Harry and Meghan #298 The half price Prince

[HairyWeeTerrier]

That’s quite telling that Trevor Coult is not going to talk about Harry, because of advice he has been given. Has he been told that Harry is quite obviously mentally disturbed, and requires treatment more than criticism? It is the only reason I can think of for Trevor to hold back. If anyone would understand mental health problems, it is him.

 

[givepeasachance]

I think Harry has been well and truly markled here. Do we think he's been allowed to release this shit on purpose? A trojan horse?

 

[Churchill's Ghost]

Another Markle Marker that show she wrote it. We know that she misuese words to sound smarter (e.g. archetypes when she meant stereotypes)

However, she may have inadvertently been right when she misused the word mythology

Mythology: a set of stories or beliefs about a particular person, institution, or situation, especially when exaggerated or fictitious.

However, this really should be "our personal hagiography": a biography that idealizes its subject

(I know that there is such a thing as personal mythology: an individual's fundamental stories for making sense and meaning of the world, but that does not apply in this case)

 

[ToodliePips]

So, she finished her Eat Pray Love thing, then flew from London to Johannesburg, then to Maun, where I’d asked Teej to meet her. (I wanted to do it myself, of course, but couldn’t without creating a scene.) After an eleven-hour odyssey, including a three-hour layover in Johannesburg, and a hot car ride to the house, Meghan had every right to be grumpy. But she wasn’t. Bright-eyed, eager, she was ready for anything. And looking like…perfection. She wore cut-off jean shorts, well-loved hiking boots, a crumpled Panama hat that I’d seen on her Instagram page.

I asked about the flight. She laughed about the Air Botswana crew. They were big fans of Suits, so they’d asked her to pose for a photo.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex

And yet again……..Aye, right

 

[Rosesarepink]

Oh but of course it had to be stated that it was “British” Calamari that made her sick, swear to god starting to feel like William, it’s either his or this little islands fault, or those who do their job on said isle, bore off Jackanory.

Not the food she made or the wine or the tequila that made her sick.

REUNITED. A quiet night at Nott Cott, preparing dinner together. December 2016. Meg and I had discovered that we shared the same favorite food: roast chicken. I didn’t know how to cook it, so that night she was teaching me. I remember the warmth of the kitchen, the wonderful smells. Lemon wedges on the cutting board, garlic and rosemary, gravy bubbling in a saucepan. I remember rubbing salt on the skin of the bird, then opening a bottle of wine. Meg put on music.
Maybe the wine went to my head. Maybe the weeks of battling the press had worn me down. For some reason, when the conversation took an unexpected turn, I became touchy. Then angry. Disproportionately, sloppily angry. Meg said something I took the wrong way. It was partly a cultural difference, partly a language barrier, but I was also just over-sensitive that night. I thought: Why’s she having a go at me? I snapped at her, spoke to her harshly—cruelly. As the words left my mouth, I could feel everything in the room come to a stop. The gravy stopped bubbling, the molecules of air stopped orbiting. Even Nina Simone seemed to pause. Meg walked out of the room, disappearing for a full fifteen minutes. I went and found her upstairs. She was sitting in the bedroom. She was calm, but said in a quiet, level tone that she would never stand for being spoken to like that. I nodded. She wanted to know where it came from. I don’t know. Where did you ever hear a man speak like that to a woman? Did you overhear adults speak that way when you were growing up? I cleared my throat, looked away. Yes. She wasn’t going to tolerate that kind of partner. Or co-parent. That kind of life. She wasn’t going to raise children in an atmosphere of anger or disrespect. She laid it all out, super-clear. We both knew my anger hadn’t been caused by anything to do with our conversation. It came from somewhere deep inside, somewhere that needed to be excavated, and it was obvious that I could use some help with the job. I’ve tried therapy, I told her. Willy told me to go. Never found the right person. Didn’t work. No, she said softly. Try again.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

A language barrier when you both speak English?

Classic narc - you misunderstood me - you overreacted - you were oversensitive- you are to blame.
Stonewall silence to regain control
Victim trauma bonded wants to do anything to please narc so will apologise to narc and take the blame.
Regain control further with the threat of leaving if you don't comply.
Don't express your opinion or feelings Don't challenge the narc do as I say not as I do

 

[Crabbypatty00]

The hair on that cover photo (bonjour bushy 80's lightly permed mullet). The piercing blue eyes (amazing how that 'People' photographer managed to capture a colour NO ONE else ever has). The editing chaps got more than a bit trigger happy on the old Photoshop bless them. Reading those excerpts, the photos, the snippets of interviews; I genuinely think I must have somehow got on board the magic bus with Harry and slipped into a parallel universe.

Next thing I know the bin will be talking to me saying it's the reincarnation of Diana.

I'll be honest, I've had a rough week. I think I want some of whatever Harry's having. Must be lovely to genuinely be on another planet.

 

[DanDanTheIceCreamMan]

I'm really looking forward to Charles Dance reading this on Big Fat Quiz of the Year in December...

 

[Ladygisborne]

I don't know if it has already been mentioned (I cannot keep up!) but the vomiting / feeling faint on the bathroom floor scene was taken from Twilight. Ugh, as Bella Swan would say.

 

[kata420]

Second date with Meghan
This time I was already there—waiting. Smiling. Proud of myself. She walked in, wearing a pretty blue sundress with white pinstripes. She was aglow. I stood and said: I bear gifts. A pink box. I held it forward. She shook it. What’s this? No, no, don’t shake it! We both laughed. She opened the box. Cupcakes. Red, white and blue cupcakes, to be exact. In honor of Independence Day. I said something about the Brits having a very different view of Independence Day from the Yanks, but, oh, well. She said they looked amazing. Our waitress from Date One appeared. Mischa. She seemed genuinely happy to see us, to discover that there was a Date Two. She could tell what was happening, she got that she was an eyewitness, that she’d forever be part of our personal mythology. After bringing us a round of drinks she went away and didn’t return for a long time. When she did, we were deep in the middle of a kiss. Not our first.
Meghan, holding my shirt collar, was pulling me towards her, holding me close. When she saw Mischa she released me immediately and we all laughed. Excuse us. No problem. Another round? Again the conversation flowed, crackled. Burgers came and went, uneaten. I felt an overwhelming sense of Overture, Prelude, Kettle Drums, Act I. And yet also a sense of ending. A phase of my life—the first half?—was coming to a close. As the night neared its end we had a very frank discussion. There was no way round it. She put a hand to her cheek and said: What’re we gonna doooo? We have to give this a proper go. What does that even mean? I live in Canada. I’m going back tomorrow! We’ll meet. A long visit. This summer. My summer’s already planned. Mine too. Surely in the whole summer we could find one small spot of time. She shook her head. She was doing the full Eat Pray Love. Eat what now? The book? Ah. Sorry. Not really big on books. I felt intimidated. She was so the opposite of me. She read. She was cultured. Not important, she said with a laugh. The point was, she was going with three girlfriends to Spain, and then with two girlfriends to Italy, and then— She looked at her calendar. I looked at mine. She raised her eyes, smiled. What is it? Tell me. Actually, there’s one small window… Recently, she explained, a castmate had advised her not to be so structured about her summer of eating, praying and loving. Keep one week open, this castmate said, leave room for magic, so she’d been saying no to all kinds of things, reserving one week, even turning down a very dreamy bike trip through the lavender fields of southern France… I looked at my calendar and said: I have one week open as well. What if they’re the same week? What if? Is it possible? How crazy would that be? It was the same week.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

On reading this passage, it confirms for me that this whole thing was set up by Smeg and Co. long before she ever met Harold. Even after all this time, he’s still too dim to see that he has fallen for her plan hook, line and sinker. What a coincidence they both had the same week off. What a complete and utter twat.

Also, the hotel room above Soho House that ‘a friend’ of Smeg’s showed him … really?! Did he pay by the hour or the night?!

The part about William really trying to get through to him is really quite sad.
He is about to pay a very heavy price for his own stupidity.

I’d say TW is only delighted her plan must be working out perfectly. I’d say the spare will be getting the flick in the not too distant future. She just has to squeeze a bit more pride and finances from him first.

 

[Who’sYerDaddy]

 

[thenorthremembers]

I’ve found the moon Harold was talking to.

 

[thenorthremembers]

Not really the same but anyway picture 24 of 84

A Rare Look at Princess Margaret's Glamorous Life (housebeautiful.com)

PM was beautiful wasn't she. I love her wedding dress. Now that was a perfect fitting wedding dress not like that monstrosity Markle wore.

 

[minimaz]

Does anyone else whos read it notice how Harry always expects the Cambridges to entertain him by inviting him over for dinner? He seems to want them to give him their full attention. If I was my sisters neighbour, I'd just be popping over to watch tv or hang out or something. He never seems to spend any time with their kids.

Isn't it interesting how Harry was fine with the lie that he was the fun Uncle. No mention of him and Meghan visiting after Louis was born or anything, surely he would want to tell of the amazing gift she got for the baby and how she knew to get presents for the other children too etc, instead, nothing.

 

[Who’sYerDaddy]

If this has been posted, my apologies but…

 

[Hula flight]

I felt pretty sure she hadn’t googled me, because she was always asking questions. She seemed to know almost nothing—so refreshing. It showed that she wasn’t impressed by royalty, which I thought the first step to surviving it. More, since she hadn’t done a deep dive into the literature, the public record, her head wasn’t filled with disinformation.
After Willy and I had laid flowers at Mummy’s grave, we drove together back to London. I phoned Meg, told her I was on my way. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant, not wanting to give myself away to Willy.

There’s a secret way into the hotel, she said. Then a freight lift.

All went according to plan. After I’d met the friend and navigated a sort of maze through the bowels of Soho House, I finally reached Meg’s door. I knocked and suspended breathing while I waited. The door flew open. That smile. Her hair was partly covering her eyes. Her arms were reaching for me. She pulled me inside and thanked her friend in one fluid motion, then slammed the door quickly before anyone saw. I want to say we hung a Do Not Disturb sign on the door. But I don’t think there was time.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex

Gullible twat isn't he?
When it all comes crashing down and she ditches him or releases his throuple sex tape...karma's a bitch.

 

[Happy Lady]

Who the hell writes a book that includes two chapters about their beard? The whole book seems to be a whole load of mush, twaddle and made up stories.

@Anna2020 on behalf of all who post on this thread, a Big THANK YOU for your sterling work throughout the night.

 

[LyraBalaqua]

Shot for every time he mentions Suits..

 

[Crabbypatty00]

I'm loving the tale of their love story 'mythology' (incorrect use of the word but whatever, it's megs, she makes everything up as she goes along).

Gormless. Gullible. Git.

This story, if true is the most textbook, American "catch-a-man" guide bullshit, widely read by aggressive penis ladder climbers and gold diggers. Who was meg taking lessons from? Anna Nicole- Smith? The fragrant Debbie "what attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels" McGee?

When the divorce papers land next to the beaten up old bean bag he smuggled out of Nott Cott and is now using in his bedsit I reckon the penny might finally drop.

In the mean time my toes are now slinky - like in their curling, particularly if I imagine any of his (previous) mates reading this utter shite. God the cringe. Has the man no shame?

 

[Ndrangheta]

Piers is spot on. H claims to hate the press but he's happy to give them his story. He doesn't hate the press he wants to control the press

Control of the narrative. Yes.

"Who controls the past controls the future: who controls the present controls the past" - 1984, Orwell.

 

[TheCutiePatootie]

I like the game.. but I'm a old cynic .

It's intentionally written like this, the more is posted the clearer it gets.
It's a creation of ''excuse '' a benefit of naivete, childishness , immaturity which enables all the possible apologism in the future .
If everything else fails-blame the writer .

One of my acquaintances is a ghostwriter and he said as a ghostwriter you need to either increase your level of writing or reduce it, based on who you are writing for.

So, in the first book, he ghost wrote he sounded like Phil Knight. Who is quite intelligent, interesting and of course succesful.

This book. Well, he sounds like Harry.

If the ghostwriter indeed did this work he did an excellent job because he didn't distort how Harry sounds and acts to the whole world. Like an idiot.