in Spencer) hadn’t yet happened. And it still ain’t over — the final two seasons of The Crown (focusing on Elizabeth Debicki’s version) will begin their extended journey in November.

Anyone who says at this point “no, I’m not Diana’ed out…I want to re-immerse over and over and will probably never be satisfied”…anyone who says this with a straight face is someone most of us would probably want to avoid, no offense.

Posted on 8.4.17: I was attending the Montreal Film Festival when the news broke. I remember talking it through with colleagues and then retreating to my hotel room and tapping out a reaction piece for my L.A. Times Syndicate column. Given my haste and the late-hour fatigue, the piece was too long.

The next day Rod Steiger, a guest of the festival, delivered a rant about how the papparazzi had killed her. Which they did in a way. But the primary villain was Dodi Fayed, the millionaire asshat whom Diana had been intimate with for a few weeks.

I was working at People when Diana began seeing Fayed in July 1997. Two or three of us were asked to make some calls and prepare a file on the guy. Within three or four hours I’d learned that Fayed was an irresponsible playboy, didn’t pay his bills on occasion, lacked vision and maturity and basically wasn’t a man.

And yet Diana overlooked this or didn’t want to know. And that’s why she died. She orchestrated her demise by choosing Fayed for a boyfriend.

Fayed was just foolish and insecure enough, jet-setting around with his father’s millions and looking to play the protective stud by saving Diana from the paparazzi, to put her in harm’s way. It all came to a head on that fateful night in Paris. Fayed told his drunken chauffeur to try and outrun a bunch of easily finessable scumbag photographers on motorcycles, and we all know the rest.