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

LadyMuck said:

I'm still gobsmacked at watching Tom Bower's revelations on gb news last night that H has been a drug addict for 25 years, is still using and that Doria was a drug dealer! That's why her and,TM split up. And that she was missing for 10 years but legally he can't say anymore about that.

He's an experienced lawyer himself. Can't wait for other journos to pick this up

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Gerry o said:

I can’t understand why then has this not been in any papers before now especially in those rag mags in the US very weird kinda hard to believe really it needs to be fact checked!

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Anna2020 said:

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.

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Anna2020 said:

MEG AND I MOVED our office into Buckingham Palace. We also moved into a new home. Frogmore was ready. We loved that place. From the first minute. It felt as if we were destined to live there.
We couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning, go for a long walk in the gardens, check in with the swans. Especially grumpy Steve. We met the Queen’s gardeners, got to know their names and the names of all the flowers. They thrilled at how much we appreciated, and praised, their artistry.
Towards the end of April 2019, days before Meg was due to give birth, Willy rang.
Something had happened between him and Pa and Camilla. I couldn’t get the whole story, he was talking too fast, and was way too upset.
He was seething actually. I gathered that Pa and Camilla’s people had planted a story or stories about him and Kate, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Give Pa and Camilla an inch, he said, they take a mile.
They’ve done this to me for the last time.
I got it. They’d done the same to me and Meg as well.
But it wasn’t them, technically, it was the most gung-ho member of Pa’s comms team, a true believer who’d devised and launched a new campaign of getting good press for Pa and Camilla at the expense of bad press for us. For some time this person had been peddling unflattering stories, fake stories, about the Heir and Spare, to all the papers
I suspected that this person had been the lone source for stories about a hunting trip I’d made to Germany in 2017, stories that made me out
to be some fat-bottomed seventeenth-century baron who craved blood and trophies, when in reality I was working with German farmers to cull wild boar and save their crops.
I believed the story had been offered as a straight swap, in exchange for greater access to Pa, and also as a reward for the suppression of stories about Camilla’s son, who’d been gadding around London, generating tawdry rumors. I was displeased about being used like this, and livid about it being done to Meg, but I had to admit it was happening much more often lately to Willy.
And he was justifiably incandescent. He’d already confronted Pa once about this woman, face-to-face. I’d gone along for moral support. The scene took place at Clarence House, in Pa’s study. I remember the windows being wide open, the white curtains blowing in and out, so it must’ve been a warm night.
Willy put it to Pa: How can you be letting a stranger do this to your sons?
Pa instantly got upset.
He began shouting that Willy was paranoid. We both were. Just because we were getting bad press, and he was getting good, that didn’t mean his staff was behind it.
But we had proof. Reporters, inside actual newsrooms, assuring us that this woman was selling us out.
Pa refused to listen. His response was churlish, pathetic. Granny has her person, why can’t I have mine? By Granny’s person he meant Angela. Among the many services she performed for Granny, she was said to be skilled at planting stories.
What a rubbish comparison, Willy said. Why would anyone in their right mind, let alone a grown man, want their own Angela?
But Pa just kept saying it. Granny had her person, Granny had her person. High time he had a person too.
I was glad that Willy felt he could still come to me about Pa and Camilla, even after all we’d been through recently. Seeing an opportunity to address our recent tensions, I tried to connect what Pa and Camilla had done to him with what the press had done to Meg.
Willy snapped: I’ve got different issues with you two!
In a blink he shifted all his rage onto me. I can’t recall his exact words, because I was beyond tired from all our fighting, to say nothing of the recent move into Frogmore, and into new offices—and I was focused on the imminent birth of our first child. But I recall every physical detail of the scene. The daffodils out, the new grass sprouting, a jet taking off from Heathrow, heading west, unusually low, its engines making my chest vibrate. I remember thinking how remarkable that I could still hear Willy above that jet.
I couldn’t imagine how he had that much anger left after the confrontation in Nott Cott. He was going on and on and I lost the thread. I couldn’t understand and I stopped trying. I fell silent, waiting for him to subside.
Then I looked back. Meg was coming from the house, directly towards me. I quickly took the phone off speaker, but she’d already heard. And Willy was being so loud, even with the speaker off, she could still hear. The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine. I started to say something, but she stopped, shook her head. Holding her stomach, she turned and walked back to the house.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

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LadyMuck said:

I'm still gobsmacked at watching Tom Bower's revelations on gb news last night that H has been a drug addict for 25 years, is still using and that Doria was a drug dealer! That's why her and,TM split up. And that she was missing for 10 years but legally he can't say anymore about that.

He's an experienced lawyer himself. Can't wait for other journos to pick this up

Click to expand...

Anna2020 said:

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.

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Anna2020 said:

MEG AND I MOVED our office into Buckingham Palace. We also moved into a new home. Frogmore was ready. We loved that place. From the first minute. It felt as if we were destined to live there.
We couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning, go for a long walk in the gardens, check in with the swans. Especially grumpy Steve. We met the Queen’s gardeners, got to know their names and the names of all the flowers. They thrilled at how much we appreciated, and praised, their artistry.
Towards the end of April 2019, days before Meg was due to give birth, Willy rang.
Something had happened between him and Pa and Camilla. I couldn’t get the whole story, he was talking too fast, and was way too upset.
He was seething actually. I gathered that Pa and Camilla’s people had planted a story or stories about him and Kate, and the kids, and he wasn’t going to take it anymore. Give Pa and Camilla an inch, he said, they take a mile.
They’ve done this to me for the last time.
I got it. They’d done the same to me and Meg as well.
But it wasn’t them, technically, it was the most gung-ho member of Pa’s comms team, a true believer who’d devised and launched a new campaign of getting good press for Pa and Camilla at the expense of bad press for us. For some time this person had been peddling unflattering stories, fake stories, about the Heir and Spare, to all the papers
I suspected that this person had been the lone source for stories about a hunting trip I’d made to Germany in 2017, stories that made me out
to be some fat-bottomed seventeenth-century baron who craved blood and trophies, when in reality I was working with German farmers to cull wild boar and save their crops.
I believed the story had been offered as a straight swap, in exchange for greater access to Pa, and also as a reward for the suppression of stories about Camilla’s son, who’d been gadding around London, generating tawdry rumors. I was displeased about being used like this, and livid about it being done to Meg, but I had to admit it was happening much more often lately to Willy.
And he was justifiably incandescent. He’d already confronted Pa once about this woman, face-to-face. I’d gone along for moral support. The scene took place at Clarence House, in Pa’s study. I remember the windows being wide open, the white curtains blowing in and out, so it must’ve been a warm night.
Willy put it to Pa: How can you be letting a stranger do this to your sons?
Pa instantly got upset.
He began shouting that Willy was paranoid. We both were. Just because we were getting bad press, and he was getting good, that didn’t mean his staff was behind it.
But we had proof. Reporters, inside actual newsrooms, assuring us that this woman was selling us out.
Pa refused to listen. His response was churlish, pathetic. Granny has her person, why can’t I have mine? By Granny’s person he meant Angela. Among the many services she performed for Granny, she was said to be skilled at planting stories.
What a rubbish comparison, Willy said. Why would anyone in their right mind, let alone a grown man, want their own Angela?
But Pa just kept saying it. Granny had her person, Granny had her person. High time he had a person too.
I was glad that Willy felt he could still come to me about Pa and Camilla, even after all we’d been through recently. Seeing an opportunity to address our recent tensions, I tried to connect what Pa and Camilla had done to him with what the press had done to Meg.
Willy snapped: I’ve got different issues with you two!
In a blink he shifted all his rage onto me. I can’t recall his exact words, because I was beyond tired from all our fighting, to say nothing of the recent move into Frogmore, and into new offices—and I was focused on the imminent birth of our first child. But I recall every physical detail of the scene. The daffodils out, the new grass sprouting, a jet taking off from Heathrow, heading west, unusually low, its engines making my chest vibrate. I remember thinking how remarkable that I could still hear Willy above that jet.
I couldn’t imagine how he had that much anger left after the confrontation in Nott Cott. He was going on and on and I lost the thread. I couldn’t understand and I stopped trying. I fell silent, waiting for him to subside.
Then I looked back. Meg was coming from the house, directly towards me. I quickly took the phone off speaker, but she’d already heard. And Willy was being so loud, even with the speaker off, she could still hear. The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine. I started to say something, but she stopped, shook her head. Holding her stomach, she turned and walked back to the house.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

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Yupitsme!! said:

You know this will peak soon, then it will be free fall into oblivion, they can't keep moaning about family, the ace up the witches sleeve is divorce and she can keep it up for years. But Harry can't.

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StSaturnindeLucian said:

I am surprised they even had gravy- isn't it so terribly British? Might have given her food poisoning...

Looking at the whole picture and all the accusations of racism etc.

They're now denying the RF is racist. However Harry himself has been racist on many occasions, but has also displaying shocking contempt for his own country.
The Sugars sites are hideous about Britain and how racist and backwards it is. Glass houses or what...

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