What was everything, Harold?
If she means you, why are you spoken of in past tense?
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If she means you, why are you spoken of in past tense?
a piece of string… and not the Crown JewelsIt's now fixed? Like everyone was hanging on his every word, desperate to know that.
Oh, the drama!
It's a bit of string. Not the Crown Jewels.
… equally apply to the necklace or his frostbitten “todger” 
What a bunch of lickspittles!
Tell me, am I alone in being extremely irritated by the so-called writing style this rubbish has been released in?
Its just a collection of bullet points, ie
* I said to Megan.............................
* Granny told me................
* I cried...................
* Blah-de-blah-blah..................
You'd think with his education he could manage somewhat better than this childish nonsense
Bet she couldn't believe her luck bloody awful woman
Of all the things that didn't happen, this didn't happen the most.
Apart from anything else, I don’t know what he is saying.
If he is not happy being Royal, then relinquish everything to do with it, including titles, never speak of it again and go and live your best life.
Funnily enough, I don’t think this is on the cards.They will dine out on the connection for years to come.Probably another memoir( hers), more interviews etc.More whining.
I cannot wait for the day that America gets sick of them.They may have millions, but it will not be enough for the life they want to live.
Deprived of love as a boy? Another dig at the Queen
I am so cringed out, I've never felt so British in my life! Get a bleeping grip you big wuss, apply your stiff upper lip. Or, as they say in the theatre (which Smegz probably doesnt know) "tits and teeth dear, tits and teeth!" AKA, just smile and get on with it.
Pulled together a deposit..hes joking right
13 suitcases .....riiiiigghhht
I HATE IT.What a bunch of lickspittles!
Tell me, am I alone in being extremely irritated by the so-called writing style this rubbish has been released in?
Its just a collection of bullet points, ie
* I said to Megan.............................
* Granny told me................
* I cried...................
* Blah-de-blah-blah..................
You'd think with his education he could manage somewhat better than this childish nonsense
Why can't he use a quotation mark or two? How are we mere peasants lacking in his education meant to realise whether the four words on a new line are his thought or what someone else allegedly said?
It burns my eyes!
The next few days were given over to a whirlwind work trip.
Manchester, Dusseldorf, then back to London for the WellChild Awards.
But that day—September 8, 2022—a call came in around lunchtime.
Unknown number. Hello?
It was Pa. Granny’s health had taken a turn.
She was up at Balmoral, of course. Those beautiful, melancholy late-summer days.
He hung up—he had many other calls to make—and I immediately texted Willy to ask whether he and Kate were flying up. If so, when? And how?
No response.
Meg and I looked at flight options.
The press started phoning; we couldn’t delay a decision any longer.
We told our team to confirm: We’d be missing the WellChild Awards and hurrying up to Scotland.
Then came another call from Pa. He said I was welcome at Balmoral, but he didn’t want…her.
He started to lay out his reason, which was nonsensical, and disrespectful, and I wasn’t having it.
Don’t ever speak about my wife that way.
He stammered, apologetic, saying he simply didn’t want a lot of people around. No other wives were coming, Kate wasn’t coming, he said, therefore Meg shouldn’t.
Then that’s all you needed to say.
By now it was midafternoon; no more commercial flights that day to Aberdeen.
And I still had no response from Willy.
My only option, therefore, was a charter out of Luton. I was on board two hours later.
I spent much of the flight staring at the clouds, replaying the last time I’d spoken with Granny. Four days earlier, long chat on the phone. We’d touched on many topics. Her health, of course. The turmoil at Number 10. The Braemar Games—she was sorry about not being well enough to attend. We talked also about the biblical drought. The lawn at Frogmore, where Meg and I were staying, was in terrible shape.
Looks like the top of my head, Granny! Balding and brown in patches.
She laughed.
I told her to take care, I looked forward to seeing her soon.
As the plane began its descent, my phone lit up. A text from Meg. Call me the moment you get this.
I checked the BBC website.
Granny was gone.
Pa was King.
I put on my black tie, walked off the plane into a thick mist, sped in a borrowed car to Balmoral. As I pulled through the front gates it was wetter, and pitch-dark, which made the white flashes from the dozens of cameras that much more blinding. Hunched against the cold, I hurried into the foyer.
Aunt Anne was there to greet me. I hugged her.
Where’s Pa and Willy? And Camilla? Gone to Birkhall, she said.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Manchester, Dusseldorf, then back to London for the WellChild Awards.
But that day—September 8, 2022—a call came in around lunchtime.
Unknown number. Hello?
It was Pa. Granny’s health had taken a turn.
She was up at Balmoral, of course. Those beautiful, melancholy late-summer days.
He hung up—he had many other calls to make—and I immediately texted Willy to ask whether he and Kate were flying up. If so, when? And how?
No response.
Meg and I looked at flight options.
The press started phoning; we couldn’t delay a decision any longer.
We told our team to confirm: We’d be missing the WellChild Awards and hurrying up to Scotland.
Then came another call from Pa. He said I was welcome at Balmoral, but he didn’t want…her.
He started to lay out his reason, which was nonsensical, and disrespectful, and I wasn’t having it.
Don’t ever speak about my wife that way.
He stammered, apologetic, saying he simply didn’t want a lot of people around. No other wives were coming, Kate wasn’t coming, he said, therefore Meg shouldn’t.
Then that’s all you needed to say.
By now it was midafternoon; no more commercial flights that day to Aberdeen.
And I still had no response from Willy.
My only option, therefore, was a charter out of Luton. I was on board two hours later.
I spent much of the flight staring at the clouds, replaying the last time I’d spoken with Granny. Four days earlier, long chat on the phone. We’d touched on many topics. Her health, of course. The turmoil at Number 10. The Braemar Games—she was sorry about not being well enough to attend. We talked also about the biblical drought. The lawn at Frogmore, where Meg and I were staying, was in terrible shape.
Looks like the top of my head, Granny! Balding and brown in patches.
She laughed.
I told her to take care, I looked forward to seeing her soon.
As the plane began its descent, my phone lit up. A text from Meg. Call me the moment you get this.
I checked the BBC website.
Granny was gone.
Pa was King.
I put on my black tie, walked off the plane into a thick mist, sped in a borrowed car to Balmoral. As I pulled through the front gates it was wetter, and pitch-dark, which made the white flashes from the dozens of cameras that much more blinding. Hunched against the cold, I hurried into the foyer.
Aunt Anne was there to greet me. I hugged her.
Where’s Pa and Willy? And Camilla? Gone to Birkhall, she said.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
He forgot the Indian burial ground Windsor Castle was built on --- they're heeeere......
Right, I'm already 19 pages behind, but I've saved some more articles in the Wiki:
And I've managed to save and clip the Dan Wootton show from last night, and save the Tom Bower drugs and Doria clip, which is now in the Media Gallery, along with the Late Show last night, both in the Spare folder:
Spare
- Spare - Interviews, under the heading The Late Show - scroll down a bit to see them
And I've managed to save and clip the Dan Wootton show from last night, and save the Tom Bower drugs and Doria clip, which is now in the Media Gallery, along with the Late Show last night, both in the Spare folder:
Spare
He’ll come out in a few years when it all goes tits up with the marriage and say he doesn’t even remember writing the book, that he was struggling with addiction and mental issues and the media took advantage of him.
She asked if I wanted to see Granny.
Yes…I do.
She led me upstairs, to Granny’s bedroom.
I braced myself, went in. The room was dimly lit, unfamiliar—I’d been inside it only once in my life.
I moved ahead uncertainly, and there she was.
I stood, frozen, staring. I stared and stared. It was difficult, but I kept on, thinking how I’d regretted not seeing my mother at the end.
Years of lamenting that lack of proof, postponing my grief for want of proof.
Now I thought: Proof. Careful what you wish for.
I whispered to her that I hoped she was happy, that I hoped she was with Grandpa. I said that I was in awe of her carrying out her duties to the last. The Jubilee, the welcoming of a new prime minister.
On her ninetieth birthday my father had given a touching tribute, quoting Shakespeare on Elizabeth I: …no day without a deed to crown it. Ever true.
I left the room, went back along the corridor, across the tartan carpet, past the statue of Queen Victoria. Your Majesty.
I rang Meg, told her I’d made it, that I was OK, then walked into the sitting room and ate dinner with most of my family, though still no Pa, Willy, or Camilla.
Towards the end of the meal, I braced myself for the bagpipes. But out of respect for Granny there was nothing. An eerie silence. The hour getting late, everyone drifted off to their rooms, except me. I went on a wander, up and down the stairs, the halls, ending up at the nursery. The old-fashioned basins, the tub, everything the same as it had been twenty-five years ago.
I passed most of the night time-traveling in my thoughts while trying to make actual travel arrangements on my phone.
The quickest way back would’ve been a lift with Pa or Willy…
Barring that, it was British Airways, departing Balmoral at daybreak.
I bought a seat and was among the first to board.
Soon after settling into a front row, I sensed a presence on my right. Deepest sympathies, said a fellow passenger before heading down the aisle. Thank you. Moments later, another presence. Condolences, Harry. Thanks…very much. Most passengers stopped to offer a kind word, and I felt a deep kinship with them all.
Our country, I thought.
Our Queen.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Yes…I do.
She led me upstairs, to Granny’s bedroom.
I braced myself, went in. The room was dimly lit, unfamiliar—I’d been inside it only once in my life.
I moved ahead uncertainly, and there she was.
I stood, frozen, staring. I stared and stared. It was difficult, but I kept on, thinking how I’d regretted not seeing my mother at the end.
Years of lamenting that lack of proof, postponing my grief for want of proof.
Now I thought: Proof. Careful what you wish for.
I whispered to her that I hoped she was happy, that I hoped she was with Grandpa. I said that I was in awe of her carrying out her duties to the last. The Jubilee, the welcoming of a new prime minister.
On her ninetieth birthday my father had given a touching tribute, quoting Shakespeare on Elizabeth I: …no day without a deed to crown it. Ever true.
I left the room, went back along the corridor, across the tartan carpet, past the statue of Queen Victoria. Your Majesty.
I rang Meg, told her I’d made it, that I was OK, then walked into the sitting room and ate dinner with most of my family, though still no Pa, Willy, or Camilla.
Towards the end of the meal, I braced myself for the bagpipes. But out of respect for Granny there was nothing. An eerie silence. The hour getting late, everyone drifted off to their rooms, except me. I went on a wander, up and down the stairs, the halls, ending up at the nursery. The old-fashioned basins, the tub, everything the same as it had been twenty-five years ago.
I passed most of the night time-traveling in my thoughts while trying to make actual travel arrangements on my phone.
The quickest way back would’ve been a lift with Pa or Willy…
Barring that, it was British Airways, departing Balmoral at daybreak.
I bought a seat and was among the first to board.
Soon after settling into a front row, I sensed a presence on my right. Deepest sympathies, said a fellow passenger before heading down the aisle. Thank you. Moments later, another presence. Condolences, Harry. Thanks…very much. Most passengers stopped to offer a kind word, and I felt a deep kinship with them all.
Our country, I thought.
Our Queen.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Poor William. He genuinely seemed to care for the spoilt brat.
Meg greeted me at the front door of Frogmore with a long embrace, which I desperately needed.
We sat down with a glass of water and a calendar.
Our quick trip would now be an odyssey. Another ten days, at least.
Difficult days at that.
More, we’d have to be away from the children for longer than we’d planned, longer than we’d ever been.
When the funeral finally took place, Willy and I, barely exchanging a word, took our familiar places, set off on our familiar journey, behind yet another coffin draped in the Royal Standard, sitting atop another horse-pulled gun carriage.
Same route, same sights—though this time, unlike at previous funerals, we were shoulder to shoulder.
Also, music was playing. When we got to St. George’s Chapel, amid the roar of dozens of bagpipes, I thought of all the big occasions I’d experienced under that roof. Grandpa’s farewell, my wedding. Even the ordinary times, simple Easter Sundays, felt especially poignant, the whole family alive and together. Suddenly I was wiping my eyes.
Why now? I wondered.
Why?
The following afternoon Meg and I left for America.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
We sat down with a glass of water and a calendar.
Our quick trip would now be an odyssey. Another ten days, at least.
Difficult days at that.
More, we’d have to be away from the children for longer than we’d planned, longer than we’d ever been.
When the funeral finally took place, Willy and I, barely exchanging a word, took our familiar places, set off on our familiar journey, behind yet another coffin draped in the Royal Standard, sitting atop another horse-pulled gun carriage.
Same route, same sights—though this time, unlike at previous funerals, we were shoulder to shoulder.
Also, music was playing. When we got to St. George’s Chapel, amid the roar of dozens of bagpipes, I thought of all the big occasions I’d experienced under that roof. Grandpa’s farewell, my wedding. Even the ordinary times, simple Easter Sundays, felt especially poignant, the whole family alive and together. Suddenly I was wiping my eyes.
Why now? I wondered.
Why?
The following afternoon Meg and I left for America.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Shame he hadn't seen fit to go and see TQ while she was still alive despite numerous invites
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.
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