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

[VicksterIcon]

I RANG GRANNY on January 3.
We’re coming back to Britain, I said. We’d love to see you. I told her explicitly that we hoped to discuss with her our plan to create a different working arrangement.
She wasn’t pleased. Neither was she shocked. She knew how unhappy we were, she’d seen this day on the horizon. One good chat with my grandmother, I felt, would bring this ordeal to an end.
I said: Granny, are you free?
Yes, of course! I’m free all week. The diary is clear.
That’s great. Meg and I can come up for tea and then drive back to London. We have an engagement at Canada House the next day.
You’ll be exhausted from the travel. Do you want to stay here?
By “here” she meant Sandringham.
Yes, that would be easier, and I told her so.
That would be lovely, thank you. Are you planning to see your father too?
I asked, but he said it’s impossible. He’s in Scotland and can’t leave until the end of the month.
She made a little sound. A sigh or a knowing grunt.
I had to laugh.
She said: I have only one thing to say about that.
Yes?
Your father always does what he wants to do.
Days later, January 5, as Meg and I boarded a flight in Vancouver, I got a frantic note from our staff, who’d received a frantic note from the Bee. Granny wouldn’t be able to see me.
Initially Her Majesty thought this would be possible, it will not…The Duke of Sussex cannot come to Norfolk tomorrow.
Her Majesty will be able to arrange another mtg this month.
No announcements about anything shall be issued until such a meeting takes place.
I said to Meg: They’re blocking me from seeing my own grandmother.
When we landed I considered driving straight to Sandringham anyway. To hell with the Bee. Who was he to try to block me?
I imagined our car being stopped at the gate by Palace police. I imagined smashing past security, the gate snapping across the bonnet. Diverting fantasy, and a fun way to spend the trip from the airport, but no. I’d have to bide my time.
When we reached Frogmore I rang Granny again.
I imagined the phone ringing on her desk. I could actually hear it in my mind, brrrang, like the red phone in the VHR tent. Troops in Contact!
Then I heard her voice.
Hello?
Hi, Granny, it’s Harry. Sorry, I must have misunderstood you the other day when you said you didn’t have anything going on today.
Something came up that I wasn’t aware of. Her voice was strange.
Can I pop in tomorrow then, Granny?
Um. Well. I’m busy all week. At least, she added, that was what the Bee told her…
Is he in the room with you, Granny?
No answer.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

I'll just remind you of my post from late December..... it was this that I was told was complete BS.

 

[Blessmyheart]

Speaking of taking things personally, I told them I might learn to endure the press, and even forgive their abuse, I might, but my own family’s complicity—that was going to take longer to get over. Pa’s office, Willy’s office, enabling these fiends, if not outright collaborating?
Meg was apparently a bully—that was the latest vicious campaign they’d helped orchestrate.
It was so shocking, so egregious, that even after Meg and I demolished their lie with a twenty-five-page, evidence-filled report to Human Resources, I was going to have trouble simply shrugging that one off.
Pa stepped back. Willy shook his head.
They began talking over each other.
We’ve been down this road a hundred times, they said. You’re delusional, Harry.
But they were the delusional ones.
Even if, for the sake of argument, I accepted that Pa and Willy and their staff had never done one overt thing against me or my wife—their silence was an undeniable fact. And that silence was damning. And continuing. And heartrending.
Pa said:
You must understand, darling boy, the Institution can’t just tell the media what to do!
Again, I yelped with laughter.
It was like Pa saying he couldn’t just tell his valet what to do.
Willy said I was a fine one to talk about cooperating with the press. What about my chat with Oprah?
A month earlier Meg and I had done an interview with Oprah Winfrey. (Days before it aired, those Meg-is-a-bully stories started popping up in the papers—what a coincidence!)
Since leaving Britain, the attacks on us had been increasing exponentially. We had to try something to make it stop. Being silent wasn’t working. It was only making it worse. We felt we had no choice.
Several close mates and beloved figures in my life, including one of Hugh and Emilie’s sons, Emilie herself, and even Tiggy, had chastised me for Oprah. How could you reveal such things? About your family?
I told them that I failed to see how speaking to Oprah was any different from what my family and their staffs, had done for decades—briefing the press on the sly, planting stories. And what about the endless books on which they’d cooperated, starting with Pa’s 1994 crypto-autobiography with Jonathan Dimbleby? Or Camilla’s collaborations with the editor Geordie Greig? The only difference was that Meg and I were upfront about it. We chose an interviewer who was above reproach, and we didn’t once hide behind phrases like “Palace sources,” we let people see the words coming out of our mouths.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

I hope the money from this book keeps his little snake soul warm.

 

[Anna2020]

I looked at the Gothic ruin.
What’s the point? I thought. Pa and Willy weren’t hearing me and I wasn’t hearing them.
They’d never had a satisfactory explanation for their actions and inactions, and never would, because there was no explanation.
I started to say goodbye, good luck, take care, but Willy was really steaming, shouting that if things were as bad as I made out, then it was my fault for never asking for help.
You never came to us! You never came to me! Since boyhood that had been Willy’s position on everything. I must come to him.
Pointedly, directly, formally—bend the knee.
Otherwise, no aid from the Heir.
I wondered why I should have to ask my brother to help when my wife and I were in peril.
If we were being mauled by a bear, and he saw, would he wait for us to ask for help?
I mentioned the Sandringham Agreement.
I’d asked for his help about that, when the agreement was violated, shredded, when we were stripped of everything, and he hadn’t lifted a finger.
That was Granny! Take it up with Granny!
I waved a hand, disgusted, but he lunged, grabbed my shirt.
Listen to me, Harold.
I pulled away, refused to meet his gaze.
He forced me to look into his eyes.
Listen to me, Harold, listen! I love you, Harold! I want you to be happy.
The words flew out of my mouth: I love you too…but your stubbornness…is extraordinary!
And yours isn’t?
I pulled away again.
He grabbed me again, twisting me to maintain eye contact.
Harold, you must listen to me! I just want you to be happy, Harold. I swear….I swear on Mummy’s life.
He stopped.
I stopped.
Pa stopped.
He’d gone there. He’d used the secret code, the universal password. Ever since we were boys those three words were to be used only in times of extreme crisis. On Mummy’s life.
For nearly twenty-five years we’d reserved that soul-crushing vow for times when one of us needed to be heard, to be believed, quickly.
For times when nothing else would do.
It stopped me cold, as it was meant to.
Not because he’d used it, but because it didn’t work. I simply didn’t believe him, didn’t fully trust him.
And vice versa. He saw it too.
He saw that we were in a place of such hurt and doubt that even those sacred words couldn’t set us free.
How lost we are, I thought.
How far we’ve strayed.
How much damage has been done to our love, our bond, and why?
All because a dreadful mob of dweebs and crones and cut-rate criminals and clinically diagnosable sadists along Fleet Street feel the need to get their jollies and plump their profits—and work out their personal issues—by tormenting one very large, very ancient, very dysfunctional family.
Willy wasn’t quite ready to accept defeat. I’ve felt properly sick and ill after everything that’s happened and—and…
I swear to you now on Mummy’s life that I just want you to be happy.
My voice broke as I told him softly: I really don’t think you do.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[Kezzle1]

Oh the cringe...

 

[elliebee27]

Oh the cringe...
View attachment 1873860

Water out my nose. Meghan's navel gazing writing!

 

[wisebutwild]

Maybe he's too young to remember the anti-drugs campaign "Just Say No"! I have no sympathy for his drug-addled arse, I know addiction is a terrible thing, and you have to want the help to overcome it, but honestly with him I just cant go there.

If he had the help and support of a family he might eventually overcome his drug habit, but he hasn't. If the MIL and TW are drug users then he is just the bank to supply the money for their habit. From what is written in the book it looks like Wills tried to help him see sense on more than one occasion but he didn't want it or is/was too drugged up to realise that is what he needs. Without any close friends, or family now, to tell him what a fool he is making of himself he is out on a limb and will carry on like this for the foreseeable future.
As you say you have want the help to overcome it and, at the moment, he seems to be enjoying life and all the attention he is getting. He has become 'top dog', the most talked about and interviewed member of the RF, everybody is interested in him and not his brother, he is high on the drugs, the adrenaline, the fame. He is lapping this up and there will be no way he wants this to change.

 

[Kitten Heels]

If the rumours are to be believed, and they are going to get realised to the public, maybe TRF will strike a deal with the tabloids?
Sacrifice Harry but keep the damage to them at a minimum.
Whatever happens it won't end well for Harry or TRF if it's true.

 

[Anna2020]

Our lives were built on death, our brightest days shadowed by it. Looking back, I didn’t see spots of time, but dances with death. I saw how we steeped ourselves in it. We christened and crowned, graduated and married, passed out and passed over our beloveds’ bones. Windsor Castle itself was a tomb, the walls filled with ancestors. The Tower of London was held together with the blood of animals, used by the original builders a thousand years ago to temper the mortar between the bricks. Outsiders called us a cult, but maybe we were a death cult, and wasn’t that a little bit more depraved? Even after laying Grandpa to rest, had we not had our fill?

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[triesherbest]

But…
I snorted.
There was always a but with him when it came to the press, because he hated their hate, but oh how he loved their love.

such a bleeping hypocrite

 

[Sunlifeover50]

I hope the money from this book keeps his little snake soul warm.

Well if his security alone is $6m and he’s got a huge mortgage then expect a couple of repeats on U.K. Gold of all this in 2029

 

[Nuttynana]

Wasnt there some birds who were dead behind the eyes too?

yes the fabled Oozlum bird who flew around and around in never decreasing circles to disappear up it's own hole

 

[Macmama]

The doctor gave Meg a small hand mirror.
I tried not to look, but I had to.
I glanced, saw a reflection of the baby’s head emerging. Stuck. Tangled. Oh, no, please, no.
The doctor looked up, her mouth set in a particular way. Things were getting serious.
I said to Meg: My love, I need you to push. I didn’t tell her why. I didn’t tell her about the cord, didn’t tell her about the likelihood of an emergency C-section.
Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.

Shite. Utter shite. If baby’s head is there, with cord around the neck, you’re not going for a c-section. They’ll loop it over once the head’s born, and baby will magically be fine. Drama for absolutely no reason.

Also, Meghan wouldn’t have been able to move her legs properly two hours after an epidural. More shite.

 

[Yorkie99]

“Make no mistake, it’s an insult,” cried the Daily Mail, which convened a “Fleet Street jury” to consider our “crimes.”
Among them was the Queen’s ex–press secretary, who concluded, with his fellow jurors, that we should hereafter “expect no mercy.”
I shook my head. No mercy. The language of war?
Clearly this was more than simple anger.
These men and women saw me as an existential threat.
If our leaving posed a threat to the monarchy, as some were saying, then it posed a threat to all those covering the monarchy for a living.

Hence, we had to be destroyed.

One of this lot, who’d written a book about me and thus provably depended on me to pay her rent, went on live TV to explain confidently that Meg and I had departed from Britain without so much as a by-your-leave to Granny.
We’d discussed it with no one, she said, not even Pa.
She announced these falsehoods with such unfaltering certainty that even I was tempted to believe her, and thus her version of events quickly became “the truth” in many circles.
Harry blindsided the Queen!
That was the narrative that took hold.
I could feel it oozing into history books, and I could imagine boys and girls at Ludgrove, decades hence, having that hogwash rammed down their throats.
I sat up late, brooding on it all, going over the progression of events and asking myself: What’s the matter with these people? What makes them like this?

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

He's so deluded whilst also having that massive chip on his shoulder. No-one will know who is is/was in a few decades. It wasn't an abdication, FFS.

 

[goldshoes]

What hair? Looks like he’s retrieved a wad of hair from the hairbrush and put it on top of his head

He is the natural successor to Andrew 'Brillo Pad' Neil

 

[Anna2020]

IT WAS SLIGHTLY EASIER this time.
Maybe because we were an ocean away from the old chaos and stress.
When the big day came we were both surer, calmer—steadier.
What bliss, we said, not having to worry about timing, protocols, journalists at the front gate.
We drove calmly, sanely to the hospital, where our bodyguards once again fed us. This time they brought burgers and fries from In-N-Out. And fajitas from a local Mexican restaurant for Meg. We ate and ate and then did the Baby Mama dance around the hospital room.
Nothing but joy and love in that room.
Still, after many hours Meg asked the doctor: When?
Soon. We’re close.
This time I didn’t touch the laughing gas. (Because there was none.)
I was fully present. I was with Meg through every push. When the doctor said it was a matter of minutes, I told Meg that I wanted mine to be the first face our little girl saw. We knew we were having a daughter.
Meg nodded, squeezed my hand. I went and stood beside the doctor.
We both crouched. As if about to pray.
The doctor called out: The head is crowning. Crowning, I thought. Incredible.
The skin was blue. I worried the baby wasn’t getting enough air. Is she choking?
I looked at Meg. One more push, my love! We’re so close.
Here, here, here, the doctor said, guiding my hands, right here.
A scream, then a moment of pure liquid silence.
It wasn’t, as sometimes happens, that past and future were suddenly one.
It was that the past didn’t matter, and the future didn’t exist.
There was only this intense present, and then the doctor turned to me and shouted: Now!
I slid my hands under the tiny back and neck. Gently, but firmly, as I’d seen in films, I pulled our precious daughter from that world into this, and cradled her just a moment, trying to smile at her, to see her, but honestly, I couldn’t see anything.
I wanted to say: Hello.
I wanted to say: Where have you come from?
I wanted to say: Is it better there?
Is it peaceful? Are you frightened? Don’t be, don’t be, all will be well. I’ll keep you safe.
I surrendered her to Meg. Skin to skin, the nurse said.
Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment.
Really?
Really.
She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared.
-I read them as a love poem. I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows. I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation. I read them as a decree.
She said: That was everything.
She said: That is a man. My love.
She said: That is not a Spare.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[CELESTE CROCKETT]

Shite. Utter shite. If baby’s head is there, with cord around the neck, you’re not going for a c-section. They’ll loop it over once the head’s born, and baby will magically be fine. Drama for absolutely no reason.

Also, Meghan wouldn’t have been able to move her legs properly two hours after an epidural. More shite.

As an ex midwife i can catagorically state that if this is the case you STOP PUSHING and breathe.....good grief

 

[Nuttynana]

Ahhhh Ffs cannot make this tit up can you. He thinks he's Dr Doolittle

And he does, lying,leeching,layabout,lecherous,laborious,lampoon.

 

[elliebee27]

In the US you are not allowed to eat in labor (I think we are the only country that does this). Smacks of nonsense.

'That is not a spare, that is my man, my love' I can't it reads like a 12 year old writing in her diary with hearts over the i's.

 

[Anna2020]

I HELPED MEG INTO THE BOAT. It wobbled, but I quick-stepped to the middle, got it righted in time.
As she found a seat in the stern, I took up the oars. They didn’t work. We’re stuck. The thick mud of the shallows had us in its grip.
Uncle Charles came down to the water’s edge, gave us a little shove. We waved to him, and to my two aunts.
Bye. See you in a bit.
Gliding across the pond, I gazed around at Althorp’s rolling fields and ancient trees, the thousands of green acres where my mother grew up, and where, though things weren’t perfect, she’d known some peace.
Minutes later we reached the island and gingerly stepped onto the shore.
I led Meg up the path, around a hedge, through the labyrinth. There it was, looming: the grayish white oval stone.
No visit to this place was ever easy, but this one… Twenty-fifth anniversary. And Meg’s first time. At long last I was bringing the girl of my dreams home to meet mum.
We hesitated, hugging, and then I went first. I placed flowers on the grave.
Meg gave me a moment, and I spoke to my mother in my head, told her I missed her, asked her for guidance and clarity.
Feeling that Meg might also want a moment, I went around the hedge, scanned the pond.
When I came back, Meg was kneeling, eyes shut, palms against the stone. I asked, as we walked back to the boat, what she’d prayed for. Clarity, she said. And guidance.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[CELESTE CROCKETT]

IT WAS SLIGHTLY EASIER this time.
Maybe because we were an ocean away from the old chaos and stress.
When the big day came we were both surer, calmer—steadier.
What bliss, we said, not having to worry about timing, protocols, journalists at the front gate.
We drove calmly, sanely to the hospital, where our bodyguards once again fed us. This time they brought burgers and fries from In-N-Out. And fajitas from a local Mexican restaurant for Meg. We ate and ate and then did the Baby Mama dance around the hospital room.
Nothing but joy and love in that room.
Still, after many hours Meg asked the doctor: When?
Soon. We’re close.
This time I didn’t touch the laughing gas. (Because there was none.)
I was fully present. I was with Meg through every push. When the doctor said it was a matter of minutes, I told Meg that I wanted mine to be the first face our little girl saw. We knew we were having a daughter.
Meg nodded, squeezed my hand. I went and stood beside the doctor.
We both crouched. As if about to pray.
The doctor called out: The head is crowning. Crowning, I thought. Incredible.
The skin was blue. I worried the baby wasn’t getting enough air. Is she choking?
I looked at Meg. One more push, my love! We’re so close.
Here, here, here, the doctor said, guiding my hands, right here.
A scream, then a moment of pure liquid silence.
It wasn’t, as sometimes happens, that past and future were suddenly one.
It was that the past didn’t matter, and the future didn’t exist.
There was only this intense present, and then the doctor turned to me and shouted: Now!
I slid my hands under the tiny back and neck. Gently, but firmly, as I’d seen in films, I pulled our precious daughter from that world into this, and cradled her just a moment, trying to smile at her, to see her, but honestly, I couldn’t see anything.
I wanted to say: Hello.
I wanted to say: Where have you come from?
I wanted to say: Is it better there?
Is it peaceful? Are you frightened? Don’t be, don’t be, all will be well. I’ll keep you safe.
I surrendered her to Meg. Skin to skin, the nurse said.
Later, after we’d brought her home, after we’d settled into all the new rhythms of a family of four, Meg and I were skin to skin and she said: I’ve never been more in love with you than in that moment.
Really?
Really.
She jotted some thoughts in a kind of journal. Which she shared.
-I read them as a love poem. I read them as a testament, a renewal of our vows. I read them as a citation, a remembrance, a proclamation. I read them as a decree.
She said: That was everything.
She said: That is a man. My love.
She said: That is not a Spare.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

Babies generally dont scream until the cord is cut
And you dont PULL BABIES OUT christ