Watch Tom Bower on gb news tonight posted upthread!
Watch Tom Bower on gb news tonight posted upthread!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.
OMG this is so obviously a dig at Catherine’s hyperemesis. What a hateful cunt. She was a dynamo because someone else was fucking pregnant!DAYS LATER THE pregnancy was announced publicly. The papers reported that Meg was battling fatigue and dizzy spells and couldn’t hold any food down, especially in the mornings, all of which was untrue. She was tired, but otherwise a dynamo. Indeed, she felt lucky not to be suffering severe morning sickness, since we were embarking on a hugely demanding tour.
Everywhere we went, enormous crowds turned out, and she didn’t disappoint them. All across Australia, Tonga, Fiji, New Zealand, she dazzled.
After one especially rousing speech, she got a standing ovation. She was so brilliant that midway through the tour I felt compelled…to warn her. You’re doing too well, my love. Too damn well. You’re making it look too easy. This is how everything started…with my mother.
Maybe I sounded mad, paranoid. But everyone knew that Mummy’s situation went from bad to worse when she showed the world, showed the family, that she was better at touring, better at connecting with people, better at being “royal,” than she had any right to be. That was when things really took a turn. We returned home to jubilant welcomes and exultant headlines. Meg, the expectant mother, the flawless representative of the Crown, was hailed. Not a negative word was written. It’s changed, we said. It’s changed at last. But then it changed again. Oh, how it changed.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
There's no way William is jealous of anything to do with himThis is all so... exhausting.
I have a relative like that. Gregarious, fun and great to catch up with.
Until one day he flipped and suddenly came out with grievances and comments about family stories/situations going back YEARS and I realised he'd been keeping tabs of slights and grievances that no-one else had noticed.
It was quite chilling.
In Harry's case there is a mix of self-pity, self-righteousness and utter ego which is so charmless.
He's clearly utterly jealous his brother but insists that it's the other way round.
Harry couldn't be removed.I suspect Parliament would remove Harry and Andrew from the line of succession if anything happened to William while Charles was alive.
Anne and Edward as a regency council for him.
How selfish of her that she was threatening to take the life of her unborn child. The pics that followed this event show no tear stained smegzI 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 fucking 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.
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 fucking 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.
Fuck me drunk!Meg told us a bit about her life, about growing up in Los Angeles, about her struggles to become an actress, doing quick changes between auditions in her rundown SUV on which the doors didn’t always work. She was forced to enter through the boot. She talked about her growing portfolio as an entrepreneur, her lifestyle website, which had tens of thousands of readers. In her free time she did philanthropic work—she was especially fierce about women’s issues. I was fascinated, hanging on every word, while in the background I heard a faint drumbeat: She’s perfect, she’s perfect, she’s perfect.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Forward Ground Air Control.WTF is that? He is not a jet pilot
The fact he put a number there is the boast. He is such a fucking whinging lying cunt.
Will do, thanks.Watch Tom Bower on gb news tonight posted upthread!
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