Harry and Meghan #298 The half price Prince

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Sorry if this has been mentioned as I haven’t been able to keep up with these threads, but I haven’t even got to the end of the first page of Spare yet and have noticed an error.

The first line says Harry is waiting in the garden of Frogmore a few hours after his Grandfather’s funeral, but halfway down the page it then says it’s only a few hours after getting the call from the Queen to say Philip had died. Which is it?! He wasn’t buried the same day he died.

Should I even bother reading more if this is how inaccurate it is already? 😂
 
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Right!!! I go to work and come home to a new thread!!! And I canny read the other thread cos my aged, frail mother expects her dinner 🙄🙄🙄 Old People!!!

Any way, I've jumped onto this thread cos I've just read ginger nuts talking about being in Paris for the Rugby Cup final and how happy millions of Britons were that England has made the final!!!!

WHAT THE ACTUAL F***

For that alone he should never be allowed back into the UK cos he obviously has no understanding how this works.

England get to a semi final/final and Scotland, parts of Northern Ireland, maybe Wales, all hope that they get humped.

How does Ginger Nuts not know this 🙄🙄🙄 Fecking Idiot!!!

Now I'm away back to thread 297. Hopefully I'll be here by midnight 👍👍👍
 
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I hope that lawyer lady is getting well paid on Piers' show, she's making a complete bleeping fool of herself. Surely even she can't believe the bullshit she's trying to defend. :LOL:

PS. Check out Pdina's latest vid on YT ... she's well pissed-off with US media coverage. ❤
 
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Still, despite the mounting stress, the terrible pressure, we managed to protect our essential bond, never snapping at each other during those few days. As we came to the final hours of her visit, we were solid, happy, and Meg announced she wanted to make me a special goodbye lunch. There was nothing in my fridge, as usual. But there was a Whole Foods down the street. I gave her directions, the safest route, past the Palace guards, turn right, towards Kensington Palace Gardens, down to Kensington High Street, there’s a police barrier, take a right and you’ll see Whole Foods. It’s massive, you can’t miss it. I had an engagement but I’d be home soon.
Baseball cap, jacket, head down, side gate. You’ll be fine, I promise.
Two hours later, when I got home, I found her inconsolable. Sobbing. Shaking. What is it? What’s happened? She could barely get the story out.
She’d dressed just as I’d advised, and she’d run happily, anonymously, up and down the supermarket aisles. But as she rode the escalator a man approached. Excuse me, do you know where the exit is? Oh, yes, I think it’s just up here to the left. Hey! You’re on that program—Suits, am I right? My wife loves you. Oh. That’s so nice! Thanks. What’s your name? Jeff. Nice to meet you, Jeff. Please tell her I said thanks for watching. I will. Can I get a picture…you know, for my mum? Thought you said it was your wife. Oh. Yeah. Heh. Sorry, I’m just grocery shopping today. His face changed. Well, even if I can’t take a picture WITH you…that doesn’t stop me taking pictures OF you!


Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

He seriously advised her to wear Hunter boots and the 'Alleviate Poverty Worldwide' bag? He's taking the blame for pretty much everything!

She has so written this
 
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Again, no one has ever seen any of these photos

And having lived near places with real celebrities - no one recognizes them out of context. They act as if Suits was the #1 show...that would be Love ISland
I expect it was that bus load of pensioners that were at Windsor again.

Weren't the photos the day she was in Hunter wellies trolling around in front of the Mail offices waiting to be papped? - she always has to explain everything away - she wasn't waiting to be papped - she was distraught !
 
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Nice ...


Wonder if big god-daddy Tyler is her shining knight again and whisked her to his new Georgia pad, mind you he might not want Aitch using it as his pot house again!
 
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Still, despite the mounting stress, the terrible pressure, we managed to protect our essential bond, never snapping at each other during those few days. As we came to the final hours of her visit, we were solid, happy, and Meg announced she wanted to make me a special goodbye lunch. There was nothing in my fridge, as usual. But there was a Whole Foods down the street. I gave her directions, the safest route, past the Palace guards, turn right, towards Kensington Palace Gardens, down to Kensington High Street, there’s a police barrier, take a right and you’ll see Whole Foods. It’s massive, you can’t miss it. I had an engagement but I’d be home soon.
Baseball cap, jacket, head down, side gate. You’ll be fine, I promise.
Two hours later, when I got home, I found her inconsolable. Sobbing. Shaking. What is it? What’s happened? She could barely get the story out.
She’d dressed just as I’d advised, and she’d run happily, anonymously, up and down the supermarket aisles. But as she rode the escalator a man approached. Excuse me, do you know where the exit is? Oh, yes, I think it’s just up here to the left. Hey! You’re on that program—Suits, am I right? My wife loves you. Oh. That’s so nice! Thanks. What’s your name? Jeff. Nice to meet you, Jeff. Please tell her I said thanks for watching. I will. Can I get a picture…you know, for my mum? Thought you said it was your wife. Oh. Yeah. Heh. Sorry, I’m just grocery shopping today. His face changed. Well, even if I can’t take a picture WITH you…that doesn’t stop me taking pictures OF you! He whipped out his phone and followed her to the deli counter, snapping away while she looked at the turkey. F the turkey, she thought, hurrying to the checkouts. He followed her there too. She got into the queue. Before her were rows and rows of magazines and newspapers, and on all of them, under the most shocking and disgusting headlines…was her. The other customers noticed as well. They looked at the magazines, looked at her, and now they too pulled out their phones, like zombies. Meg caught two cashiers sharing a horrible smile. After paying for her groceries, she walked outside, straight into a group of four men with their iPhones aimed at her. She kept her head down, rushed up Kensington High Street. She was nearly home when a horse-drawn carriage came rolling out of Kensington Palace Gardens. Some sort of parade: the Palace gate was blocked. She was forced back along the main road, where the four men picked up the scent again, and chased her all the way to the main gate, screaming her name. When she finally got inside Nott Cott, she’d phoned her best girlfriends, each of whom asked: Is he worth this, Meg? Is anyone worth this? I put my arms around her, said I was sorry. So sorry. We just held each other, until I slowly became aware of the most delicious smells. I looked around. Hang on. You mean…after all that…you still made lunch? I wanted to feed you before I left.


Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
OMFG THIS LITERALLY DIDN’T HAPPEN NO ONE KNEW WHO THE duck SHE WAS! Lololololol 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
 
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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.
 
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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?
 
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OMFG THIS LITERALLY DIDN’T HAPPEN NO ONE KNEW WHO THE duck SHE WAS! Lololololol 🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣🤣
Hahahahaaaaa , it's unbelievable bullshit , coming from an habitual liar 😅😅😅😅😅😅😅😅

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.
Anna, thanks for all these posts
 
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NEXT WAS WILLY. I knew he’d kill me if I let it go another minute. So Meg and I popped over one afternoon, shortly before he and I were due to leave on a shooting trip. Walking up to apartment 1A, under the huge arch, through the courtyard, I felt more nervous than I had before the meeting with Granny. I asked myself why. No answer came to mind. We climbed the gray stone steps, rang the bell. No reply. After a wait the door opened and there was my big brother, a bit dressed up. Nice trousers, nice shirt, open collar.
I introduced Meg, who leaned in and gave him a hug, which completely freaked him out. He recoiled. Willy didn’t hug many strangers. Whereas Meg hugged most strangers. The moment was a classic collision of cultures, like flashlight-torch, which felt to me both funny and charming. Later, however, looking back, I wondered if it was more than that. Maybe Willy expected Meg to curtsy? It would’ve been protocol when meeting a member of the Royal Family for the first time, but she didn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. When meeting my grandmother, I’d made it clear—this is the Queen. But when meeting my brother, it was just Willy, who loved Suits.


Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex

She thought she was meeting a fan and turned on the charm only to be rebuffed 😭

It's so funny that after 6 years they are still telling this hug story.

It really must have hurt her that he didn't want to hug her.
 
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Oh bleeping hell,sorry but I've cringed so hard I've just broke my cringe bone.
He must of snorted Ben Nevis before writing this tit.
 
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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)
 
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I believe that the bullying incident was the main thing that forced them to leave, because Meghan felt she really couldn’t get ahead of that one and that it would eventually be made public. After that, they worked tirelessly to try and keep the whole thing under wraps and as usual with Meghan, control the narrative.

She had zero experience at managing people in any respect. She literally took the position of boss over far more qualified staff with no training and worse, little inclination to learn. She was totally unfamiliar with “noblesse oblige”. It seems clear that from everything I observed about her she is by nature manipulative and always wants her way. It goes that she would expect staff to work to this end and that creating tumultuous conflict is her happy place. She gets off on it. While I get that someone brought up in a completely different culture might need some slack cut, it’s really no excuse. Trans Atlantic corporate world is full of successful stories. She was spoiled rotten, her recently minted minor cable tv fame, she felt, gave her status equal or better than the BRF and certainly the common old staff. She is always right, not negotiable - period !

I enclose the wiki of what ‘noblesse oblige’ is and it appears that whatever rudeness Harry had inherently, Meghan has amplified it.
At best they simply aren’t nice people, (I think Harry is far more like Uncle Andrew than his brother) and at worst they’re positively evil narcissists in a folie à deux.
0033D0A8-EC76-4470-BCF1-BF3127010E37.jpeg
 
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