In Lady Colin Campbell’s YouTube video today she said there was a HUGE story that is being covered up. Harry seems to have always been a nasty piece of work so nothing would surprise me
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Thank you to Anna2020 and everyone else for keeping us so well informed. I’ve skipped lots from the past few threads as everything is moving so fast! I really feel some sh1t will hit the fan in the coming days and am praying William and Kate, and the rest of the family, can deal with it x
Sorry hun, that fekin stoopid hat still ain't happening.
No, it's bollocks.WTF is this?
Is it in the book?
WE’D RENTED A HOUSE in Oxfordshire. Just a place to get away now and then from the maelstrom, but also from Nott Cott, which was charming but too small. And falling down around our heads. It got so bad that one day I had to phone Granny
. I told her we needed a new place to live. I explained that Willy and Kate hadn’t simply outgrown Nott Cott, they’d fled it, because of all the required repairs, and the lack of room, and we were now in the same boat. With two rambunctious dogs…and a baby on the way…
I told her we’d discussed our housing situation with the Palace, and we’d been offered several properties, but each was too grand, we thought. Too lavish. And too expensive to renovate. Granny gave it a think and we chatted again days later.
Frogmore, she said.
Frogmore, Granny?
Yes. Frogmore.
Frogmore House? I knew it well. That was where we’d taken our engagement photos.
No, no—Frogmore Cottage. Near Frogmore House. Sort of hidden, she said. Tucked away. Originally home to Queen Charlotte and her daughters, then to one of Queen Victoria’s aides, and later it was chopped into smaller units. But it could be reassembled. Lovely place, Granny said. Plus, historic. Part of the Crown Estate. Very sweet.
I told her that Meg and I loved the gardens at Frogmore, we went walking there often, and if it was near those, well, what could be better? She warned: It’s a bit of a building site. Bit of a shell. But go and have a look and do tell me if it works. We went that day, and Granny was right. The house spoke to us both. Charming, full of potential. Hard by the Royal Burial Ground, but so what? Didn’t bother me or Meg. We wouldn’t disturb the dead if they’d promise not to disturb us. I rang Granny and said Frogmore Cottage would be a dream come true. I thanked her profusely. With her permission we began sitting down with builders, planning the minimum renovations, to make the place habitable—piping, heating, water
. While the work was being done, we thought we could move into Oxfordshire full time. We loved it out there. The air fresh, the verdant grounds—plus, no paps. Best of all, we’d be able to call upon the talents of my father’s longtime butler, Kevin. He knew the Oxfordshire house, and he’d know how to turn it quickly into a home. Better yet, he knew me, held me as a baby, and befriended my mother when she was wandering Windsor Castle in search of a sympathetic face. He told me that Mummy was the only person in the family who ever dared venture “below stairs,” to chat with staff. In fact she’d often sneak down and sit with Kevin in the kitchen, over a drink or snack, watching telly.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
. I told her we needed a new place to live. I explained that Willy and Kate hadn’t simply outgrown Nott Cott, they’d fled it, because of all the required repairs, and the lack of room, and we were now in the same boat. With two rambunctious dogs…and a baby on the way…
I told her we’d discussed our housing situation with the Palace, and we’d been offered several properties, but each was too grand, we thought. Too lavish. And too expensive to renovate. Granny gave it a think and we chatted again days later.
Frogmore, she said.
Frogmore, Granny?
Yes. Frogmore.
Frogmore House? I knew it well. That was where we’d taken our engagement photos.
No, no—Frogmore Cottage. Near Frogmore House. Sort of hidden, she said. Tucked away. Originally home to Queen Charlotte and her daughters, then to one of Queen Victoria’s aides, and later it was chopped into smaller units. But it could be reassembled. Lovely place, Granny said. Plus, historic. Part of the Crown Estate. Very sweet.
I told her that Meg and I loved the gardens at Frogmore, we went walking there often, and if it was near those, well, what could be better? She warned: It’s a bit of a building site. Bit of a shell. But go and have a look and do tell me if it works. We went that day, and Granny was right. The house spoke to us both. Charming, full of potential. Hard by the Royal Burial Ground, but so what? Didn’t bother me or Meg. We wouldn’t disturb the dead if they’d promise not to disturb us. I rang Granny and said Frogmore Cottage would be a dream come true. I thanked her profusely. With her permission we began sitting down with builders, planning the minimum renovations, to make the place habitable—piping, heating, water
. While the work was being done, we thought we could move into Oxfordshire full time. We loved it out there. The air fresh, the verdant grounds—plus, no paps. Best of all, we’d be able to call upon the talents of my father’s longtime butler, Kevin. He knew the Oxfordshire house, and he’d know how to turn it quickly into a home. Better yet, he knew me, held me as a baby, and befriended my mother when she was wandering Windsor Castle in search of a sympathetic face. He told me that Mummy was the only person in the family who ever dared venture “below stairs,” to chat with staff. In fact she’d often sneak down and sit with Kevin in the kitchen, over a drink or snack, watching telly.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Another rumor that wouldn’t surprise me either, their entitlement knows no bounds
Attachments
Oh, that went out of the window in the Netflix revision.
Give a another month, and the engagement will take place with them riding on the back of Steve the grumpy swan flying over Bungay throwing backpacks to the homeless.
has she covered her back yet for all of the 17? lies in the Orca 'interview'?
He said something sbo
Hopefully the admissions of drug use would deem him unfit to act as Regent or Counselor of State. He should be removed from line of succession and his children - UK has no proof re parentage or born of body.
He could also abolish the Monarchy .
Constitutionaly he even had to basically lie about the Counsellors of State, by claiming that ''changes '' were made.
There weren't any changes, just the usage of previous Letters Patent , which is absolutely normal, but not known.
So unless he changes the Regency Act (which is above Letters Patent ) Harry would be Regent, but not King, with the powers of a King, until George is 18 years old.
I have a confession. Been off Tattle all evening and have read these excerpts assuming they were a complete spoof and how cleverly they take the piss out of Harold. I’m going to have to re-read them now and I’m cringing already thinking that it’s his ‘story’. FFS.
Yes it is in the book.WTF is this?
Is it in the book?
Yep, and printed by an American publishers
Isn’t that a lie?
I’m sure I’ve read stories of the Royal children (now grown up) (Charles, Anne etc) in the kitchens, and I am positive I’ve read at least one story about HM The Queen in the kitchen.
Assuming nothing happens to the children as well.
Just thinking out loud, anyway, I'm off to bed, night all.
Yes, to all of the [highlighted] above!
I WALKED home from the office and found Meg sitting on the stairs.
She was sobbing. Uncontrollably.
My love, what’s happened? I thought for sure we’d lost the baby. I went to her on my knees.
She choked out that she didn’t want to do this anymore.
Do what?
Live.
I didn’t catch her meaning at first. I didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to understand. My mind just didn’t want to process the words.
It’s all so painful, she was saying.
What is?
To be hated like this—for what? What had she done? she asked.
She really wanted to know. What sin had she committed to deserve this kind of treatment?
She just wanted to make the pain stop, she said. Not only for her, for everyone. For me, for her mother. But she couldn’t make it stop, so she’d decided to disappear.
Disappear?
Without her, she said, all the press would go away, and then I wouldn’t have to live like this.
Our unborn child would never have to live like this.
It’s so clear, she kept saying, it’s so clear. Just stop breathing. Stop being. This exists because I exist.
I begged her not to talk like that. I promised her we’d get through it, we’d find a way. In the meantime, we’d find her the help she needed. I asked her to be strong, hang on.
Incredibly, while reassuring her, and hugging her, I couldn’t entirely stop thinking like a bleeping royal. We had a Sentebale engagement that night, at the Royal Albert Hall, and I kept telling myself: We can’t be late. We cannot be late. They’ll skin us alive! And they’ll blame her. Slowly—too slowly—I realized that tardiness was the least of our problems.
I said she should skip the engagement, of course.
I needed to go, make a quick appearance, but I’d be home fast.
No, she insisted, she didn’t trust herself to be at home alone for even an hour with such dark feelings.
So we put on our best kit, and she applied dark, dark lipstick to draw attention away from her bloodshot eyes, and out of the door we went.
The car pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall, and as we stepped into the blue flashing lights of the police escort and the whiteout lights of the press’s flashbulbs, Meg reached for my hand. She gripped it tightly. As we went inside, she gripped it even tighter.
I was buoyed by the tightness of that grip. She’s hanging on, I thought. Better than letting go.
But when we settled into the royal box, and the lights dimmed, she let go of her emotions. She couldn’t hold back the tears. She wept silently. The music struck up, we turned and faced the front. We spent the entire length of the performance (Cirque du Soleil) squeezing each other’s hands, me promising her in a whisper: Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
She was sobbing. Uncontrollably.
My love, what’s happened? I thought for sure we’d lost the baby. I went to her on my knees.
She choked out that she didn’t want to do this anymore.
Do what?
Live.
I didn’t catch her meaning at first. I didn’t understand, maybe didn’t want to understand. My mind just didn’t want to process the words.
It’s all so painful, she was saying.
What is?
To be hated like this—for what? What had she done? she asked.
She really wanted to know. What sin had she committed to deserve this kind of treatment?
She just wanted to make the pain stop, she said. Not only for her, for everyone. For me, for her mother. But she couldn’t make it stop, so she’d decided to disappear.
Disappear?
Without her, she said, all the press would go away, and then I wouldn’t have to live like this.
Our unborn child would never have to live like this.
It’s so clear, she kept saying, it’s so clear. Just stop breathing. Stop being. This exists because I exist.
I begged her not to talk like that. I promised her we’d get through it, we’d find a way. In the meantime, we’d find her the help she needed. I asked her to be strong, hang on.
Incredibly, while reassuring her, and hugging her, I couldn’t entirely stop thinking like a bleeping royal. We had a Sentebale engagement that night, at the Royal Albert Hall, and I kept telling myself: We can’t be late. We cannot be late. They’ll skin us alive! And they’ll blame her. Slowly—too slowly—I realized that tardiness was the least of our problems.
I said she should skip the engagement, of course.
I needed to go, make a quick appearance, but I’d be home fast.
No, she insisted, she didn’t trust herself to be at home alone for even an hour with such dark feelings.
So we put on our best kit, and she applied dark, dark lipstick to draw attention away from her bloodshot eyes, and out of the door we went.
The car pulled up outside the Royal Albert Hall, and as we stepped into the blue flashing lights of the police escort and the whiteout lights of the press’s flashbulbs, Meg reached for my hand. She gripped it tightly. As we went inside, she gripped it even tighter.
I was buoyed by the tightness of that grip. She’s hanging on, I thought. Better than letting go.
But when we settled into the royal box, and the lights dimmed, she let go of her emotions. She couldn’t hold back the tears. She wept silently. The music struck up, we turned and faced the front. We spent the entire length of the performance (Cirque du Soleil) squeezing each other’s hands, me promising her in a whisper: Trust me. I’ll keep you safe.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
The Succession is Charles
William
George , etc
And by then , more children as Catherine & Williams grow up, marry & have kids of their own
the orange spangle won't get anywhere near it
William
George , etc
And by then , more children as Catherine & Williams grow up, marry & have kids of their own
the orange spangle won't get anywhere near it
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