Harry and Meghan #299 Spare The book that makes Twilight look like Tolstoy

[Diagnosis123]

I met a guy on Plenty of Fish, he's so handsome with deep blue eyes and a full head of hair. Cant' wait to meet up....

The first date...

 

[coconochanel]

Its so pathetic he thinks everything William does is because he is the HEIR when its really just a big brother trying to help,

 

[VC10]

Is it all just about the money?
Isn’t it always?
All my life I’ve heard people saying the monarchy was expensive, anachronistic, and Meg and I were now served up as proof.
Our wedding was cited as Exhibit A. It cost millions, and thereafter we’d up and left. Ingrates.
But the family paid for the actual wedding, and a huge portion of the remaining cost was for security, much of which was made necessary by the press stirring up racism and class resentment.
And the security experts themselves told us the snipers and sniffer dogs weren’t just for us: they were to prevent a shooter from strafing the crowds on the Long Walk, or a suicide bomber blowing up the parade route.
Maybe money sits at the heart of every controversy about monarchy.
Britain has long had trouble making up its mind.
Many support the Crown, but many also feel anxious about the cost.
That anxiety is increased by the fact that the cost is unknowable. Depends on who’s crunching the numbers.
Does the Crown cost taxpayers? Yes.
Does it also pay a fortune into government coffers? Also yes.
Does the Crown generate tourism income that benefits all? Of course.
Does it also rest upon lands obtained and secured when the system was unjust and wealth was generated by exploited workers and thuggery, annexation and enslaved people? Can anyone deny it?
According to the last study I saw, the monarchy costs the average taxpayer the price of a pint each year.
In light of its many good works that seems a pretty sound investment.
But no one wants to hear a prince argue for the existence of a monarchy, any more than they want to hear a prince argue against it.
I leave cost-benefit analyses to others.
My emotions are complicated on this subject, naturally, but my bottom-line position isn’t.
I’ll forever support my Queen, my Commander in Chief, my Granny. Even after she’s gone.
My problem has never been with the monarchy, nor the concept of monarchy.
It’s been with the press and the sick relationship that’s evolved between it and the Palace.
I love my Mother Country, and I love my family, and I always will.
I just wish, at the second-darkest moment of my life, they’d both been there for me.
And I believe they’ll look back one day and wish they had too.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

Christ, what a prize cunt

 

[Thalia]

Harry and Meghan #300 Thank you @Anna2020

 

[toninottony]

WILLY ASKED FOR a meeting. He wanted to talk about everything, the whole rolling catastrophe.
Just him and me, he said. As it happened, Meg was out of town, visiting girlfriends, so his timing was perfect. I invited him over.
An hour later he walked into Nott Cott, where he hadn’t been since Meg first moved in. He looked piping hot. It was early evening.
I offered him a drink, asked about his family.
Everyone good.
He didn’t ask about mine. He just went all in. Chips to the center of the table. Meg’s difficult, he said.
Oh, really?
She’s rude. She’s abrasive. She’s alienated half the staff.
Not the first time he’d parroted the press narrative. Duchess Difficult, all that bullshit. Rumors, lies from his team, tabloid rubbish, and I told him so—again.
Told him I expected better from my older brother. I was shocked to see that this actually pissed him off. Had he come here expecting something different? Did he think I’d agree that my bride was a monster? I
told him to step back, take a breath, really ask himself: Wasn’t Meg his sister-in-law? Wouldn’t this institution be toxic for any newcomer? Worst-case scenario, if his sister-in-law was having trouble adjusting to a new office, a new family, a new country, a new culture, couldn’t he see his way clear to cutting her some slack? Couldn’t you just be there for her? Help her?
He had no interest in a debate. He’d come to lay down the law. He wanted me to agree that Meg was wrong and then agree to do something about it. Like what? Scold her? Fire her? Divorce her? I didn’t know.
But Willy didn’t know either, he wasn’t rational. Every time I tried to slow him down, point out the illogic of what he was saying, he got louder. We were soon talking over each other, both of us shouting. Among all the different, riotous emotions coursing through my brother that afternoon, one really jumped out at me. He seemed aggrieved. He seemed put upon that I wasn’t meekly obeying him, that I was being so impertinent as to deny him, or defy him, to refute his knowledge, which came from his trusted aides.
There was a script here and I had the audacity not to be following it.
He was in full Heir mode, and couldn’t fathom why I wasn’t dutifully playing the role of the Spare.
I was sitting on the sofa, he was standing over me.
I remember saying: You need to hear me out, Willy.
He wouldn’t. He simply would not listen.
To be fair, he felt the same about me.
He called me names. All kinds of names. He said I refused to take responsibility for what was happening. He said I didn’t care about my office and the people who worked for me. Willy, give me one example of—
He cut me off, said he was trying to help me.
Are you serious? Help me? Sorry—is that what you call this? Helping me?
For some reason, that really set him off. He stepped towards me, swearing. To that point I’d been feeling uncomfortable, but now I felt a bit scared. I stood, brushed past him, went out to the kitchen, to the sink.
He was right on my heels, berating me, shouting. I poured a glass of water for myself, and one for him as well. I handed it to him. I don’t think he took a sip.
Willy, I can’t speak to you when you’re like this.
He set down the water, called me another name, then came at me. It all happened so fast. So very fast. He grabbed me by the collar, ripping my necklace, and he knocked me to the floor. I landed on the dogs’ bowl, which cracked under my back, the pieces cutting into me. I lay there for a moment, dazed, then got to my feet and told him to get out.
Come on, hit me! You’ll feel better if you hit me!
Do what?
Come on, we always used to fight. You’ll feel better if you hit me.
No, only you’ll feel better if I hit you.
Please…just leave.
He left the kitchen, but he didn’t leave Nott Cott. He was in the sitting room, I could tell. I stayed in the kitchen. Two minutes passed, two long minutes. He came back looking regretful and apologized. He walked to the front door. This time I followed. Before leaving he turned and called back: You don’t need to tell Meg about this.
You mean that you attacked me?
I didn’t attack you, Harold.
Fine. I won’t tell her.
Good, thank you.
He left. I looked at the phone. A promise is a promise, I told myself, so I couldn’t call my wife, much as I wanted to. But I needed to talk to someone.
So I rang my therapist. Thank God she answered. I apologized for the intrusion, told her I didn’t know who else to call. I told her I’d had a fight with Willy, he’d knocked me to the floor. I looked down and told her that my shirt was ripped, my necklace was broken. We’d had a million physical fights in our lives, I told her. As boys we’d done nothing but fight. But this felt different. The therapist told me to take deep breaths. She asked me to describe the scene several times. Each time I did it seemed more like a bad dream. And made me a bit calmer. I told her: I’m proud of myself. Proud, Harry? Why’s that? I didn’t hit him back. I stayed true to my word, didn’t tell Meg. But not long after she returned from her trip, she saw me coming out of the shower and gasped. Haz, what are those scrapes and bruises on your back? I couldn’t lie to her. She wasn’t that surprised, and she wasn’t at all angry. She was terribly sad.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

He is truly an idiot isn’t he?

 

[The Tipsy Titian]

Think we need a break from this shitshow.
And breathe........

 

[LadyMuck]

Within hours the boats arrived.
An invasion by sea. Each boat bristled with telephoto lenses, arrayed like guns along the decks, and every lens was aimed at our windows. At our boy. So much for playing in the gardens.
We grabbed Archie, pulled him into the house.
They shot through the kitchen windows during his feeds.
We pulled down the blinds.
The next time we drove into town, there were forty paps along the route. Forty. We counted. Some gave chase. At our favorite little general store, a plaintive sign now hung in the window: No Media. We hurried back to the house, pulled the blinds even tighter, returned to a kind of permanent twilight. Meg said she’d officially come full circle. Back in Canada, afraid to raise the blinds.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

No photos though eh H. No evidence

 

[EnjoyingTheShow]

That didn't take long. The book is circulating on social media for free already

WhatsApp users share Prince Harry's incendiary memoir Spare for free

EXCLUSIVE: MailOnline can exclusively reveal that a rogue copy of the Duke of Sussex's bombshell memoir, which contains salacious details about the royals, is being shared on WhatsApp.

www.dailymail.co.uk

The naughty sods over at Mail are of course, encouraging everyone to download it for free. It must be so much fun to be working there at the moment!

 

[LadyMuck]

 

[ploddertoo]

The bright studio lighting is playing havoc with Harry's hair
View attachment 1873550

Still Willy’s fault, he probably set up studio lighting

 

[tartandog86]

Harry complains about press intrusion yet (as well as courting it constantly), by slagging off other members of the RF he forces them into the spotlight. Catherine is normally left to get on with her life but now she's being papped because the newspapers want to see a reaction.

 

[LadyMuck]

When Smegz does her book, I bet she will say there were 3 of us in this marriage. Her, H and Diana's ghost

 

[CELESTE CROCKETT]

I WOKE TO a text from Jason.
Bad news.
What is it now?
The Mail on Sunday had printed the private letter Meg had written to her father. The letter that Granny and Pa urged her to write.
February 2019.
I was in bed, Meg was lying next to me, still asleep. I waited a bit, then broke the news to her softly.
Your father’s given your letter to the Mail.
No.
Meg, I don’t know what to say, he’s given them your letter.
That moment, for me, was decisive. About Mr. Markle, but also about the press. There had been so many moments, but that for me was The One. I didn’t want to hear any more talk of protocols, tradition, strategy. Enough, I thought. Enough.
The paper knew it was illegal to publish that letter, they knew full well, and did it anyway. Why? Because they also knew Meg was defenseless. They knew she didn’t have the staunch support of my family, and how else could they have known this, except from people close to the family? Or inside the family?
There was nothing in that letter to be ashamed about. A daughter pleading with her father to behave decently? Meg stood by every word. She’d always known it might be intercepted, that one of her father’s neighbors, or one of the paps staking out his house, might steal his post. Anything was possible. But she never stopped to think her father would actually offer it, or that a paper would actually take it—and print it.
And edit it. Indeed, that might have been the most galling thing, the way the editors cut and pasted Meg’s words to make them sound less loving.
But the pain was compounded tenfold by the simultaneous interviews with alleged handwriting experts, who analyzed Meg’s letter and inferred from the way she crossed her Ts or curved her Rs that she was a terrible person.
Rightward slant? Over-emotional.
Highly stylized? Consummate performer.
Uneven baseline? No impulse control.
The look on Meg’s face as I told her about these libels rolling out…I knew my way around grief, and there was no mistaking it—this was pure grief. She was mourning the loss of her father, and she was also mourning the loss of her own innocence. She reminded me in a whisper, as if someone might be listening, that she’d taken a handwriting class in high school, and as a result she’d always had excellent penmanship. People complimented her. She’d even used this skill at university to earn spare money. Nights, weekends, she’d inscribed wedding and birthday-party invitations, to pay the rent. Now people were trying to say that this was some kind of window into her soul? And the window was dirty?
Meg wanted to sue. Me too. Rather, we both felt we had no choice. If we didn’t sue over this, we said, what kind of signal would that be sending? To the press? To the world? So we conferred again with the Palace lawyer. We were given a runaround.
I reached out to Pa and Willy. They’d both sued the press in the past over invasions and lies.
Pa sued over so-called Black Spider Letters, his memos to government officials. Willy sued over topless photos of Kate. But both vehemently opposed the idea of Meg and me taking any legal action. Why? I asked. They hummed and hahed. The only answer I could get out of them was that it simply wasn’t advisable. The done thing, etc.
I told Meg: You’d think we were suing a dear friend of theirs.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

MAYBE if he'd bothered to meet her dad like normal people do this couldve been avoided

 

[goldshoes]

None of this is going to end well for him, the drugs, the paranoia, her control, his obsession with her, his hatred for everything but not actually knowing what he hates them for, the constant use of Diana's death (although he only cried once - probably because he was closer to Tiggy Legge-Burke than his mom), Charles and Camilla, his jealousy of William, the list is endless and quite worrying. He has nobody out there who genuinely cares for his health. He's a money-pit but once the well's run dry he'll be tossed aside by her without a backwards glance, guaranteed that she'll go on to make more money selling her 'life was terrifying' with Harry the Nutter story to the highest bidder whilst having that sly smirk on her face... I have no sympathy for him, he's brought this upon himself but he's tarnished the RF and us Brits as being vile people. The sooner we stop reporting on him the better.

He really has fallen among thieves and can't see that he is just being exploited . I don't care a bit as he is the author of his own misfortune and he has traduced this country and insulted its peoples and I hope no-one ever forgives him. I certainly shan't.

 

[Kezzle1]

Er did they review their own book? Notice blue tick

I mean it's probably not them but funny all the same

 

[Madge2022]

Here it is folks, the infamous necklace which William allegedly broke.
"It's got my kids heartbeats on it (engraved cardiograms) and a friend of mine in Botswana made this piece, a tiger's eye"
View attachment 1873622

I can now sleep tonight knowing all is well in the world.

 

[LadyMuck]

 

[Autisteuse]

Struggling to keep up but enjoying reading everything you are all saying. This book really is all because the family, the ‘institution’ and the media didn’t think Meghan was as amazing or as likeable as Harry thinks she is. Sorry that people were made to feel uncomfortable by crass comments she probably made or pointed, inappropriate questions she may have asked across the dinner table, god forbid some don’t see her as the Oscar winner clearly Harry thinks she should be. Also sounds like the fakest birth story I’ve ever heard!!
I was watching the Kardashian documentary and they legitimately have paps hounding them, Britney did… but I’ve never seen pap pics of Megan other than those clearly staged ones and mainly in America. There is a desperate need on Harry’s part to blame everything and anything on the ‘press’ and anyone else. It’s getting so old now- fed up of reading all this moaning. Kate and wills come across as 19th century villains in a melodrama with all this ‘Harold’ and ‘willy’.

I found it really telling that he demanded everyone see how much like Diana Meghan was and, when nobody confirmed it, felt as if he had been betrayed. What everyone else saw - and I don’t blame him in this; I’ve survived a toxic narcissist too - is that she metamorphosed into a mother figure in order to infantalise him and a come-hither siren to entrap him.

 

[Anna2020]

I HAD A LONG TEA WITH GRANNY, just before she left for Balmoral. I gave her a recap, all the latest.
She knew a bit, but I was filling in important gaps.
She looked shocked. Appalling, she said.
She vowed to send the Bee to talk to us.
I’d spent my life dealing with courtiers, scores of them, but now I dealt mostly with just three, all middle-aged white men who’d managed to consolidate power through a series of bold Machiavellian maneuvers.
They had normal names, exceedingly British names, but they sort more easily into zoological categories. The Bee. The Fly. And the Wasp.
The Bee was oval-faced and fuzzy and tended to glide around with great equanimity and poise, as if he was a boon to all living things. He was so poised that people didn’t fear him. Big mistake. Sometimes their last mistake.
The Fly had spent much of his career adjacent to, and indeed drawn to, shit. The offal of government, and media, the wormy entrails, he loved it, grew fat on it, rubbed his hands in glee over it, though he pretended otherwise. He strove to give off an air of casualness, of being above the fray, coolly efficient and ever helpful.
The Wasp was lanky, charming, arrogant, a ball of jazzy energy. He was great at pretending to be polite, even servile. You’d assert a fact, something seemingly incontrovertible—I believe the sun rises in the mornings—and he’d stammer that perchance you might consider for a moment the possibility that you’d been misinformed: Well, heh-heh, I don’t know about that, Your Royal Highness, you see, it all depends what you mean by mornings, sir. Because he seemed so weedy, so self-effacing, you might be tempted to push back, insist on your point, and that was when he’d put you on his list. A short time later, without warning, he’d give you such a stab with his outsized stinger that you’d cry out in confusion. Where the fuck did that come from? I disliked these men, and they didn’t have any use for me. They considered me irrelevant at best, stupid at worst. Above all, they knew how I saw them: as usurpers. Deep down, I feared that each man felt himself to be the One True Monarch, that each was taking advantage of a Queen in her nineties, enjoying his influential position while merely appearing to serve.
I’d come to this conclusion through cold hard experience.
For instance, Meg and I had consulted with the Wasp about the press, and he’d agreed that the situation was abominable, that it needed to be stopped before someone got hurt.
Yes! You’ll get no argument from us on that!
He suggested the Palace convene a summit of all the major editors, make our case to them.
Finally, I said to Meg, someone gets it.
We never heard from him again.
So I was skeptical when Granny offered to send us the Bee. But I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time would be different, because this time Granny was dispatching him personally.
Days later, Meg and I welcomed the Bee into Frogmore, made him comfortable in our new sitting room, offered him a glass of rosé, gave a detailed presentation. He took meticulous notes, frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. He’d seen the headlines, he said, but he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple. This deluge of hate and lies was unprecedented in British history, he said. Disproportionate to anything I’ve ever seen.
Thank you, we said. Thank you for seeing it. He promised to discuss the matter with all the necessary parties and get back to us soon with an action plan, a set of concrete solutions.
We never heard from him again.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex

 

[Professor Yaffle]

You don't walk out of a hospital 2 hours after an epidural. Unless it wasn't your epidural.

Nail, Head >>>> Whack!!

The poor surrogate was probably still in recovery.