TRG. The Spare PR machine is working hard.
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So weird. Does Colbert always offer his guests cocktails?Stephen Colbert asks "Would you like a cocktail before we begin?" and Harry enthusiastically responds
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ingenious thread titleThanks to @Churchill's Ghost for the new thread title. Im posting new thread then will edit later with recap!
old thread here
Harry and Meghan #298 The half price Prince
BIB This is exactly why the RF adopt the never complain never explain policy. It would take scores of people to answer every single negative story in the press. Plus answering them generates more column inches - as evidenced by this book. It seems it is by far the best policy to ignore things...tattle.life
The fallout continues from the book. @JAR21has been religiously recording all the bits and bobs in the wiki.
if you’re new to the thread you can grab the popcorn and watch away, say hi(which I never did, I’m an introvert so I kinda slipped into to the convo a while ago but I promise you everyone is lovely).
The book is its own statement. Read and make your own opinion.
As always with the Harkles, a plethora of inconsistencies. Thank you to @Anna2020 for the posts.
And an off topic shoutout to @ChaoticArtist for her great exam result!
This is a friendly but cynical and sarcastic community that is well informed about the Harkles. As said at the start of the post, if you’re new and inquisitive about the train wreck that is the Harkles, wiki is in pink at top of page!
God that gif is hideous.
About that revelation on how many HE killed, he whinges he was taken out of context... HUH?? He shouldn't haveWhat the duck!! He says in interview that the goal of writing the passage on the Taliban was to reduce the number of suicides amongst veterans!
How?
What bleeping planet is this twit living on?
He’s in some kind of alternate reality where paid audience members cheer the utter drivel that spews from his mouth.
anything in the first place.
Reminds me of Fight Club, what's the first rule of Fight Club??? DON'T TALK ABOUT FIGHT CLUB!
God I’m so sick of hearing about these two, can they pleeeease just duck OFF NOW!!!!!!
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.
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.
Spoken like a total piss head,Stephen Colbert asks "Would you like a cocktail before we begin?" and Harry enthusiastically responds
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H (or his ghostwriter or his puppetmaster wife) shouldn't have read so much Mills and Boon at an impressionable age, the writing style is sickly, nauseating tosh, let alone the self-serving content.
BIB - In his ear? She wrote the damn thing, imo.
All those descriptions of her absolute beauty for starters, and the likes of this piece of drivel
'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?'
OH MY!
www.dailymail.co.uk
Getting Tom Hanks involved might not do Tom's street cred any good...
Prince Harry mocks the monarchy on The Late Show with Stephen Colbert
The duke has done yet another TV interview to tout his book Spare, a pre-taped chat with Stephen Colbert.
Getting Tom Hanks involved might not do Tom's street cred any good...
Odd to describe a baby as a 'little visitor'.
Also why not finish the story and mention that Danny Baker (who at the time was a Radio 5 DJ, not a journalist) was sacked by the BBC immediately after he tweeted the monkey picture and also apologised.
There was uproar at the time too, it wasn't excused or brushed under the carpet.
Also why not finish the story and mention that Danny Baker (who at the time was a Radio 5 DJ, not a journalist) was sacked by the BBC immediately after he tweeted the monkey picture and also apologised.
There was uproar at the time too, it wasn't excused or brushed under the carpet.
I HAD A LONG TEA WITH GRANNY, just before she left for Balmoral. I gave her a recap, all the latest.
She knew a bit, but I was filling in important gaps.
She looked shocked. Appalling, she said.
She vowed to send the Bee to talk to us.
I’d spent my life dealing with courtiers, scores of them, but now I dealt mostly with just three, all middle-aged white men who’d managed to consolidate power through a series of bold Machiavellian maneuvers.
They had normal names, exceedingly British names, but they sort more easily into zoological categories. The Bee. The Fly. And the Wasp.
The Bee was oval-faced and fuzzy and tended to glide around with great equanimity and poise, as if he was a boon to all living things. He was so poised that people didn’t fear him. Big mistake. Sometimes their last mistake.
The Fly had spent much of his career adjacent to, and indeed drawn to, tit. The offal of government, and media, the wormy entrails, he loved it, grew fat on it, rubbed his hands in glee over it, though he pretended otherwise. He strove to give off an air of casualness, of being above the fray, coolly efficient and ever helpful.
The Wasp was lanky, charming, arrogant, a ball of jazzy energy. He was great at pretending to be polite, even servile. You’d assert a fact, something seemingly incontrovertible—I believe the sun rises in the mornings—and he’d stammer that perchance you might consider for a moment the possibility that you’d been misinformed: Well, heh-heh, I don’t know about that, Your Royal Highness, you see, it all depends what you mean by mornings, sir. Because he seemed so weedy, so self-effacing, you might be tempted to push back, insist on your point, and that was when he’d put you on his list. A short time later, without warning, he’d give you such a stab with his outsized stinger that you’d cry out in confusion. Where the duck did that come from? I disliked these men, and they didn’t have any use for me. They considered me irrelevant at best, stupid at worst. Above all, they knew how I saw them: as usurpers. 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.
I’d come to this conclusion through cold hard experience.
For instance, Meg and I had consulted with the Wasp about the press, and he’d agreed that the situation was abominable, that it needed to be stopped before someone got hurt.
Yes! You’ll get no argument from us on that!
He suggested the Palace convene a summit of all the major editors, make our case to them.
Finally, I said to Meg, someone gets it.
We never heard from him again.
So I was skeptical when Granny offered to send us the Bee. But I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time would be different, because this time Granny was dispatching him personally.
Days later, Meg and I welcomed the Bee into Frogmore, made him comfortable in our new sitting room, offered him a glass of rosé, gave a detailed presentation. He took meticulous notes, frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. He’d seen the headlines, he said, but he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple. This deluge of hate and lies was unprecedented in British history, he said. Disproportionate to anything I’ve ever seen.
Thank you, we said. Thank you for seeing it. He promised to discuss the matter with all the necessary parties and get back to us soon with an action plan, a set of concrete solutions.
We never heard from him again.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
She knew a bit, but I was filling in important gaps.
She looked shocked. Appalling, she said.
She vowed to send the Bee to talk to us.
I’d spent my life dealing with courtiers, scores of them, but now I dealt mostly with just three, all middle-aged white men who’d managed to consolidate power through a series of bold Machiavellian maneuvers.
They had normal names, exceedingly British names, but they sort more easily into zoological categories. The Bee. The Fly. And the Wasp.
The Bee was oval-faced and fuzzy and tended to glide around with great equanimity and poise, as if he was a boon to all living things. He was so poised that people didn’t fear him. Big mistake. Sometimes their last mistake.
The Fly had spent much of his career adjacent to, and indeed drawn to, tit. The offal of government, and media, the wormy entrails, he loved it, grew fat on it, rubbed his hands in glee over it, though he pretended otherwise. He strove to give off an air of casualness, of being above the fray, coolly efficient and ever helpful.
The Wasp was lanky, charming, arrogant, a ball of jazzy energy. He was great at pretending to be polite, even servile. You’d assert a fact, something seemingly incontrovertible—I believe the sun rises in the mornings—and he’d stammer that perchance you might consider for a moment the possibility that you’d been misinformed: Well, heh-heh, I don’t know about that, Your Royal Highness, you see, it all depends what you mean by mornings, sir. Because he seemed so weedy, so self-effacing, you might be tempted to push back, insist on your point, and that was when he’d put you on his list. A short time later, without warning, he’d give you such a stab with his outsized stinger that you’d cry out in confusion. Where the duck did that come from? I disliked these men, and they didn’t have any use for me. They considered me irrelevant at best, stupid at worst. Above all, they knew how I saw them: as usurpers. 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.
I’d come to this conclusion through cold hard experience.
For instance, Meg and I had consulted with the Wasp about the press, and he’d agreed that the situation was abominable, that it needed to be stopped before someone got hurt.
Yes! You’ll get no argument from us on that!
He suggested the Palace convene a summit of all the major editors, make our case to them.
Finally, I said to Meg, someone gets it.
We never heard from him again.
So I was skeptical when Granny offered to send us the Bee. But I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time would be different, because this time Granny was dispatching him personally.
Days later, Meg and I welcomed the Bee into Frogmore, made him comfortable in our new sitting room, offered him a glass of rosé, gave a detailed presentation. He took meticulous notes, frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head. He’d seen the headlines, he said, but he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple. This deluge of hate and lies was unprecedented in British history, he said. Disproportionate to anything I’ve ever seen.
Thank you, we said. Thank you for seeing it. He promised to discuss the matter with all the necessary parties and get back to us soon with an action plan, a set of concrete solutions.
We never heard from him again.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
Apologies if already posted, she refused to leave yesterday, today she's calling emergency services
Easily fooled people,
IT DOESNT MAKE ANY SENSE she would still be numb from the epidural 2 hours later and then slowly recovering. Also they have to catheterise you with an epidural, which means you would then need that removed and pass your trial without catheter - i.e. monitored for several hours to make sure you wee enough. Also she seems to go from minimal dilation to pushing the baby out instantaneously.
There is either some medical malpractice going on, or I'm on #teamsurrogate
MEG AND I WERE ON THE phone with Elton John and his husband, David, and we confessed:
We need help. We’re sort of losing it here, guys.
Come to us, Elton said.
By which he meant their home in France. Summer 2019.
So we did. For a few days we sat on their terrace and soaked up their sunshine. We spent long healing moments gazing out at the azure sea, and it felt decadent, not just because of the luxurious setting. Freedom of any kind, in any measure, had come to feel like scandalous luxury. To be out of the fishbowl for even an afternoon felt like day release from prison.
One afternoon we took a scooter ride with David, around the local bay, down the coastal road. I was driving, Meg was on the back, and she threw out her arms and shouted for joy as we zoomed through little towns, smelt people’s dinners from open windows, waved to children playing in their gardens. They all waved back and smiled. They didn’t know us.
The best part of the visit was watching Elton and David and their two boys fall in love with Archie.
Often I’d catch Elton studying Archie’s face and I knew what he was thinking: Mummy. I knew because it happened so often to me as well. Time and again I’d see an expression cross Archie’s face and it would bring me up short. I nearly said so to Elton, how much I wished my mother could hold her grandson, how often it happened that, while hugging Archie, I felt her—or wanted to. Every hug tinged with nostalgia; every tuck-in touched with grief. Does anything bring you face-to-face with the past like parenthood?
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
We need help. We’re sort of losing it here, guys.
Come to us, Elton said.
By which he meant their home in France. Summer 2019.
So we did. For a few days we sat on their terrace and soaked up their sunshine. We spent long healing moments gazing out at the azure sea, and it felt decadent, not just because of the luxurious setting. Freedom of any kind, in any measure, had come to feel like scandalous luxury. To be out of the fishbowl for even an afternoon felt like day release from prison.
One afternoon we took a scooter ride with David, around the local bay, down the coastal road. I was driving, Meg was on the back, and she threw out her arms and shouted for joy as we zoomed through little towns, smelt people’s dinners from open windows, waved to children playing in their gardens. They all waved back and smiled. They didn’t know us.
The best part of the visit was watching Elton and David and their two boys fall in love with Archie.
Often I’d catch Elton studying Archie’s face and I knew what he was thinking: Mummy. I knew because it happened so often to me as well. Time and again I’d see an expression cross Archie’s face and it would bring me up short. I nearly said so to Elton, how much I wished my mother could hold her grandson, how often it happened that, while hugging Archie, I felt her—or wanted to. Every hug tinged with nostalgia; every tuck-in touched with grief. Does anything bring you face-to-face with the past like parenthood?
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
I got so fed up of these 2 so haven't kept up with the threads for a few weeks but just seen this & thought you'd all be interested. Sorry if it's been posted already
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