That's their careers over
That's their careers overI 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.
This sounds abit foreboding.
I'm making a mental note to avoid those therapists.
He is truly an idiot isn’t he?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.
And all during this time you were writing your shite book, trashing the Queen’s family.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.
BIB - I was thinking the same thing.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.
Bollocks to kids meeting the Queen. Never happenedFor days and days we couldn’t stop hugging the children, couldn’t let them out of our sight—though I also couldn’t stop picturing them with Granny. The final visit. Archie making deep, chivalrous bows, his baby sister Lilibet cuddling the monarch’s shins.
Sweetest children, Granny said, sounding bemused. S
he’d expected them to be a bit more…American, I think? Meaning, in her mind, more rambunctious.
Now, while overjoyed to be home again, doing drop-offs again, reading Giraffes Can’t Dance again, I couldn’t stop…remembering.
Day and night, images flitted through my mind. Standing before her during my passing-out parade, shoulders thrown back, catching her half smile. Stationed beside her on the balcony, saying something that caught her off guard and made her, despite the solemnity of the occasion, laugh out loud. Leaning into her ear, so many times, smelling her perfume as I whispered a joke.
Kissing both cheeks at one public event, just recently, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling how frail she was becoming.
Making a silly video for the first Invictus Games, discovering that she was a natural comedienne.
People around the world howled, and said they’d never suspected she possessed such a wicked sense of humor—but she did, she always did!
That was one of our little secrets.
In fact, in every photo of us, whenever we’re exchanging a glance, making solid eye contact, it’s clear: We had secrets. Special relationship, that’s what they said about us, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about the specialness that would no longer be.
The visits that wouldn’t take place.
Ah well, I told myself, that’s just the deal, isn’t it?
That’s life.
Still, as with so many partings, I just wished there’d been…one more goodbye.
Soon after our return, a hummingbird got into the house. I had a devil of a time guiding it out, and the thought occurred that maybe we should start shutting the doors, despite those heavenly ocean breezes.
Then a mate said: Could be a sign, you know?
Some cultures see hummingbirds as spirits, he said. Visitors, as it were. Aztecs thought them reincarnated warriors. Spanish explorers called them “resurrection birds.”
You don’t say? I did some reading and learned that not only are hummingbirds visitors, they’re voyagers.
The lightest birds on the planet, and the fastest, they travel vast distances—from Mexican winter homes to Alaskan nesting grounds.
Whenever you see a hummingbird, what you’re actually seeing is a tiny, glittering Odysseus.
So, naturally, when this hummingbird arrived, and swooped around our kitchen, and flitted through the sacred airspace we call Lili Land, where we’ve set the baby’s playpen with all her toys and stuffed animals, I thought hopefully, greedily, foolishly:
Is our house a detour—or a destination?
For half a second I was tempted to let the hummingbird be. Let it stay.
But no.
Gently I used Archie’s fishing net to scoop it from the ceiling, carry it outside.
Its legs felt like eyelashes, its wings like flower petals.
With cupped palms I set the hummingbird gently on a wall in the sun.
Goodbye, my friend.
But it just lay there.
Motionless.
No, I thought.
No, not that. Come on, come on.
You’re free. Fly away.
And then, against all odds, and all expectations, that wonderful, magical little creature bestirred itself, and did just that.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
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.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.
Last sentence is the best !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
I can now sleep tonight knowing all is well in the world.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
Here we go again “prohibited from learning independence”, because in your late 30s nothing is ever his fault. TosseLATE AT NIGHT, WITH everyone asleep, I’d walk the house, checking the doors and windows.
Then I’d sit on the balcony or the edge of the garden and roll a joint.
The house looked down onto a valley, across a hillside thick with frogs. I’d listen to their late-night song, smell the flower-scented air.
The frogs, the smells, the trees, the big starry sky, it all brought me back to Botswana. But maybe it’s not just the flora and fauna, I thought.
Maybe it’s more the feeling of safety. Of life. We were able to get a lot of work done. And we had a lot of work to do.
We launched a foundation, I reconnected with my contacts in world conservation.
Things were getting under control…and then the press somehow learned we were at Tyler’s.
It had taken six weeks exactly, same as Canada.
Suddenly there were drones overhead, paps across the street. Paps across the valley. They cut the fence. We patched the fence. We stopped venturing outside. The garden was in full view of the paps. Next came the helicopters. Sadly, we were going to have to flee.
We’d need to find somewhere new, and soon, and that would mean paying for our own security.
I went back to my notebooks, started contacting security firms again.
Meg and I sat down to work out exactly how much security we could afford, and how much house.
Exactly then, while we were revising our budget, word came down: Pa was cutting me off.
I recognized the absurdity, a man in his mid-thirties being financially cut off by his father.
But Pa wasn’t merely my father, he was my boss, my banker, my comptroller, keeper of the purse strings throughout my adult life. Cutting me off therefore meant firing me, without redundancy pay, and casting me into the void after a lifetime of service. More, after a lifetime of rendering me otherwise unemployable. I felt fatted for the slaughter. Suckled like a veal calf.
I’d never asked to be financially dependent on Pa.
I’d been forced into this surreal state, this unending Truman Show in which I almost never carried money, never owned a car, never carried a house key, never once ordered anything online, never received a single box from Amazon, almost never traveled on the Underground. (Once, at Eton, on a theater trip.)
Sponge, the papers called me. But there’s a big difference between being a sponge and being prohibited from learning independence.
After decades of being rigorously and systematically infantilized, I was now abruptly abandoned, and mocked for being immature?
For not standing on my own two feet?
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. We saw that money as belonging to Archie. And his sibling.
It was then that we learned Meg was pregnant.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
Hang on, where all these The End actually in the book? Now it makes sense why all the quotes had them, I thought it just was a copy and paste job from elsewhere. Or I'm old and remember telegrams.Last sentence is the best !
In no universe did Harold actually have the thought that “each man felt himself to be the One True Monarch”. He doesn’t have the intellectual ability to come up with such a concept and totally lacks the empathy required to be worried about anyone who isn’t himself, or possibly Meghan.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.
Maybe KC will be tarnished in the fallout but I don't think the POW would. He doesn't really have any control until he's King.If the scandalous stories about to break are true, then maybe the “predictions” from “fortune tellers” will come true. Maybe it will all prove too much for KC and he will only rule for 5 years. Perhaps the throne won’t go to Wills and the “unexpected heir” will be Edward ? We’ve seen an awful lot of Sophie since the Queen died, and she did seem to be close to The Queen. Doesn’t appear to be much scandal in that branch of the family.
If I was the RF then I’d want as far away from this mess as possible.
Isn’t the Archewell staff now down to just Smeg and Harold? So, one of them wrote this cringey congratulatory post.Oh the cringe...
View attachment 1873860
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?
We use cookies and similar technologies for the following purposes:
Do you accept cookies and these technologies?