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

[Churchill's Ghost]

So all that cheering for him was added later? Shocked, shocked I tell you!

So, Charles is always befuddled and undermining his sons, and William is always in a rage, and Meghan is always sobbing/weeping/collapsing…got it

 

[Anna2020]

Thank you to all the professionals, medical experts, and coaches for keeping me physically and mentally strong over the years.
Dr. Lesley Parkinson,
Dr. Ben Carraway and Kevin Lidlow, and also Ross Barr, Jessie Blum, Dr. Kevin English, Winston Squire, Esther Lee, John Amaral, and Peter Charles.
Also Kasey, Eric Goodman, and the two Petes.
Special thanks to my U.K. therapist for helping unravel years of unresolved trauma.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex. Spare

Finally THE END

 

[Anna2020]

Now that I've finally read the book, I think it's time to say what I think about it.
The book has 3 parts:
Part 1 Out of the Night That Covers Me
Part 2 Bloody, but Unbowed
Part 3 Captain of My Soul
The first part describes the period between the death of his mother and February 2007.
The second part mostly describes events from the army, but also the period after that, that is, until July 2016.
The third part begins when he sees the most beautiful woman ever on Instagram until the death of Queen Elizabeth.
While reading this book, I somehow got the impression that each part was written by a different person.
Especially the part where he describes how he and the perfect woman met, fell in love and married.

 

[Weeder]

Drivel excerpt (thanks Anna2022):

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.

So…. Charles sues over Govt matters, William sues over invasive nude photos, and Harry wants to sue over TW’s handwriting!!!!

Firstly that handwriting sends me in to a rage. My grandfather was skilled at calligraphy. I have birthday cards from the 80s which look like print , they're so perfect. Calligraphy is not fucking swirly swirls and affectation. Her handwriting is terrible. Childish, faux creative bollox. Took a handwriting class in high school .....he's so easily impressed. I'm thinking she did a cursive course and added her own thing and she is so fucking Dunning-Kruger it's become the best calligraphy ever.

Also, to help me out of my calligraphy induced rage and back to sheer incredulity, he wanted to sue. Her ego knows no bounds. Her fashion taste is shit too..do you think she'll sue for that? What about her failure to blend her bronzer ?

 

[Autisteuse]

DORIA WAS STAYING with us, waiting for the baby to come.
Neither she nor Meg ever strayed far. None of us did. We all just sat around waiting, going for the occasional walk, looking at the cows.
When Meg was a week past her due date, the comms team and the Palace began pressuring me. When’s the baby coming? The press can’t wait forever, you know. Oh. The press is getting frustrated? Heaven forbid! Meg’s doctor had tried several homeopathic ways to get things moving, but our little visitor was just intent on staying put.
We got into a nondescript people-carrier and crept away from Frogmore without alerting any of the journalists stationed at the gates. It was the last sort of vehicle they suspected we’d be riding in. A short time later we arrived at the Portland Hospital and were spirited into a secret lift, then into a private room.
Our doctor walked in, talked it through with us, and said it was time to induce.
Meg was so calm. I was calm too.
But I saw two ways of enhancing my calm. One: Nando’s chicken. (Brought by our bodyguards.) Two: A canister of laughing gas beside Meg’s bed. I took several slow, penetrating hits. Meg, bouncing on a giant purple ball, a proven way of giving Nature a push, laughed and rolled her eyes. I took several more hits and now I was bouncing too.
When her contractions began to quicken, and deepen, a nurse came and tried to give some laughing gas to Meg. There was none left. The nurse looked at the tank, looked at me, and I could see the thought slowly dawning: Gracious, the husband’s had it all.
Sorry, I said meekly.
Meg laughed, the nurse had to laugh, and quickly changed the canister.
Meg climbed into a bath, I turned on soothing music.
In our overnight bag we had the same electric candles I’d arranged in the garden the night I proposed. Now I placed them around the hospital room. I also set a framed photo of my mother on a little table. Meg’s idea.
Time passed. Hour melted into hour. Minimal dilation. Meg was doing a lot of deep breathing for pain.
Then the deep breathing stopped working.
She was in so much pain that she needed an epidural. The anesthetist hurried in.
Off went the music, on went the lights. Whoa. Vibe change. He gave her an injection at the base of her spine. Still the pain didn’t let up. The medicine apparently wasn’t getting where it needed to go. He came back, did it again. Now things both quietened and accelerated.
Her doctor came back two hours later, slipped both hands into a pair of rubber gloves.
This is it, everybody. I stationed myself at the head of the bed, holding Meg’s hand, encouraging her.
Push, my love. Breathe.
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.
I just said: Give me everything you’ve got. And she did.
I saw the little face, the tiny neck and chest and arms, wriggling, writhing. Life, life—amazing! I thought, Wow, it really all begins with a struggle for freedom. A nurse swept the baby into a towel and placed him on Meg’s chest and we both cried to see him, meet him. A healthy little boy, and he was here. Our ayurvedic doctor had advised us that, in the first minute of life, a baby absorbs everything said to them. So whisper to the baby, tell the baby your wish for him, your love. Tell. We told.
I don’t remember phoning anyone, texting them. I remember watching the nurses run tests on my hour-old son, and then we were out of there. Into the lift, into the underground car park, into the people-carrier, and gone.
Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.
After a few hours I was standing outside the stables at Windsor, telling the world: It’s a boy.
Days later we announced the name to the world. Archie.
The papers were incensed. They said we’d pulled a fast one on them. Indeed we had. They felt that, in doing so, we’d been…bad partners?
Astonishing. Did they still think of us as partners? Did they really expect special consideration, preferential treatment—given how they’d treated us these last three years? And then they showed the world what kind of “partners” they really were. A BBC radio presenter posted a photo on his social media—a man and a woman holding hands with a chimpanzee. The caption read: Royal baby leaves hospital.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

“ I also set a framed photo of my mother on a little table. Meg’s idea.”
Dear God. She really has infantilised him, trapped him and parentified herself, hasn’t she? I actually find this incredibly disturbing - it’s like 550 pages of Stockholm Syndrome. When she starts degrading him in preparation for dumping him, he’s going to need to be sectioned. I’m not taking the piss, here - I do think he’ll absolutely implode, and it will be horrible to watch.

 

[Yel]

Bit in bold from bbc news review sounds like a good thread title

This must be the strangest book ever written by a royal.

Prince Harry's memoir, Spare, is part confession, part rant and part love letter. In places it feels like the longest angry drunk text ever sent.

Spare review: The weirdest book ever written by a royal

Prince Harry's book, with sex, drugs and monarchy, reaches parts never seen before in a royal memoir.

www.bbc.co.uk

 

[VioletButterfly]

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

 

[karma4klattie]

I don’t know about anyone else but I don’t give a toss what colour Meghan is, she could be green and red with blue stripes for all I care, it's her, as an individual I don’t like.

If you know her type you recognise her type and many do but…….…many don’t.

She ambushed a weak man with incipient mental problems and a notable position and has manipulated him until he doesn’t know which way is up. Sadly this circus has still got a lot of mileage in it and there’ll be no let-up in the crap for years to come.

 

[Lady_H]

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.

You’re doing God’s work here @Anna2020 thank you!

It’s been discussed ad nauseam, but I think William comes over so well here. The ghostwriters did a decent job with that early dialogue. You can sense his deep concern and sense of helplessness. Sad.

 

[Kezzle1]

The question of how to pay for a home and security kept Meg and me awake at nights.
We could always spend some of my inheritance from Mummy, we said, but that felt like a last resort

WTAF??? Why on earth would your inheritance be a last resort to spend?? Talk about first world fucking problems, I just cannot even express how I feel about this comment

 

[9Pine]

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.

Anna, you are doing God’s work here, even though I did initially think that these posts were your very clever, humorous interpretations of Harold’s story. I’m still gob-smacked in both what this book contains and the way it’s written. I couldn’t cringe more if I tried. I bet even the folk he acknowledged in the book are mortified to have been thanked by this utter cretin.

 

[LadyMuck]

For those who missed it last night

 

[Milliemoo99]

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.

I think perhaps this should be compared to the stories that came out about Thomas and the letter at the time, and against the court case with the MOS!!

No mention of the leak in People magazine....wasnt Harold aware of this leak of the letter?

Nothing about how Megsie sent copies to Jason Knauf, to check if it was ok...nothing about her Fathers heart attack, and the cruel text exchange......

This book has to be a parody.....a parody of the truth, written by someone with absolutely no sense of humour!

 

[Tabbytha]

This is the weirdest part of the book for me
They are in Tyler Perry house.
In the front hall was a painting he (Archie) found especially interesting.
He started every day locked on to it. A scene from ancient Rome. We asked each other why. No clue.
Not long after those first steps Archie went marching up to his favorite painting in the front hall.
He stared at it, made a gurgle of recognition. Meg leaned in for a closer look.
She noticed, for the first time, a nameplate on the frame.
Goddess of the hunt. Diana.

I'm delurking and making my first post just to say Jesus fucking Christ to this

 

[lizaon35]

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.

As an Irish person I don’t believe he has tarnished the brits at all. He has done a lot of damage to himself. He is the vile one

 

[planetmirth]

I’m a little miffed….

I became a VIP last night and no one noticed ( I didn’t !) . Wouldn’t have been worth mentioning , Who can compete with ‘ fox from the future ‘ or Elizabeth Hardon 8 Hour cream ???

You could get me a gift to make up for it….I would like a Glock in A Box of Hair…..Thank you

 

[Anna2020]

For @Anna2020
An award for your services above the call of duty.
You read the shite so we didn't have to and you brought the contents of it here for everyone to discuss.


View attachment 1874581

Ty Chita
I am surrounded by world leaders, humanitarians and activists that I had such a deep and long-standing respect and admiration for.
And I was invited to pull up a seat at the Tatle, Harry and Meghan thread. I was so overwhelmed by this experience.
I think I even saved my little paper place card that said my name on it...
Because the truth was I wasn't sure that I belonged.
I was so nervous...
But Tatlers saw in me what I wanted to see fully in myself. They saw in me, just as I see in you, the present and the future

"LEFT EYE, ONE TEAR"

 

[I Should Know Better]

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.

Harold still doesn't get it - no one, absolutely no one, ever took advantage of HMTQ. What a tool this man-child is.

 

[hayezmysteries]

He isnt right in the head is he. Everything is always someone else’s fault & he feels like the world should idolise Meghan like he does. He is coming across as such a bitter entitled idiot, it honestly makes my blood boil. He needs to get in the real world and have real problems not these ones that all made up in his head. The way that book is written is awful, so over the top in every single little detail…it’s like Meghan is surrounding with tweeting birds, Bambi and cute bunnies like a Disney princess while the rest of the RF are the villains surrounded by fire & black smoke! And no offensive to anyone but the way he refers to his mum as mummy gives the ick

 

[Doc]

Thank you Anna, you’re a marvel

So in summary:- he’s a deluded, mentally unwell manchild obsessed with “the Press” even though most people don’t read papers now or give a shit about royal exploits. He’s being gaslit by his wife, who quite probably framed the whole relationship to self service, and clearly wrote herself as some kind of divine, sage protagonist throughout the whole book.

Rather than written as overbearing and regimented as intended, the RF and particularly Willy strike me as thinking Harold is in serious need of mental help and have covered his arse for years (which Sparey Spice has come to think is somehow owed to him).

He’s sick, damaged and dangerous and I really hope he fucks off for good now with his equally sick Hollywood creepy and decadent cronies.