Yeah, but when you know no one else will...
Yeah, but when you know no one else will...Lovely to send congratulations to yourself
Thank you @Anna2020I RANG GRANNY TO TELL her beforehand.
Pa too. And I sent Willy a text.
I also told the Bee, giving him advance notice of the lawsuit, letting him know we had a statement ready to go, asking him to please redirect to our office all the press inquiries it would inevitably trigger.
He wished us luck!
It was amusing, therefore, when I heard that he and the Wasp were claiming to have had no advance warning.
In announcing the lawsuit I laid out my case to the world: My wife has become one of the latest victims of a British tabloid press that wages campaigns against individuals with no thought to the consequences—a ruthless campaign that has escalated over the past year, throughout her pregnancy and while raising our newborn son…I cannot begin to describe how painful it has been…Though this action may not be the safe one, it is the right one. Because my deepest fear is history repeating itself…I lost my mother and now I watch my wife falling victim to the same powerful forces.
The lawsuit wasn’t covered as widely as, say, Meg’s daring to shut her own car door. In fact, it was barely covered at all.
Nonetheless, friends took note. Many texted: Why now?
Simple. In a few days the privacy laws in Britain were going to change in the tabloids’ favor. We wanted our case to be heard before a crooked bat was introduced into the game.
Friends also asked: Why sue at all when you’re riding so high in the press? The South Africa tour was a triumph, coverage was wildly positive.
That’s the whole point, I explained. This isn’t about wanting or needing good press. It’s about not letting people get away with abuse. And lies. Especially the kind of lies that can destroy innocents. Maybe I sounded a bit self-righteous.
Maybe I sounded as if I was on my high horse.
But shortly after announcing our lawsuit I felt energized by a ghastly story in the Express.
How Meghan Markle’s flowers may have put Princess Charlotte’s life at risk. This latest “scandal” concerned the flower crowns worn by our bridesmaids, more than a year earlier. Included in the crowns were a few lilies of the valley, which can be poisonous to children. Provided the children eat the lilies. Even then, the reaction would be discomfort, concerning to parents, but only in the rarest cases would such a thing be fatal.
Never mind that an official florist put together these crowns.
Never mind that it wasn’t Meg who made this “dangerous decision.”
Never mind that previous royal brides, including Kate and my mother, had also used lilies of the valley.
Never mind all that.
The story of Meghan the Murderess was just too good. An accompanying photo showed my poor little niece wearing her crown, face contorted in a paroxysm of agony, or a sneeze. Alongside this photo was a shot of Meg looking sublimely unconcerned about the imminent death of this angelic child.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
OMG - make it stopThe painting thing. OMFG.
The fuck is that. All the pieces coming together now………
Im behind because I’ve been at work, not sure if this has been posted….
Im just like, what the fuck?
Is this actually put of the book ? Or a piss take ? Its written so weirdDORIA 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.
In fact, this:-Oh the cringe...
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No, it doesn't actually say 'The End' in the book!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.
What I find baffling is if they didn’t intend to imply the British RF were rascist, but the press misrepresented that, why didn’t H&M correct that awful error with a public statement.I hadn't seen that TK Maxx had contradicted him! Love it!! (Us plebs obvs knew, but great the horses mouth told him!)
His backers look like they are getting to work on twitter....
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I agree - it is odd. We all know that TW does nothing without a plan....the question is what she's planning.I’m a little unnerved by her silence/ not being papped going to the late show filming with him etc I must admit, I can’t decide whether it’s for optics that this is his thing so he wants to do everything regarding Spare on his own, or is something else afoot! I’d say maybe she was busy being mother whilst he was “working” but I can’t even stifle the laughter typing that out. It’s all just a bit iffy again for me.
Thanks for askingI had to do a timed test which I just got finished in time. Not sure how well I did as it was difficult to get it all done in the time allocated. If I pass the test then I'll be offered an interview.
Yes it is in the book. Yet another thing I laughed at. As if they can just demand she gives birth because the press wanted her to?! He's a bloody nut case.Is this actually put of the book ? Or a piss take ? Its written so weird
HeroYep well done @Anna2020 thank you
Thank you for your service!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.
Thank you again @Anna2020MEG AND I ATTENDED the WellChild Awards, an annual event that honored children suffering from serious illnesses.
October 2019.
I’d attended many times through the years, having been a royal patron of the organization since 2007, and it was always gutting. The children were so brave, their parents so proud—and tortured. Various awards were given that night for inspiration, fortitude, and I was presenting one to an especially resilient preschooler.
I walked onstage, began my brief remarks, and caught sight of Meg’s face. I thought back to a year ago, when she and I attended this event just weeks after taking that home pregnancy test. We’d been filled with hope, and worry, like all expectant parents, and now we had a healthy little boy at home. But these parents and children hadn’t been so lucky.
Gratitude and sympathy converged in my heart, and I choked up. Unable to get the words out, I held the lectern tight and leaned forward. The presenter, who’d been a friend of my mother, stepped over and gave my shoulder a rub. It helped, as did the burst of applause, which gave me a moment to restart my vocal cords.
Soon after, I got a text from Willy. He was in Pakistan on tour. He said I was clearly struggling, and he was worried about me.
I thanked him for his concern, assured him I was fine. I’d become emotional in front of a roomful of sick kids and their folks just after becoming a father myself—nothing abnormal in that.
He said I wasn’t well. He said again that I needed help.
I reminded him that I was doing therapy. In fact, he’d recently told me he wanted to accompany me to a session because he suspected I was being “brainwashed.”
Then come, I said. It will be good for you. Good for us.
He never came.
His strategy was patently obvious: I was unwell, which meant I was unwise.
As if all my behavior needed to be called into question. I worked hard at keeping my texts to him civil.
Nonetheless, the exchange turned into an argument, which stretched over seventy-two hours. Back and forth we went, all day, late into the night—we’d never had a fight like that over text before.
Angry, but also miles apart, as if we were speaking different languages.
Now and then I realized that my worst fear was coming true: after months of therapy, after working hard to become more aware, more independent, I was a stranger to my older brother. He could no longer relate to me—tolerate me.
Or maybe it was just the stress of the last few years, the last few decades, finally pouring out.
I saved the texts. I have them still. I read them sometimes, with sadness, with confusion, thinking: How did we ever get there?
In his final texts, Willy wrote that he loved me. That he cared for me deeply. That he would do whatever is needed to help me. He told me to never feel any other way.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
He's seriously mental , I just thought they were narcissists and entitled before but what the hell ?! And the bit about sparing his dad's life he's unhinged.Yes it is in the book. Yet another thing I laughed at. As if they can just demand she gives birth because the press wanted her to?! He's a bloody nut case.
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