The Not-So-Secret Diary of Harold Windsor, Aged 38 and 1/3 years.
- Notice
Ndrangheta
VIP Member
People with actual TALENT must loathe Hazno and Ho ... I mean, talented writers who struggle for years to get recognition and a decent pay cheque, or actors who dedicate their lives to their craft never to get anywhere. Then this talentless, lazy, venal, CUNT turns-up and gets paid millions to 'write' one of the most pathetic books in history and appear on TV. Some people actually work hard for to get to that place ... it's his total lack of talent that winds me up, he's thick and lazy ... all he has is that he was born into Royalty. He really needs to be stripped of his titles now, it's making the Royal Family look shit.
YeltsinsTank
VIP Member
Of all the things that didn't happen, this didn't happen the most.
vp79
Well-known member
Bloody hell, I went to bed a woke up to another new thread! Apologies for my unintentional 'gravygate' comment in the last thread no offence meant to either Australian or Welsh gravy I am a lover of all gravy (except bistro, that's not gravy imo!)
Anyway, another meme just to lift the mood a little
Anyway, another meme just to lift the mood a little
MeInMidAmerica
VIP Member
I went thru a difficult period with my son years ago. One day a friend asked me…point blank…why I put up with it. I told her that, even at the worst of times, I still could see the loving adorable child he once was in him. And I’d think…that child is still in there somewhere.
I think Harry has lived years on the general public seeing that young boy walking behind his Mother’s coffin. No matter what he did, that caring connection with him gave him a certain amount of public absolution. Even as an American, I felt it myself.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but this nasty self-absorbed pot-head snickering and slobbering across various media…has finally and fully vanquished that grieving child for me. I feel nothing for him but disgust.
I don’t know how he can present as serious spokesman for any good cause…or his hypocrite wife pontificate about ‘kindness’ ever again…but they will.
I think Harry has lived years on the general public seeing that young boy walking behind his Mother’s coffin. No matter what he did, that caring connection with him gave him a certain amount of public absolution. Even as an American, I felt it myself.
I don’t know about the rest of you, but this nasty self-absorbed pot-head snickering and slobbering across various media…has finally and fully vanquished that grieving child for me. I feel nothing for him but disgust.
I don’t know how he can present as serious spokesman for any good cause…or his hypocrite wife pontificate about ‘kindness’ ever again…but they will.
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Georgia1970
Well-known member
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.
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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.
ChastityDingle
VIP Member
Apologies, thread closed as I was typing this 
!
Darn, they missed a trick there - it was a recipe handed down to Meg or one his mummy used to make, and it needs to be cooked for an hour or more.
Or how come he didn't mention a brand name instead - bought from Whole Foods of course
!
Yes! The gravy bubbling on the stove had me puzzled when the chicken was only being prepared for the oven
!Darn, they missed a trick there - it was a recipe handed down to Meg or one his mummy used to make, and it needs to be cooked for an hour or more.
Or how come he didn't mention a brand name instead - bought from Whole Foods of course
!
Lilykins
VIP Member
Struggling to keep up but enjoying reading everything you are all saying. This book really is all because the family, the ‘institution’ and the media didn’t think Meghan was as amazing or as likeable as Harry thinks she is. Sorry that people were made to feel uncomfortable by crass comments she probably made or pointed, inappropriate questions she may have asked across the dinner table, god forbid some don’t see her as the Oscar winner clearly Harry thinks she should be. Also sounds like the fakest birth story I’ve ever heard!!
I was watching the Kardashian documentary and they legitimately have paps hounding them, Britney did… but I’ve never seen pap pics of Megan other than those clearly staged ones and mainly in America. There is a desperate need on Harry’s part to blame everything and anything on the ‘press’ and anyone else. It’s getting so old now- fed up of reading all this moaning. Kate and wills come across as 19th century villains in a melodrama with all this ‘Harold’ and ‘willy’.
I was watching the Kardashian documentary and they legitimately have paps hounding them, Britney did… but I’ve never seen pap pics of Megan other than those clearly staged ones and mainly in America. There is a desperate need on Harry’s part to blame everything and anything on the ‘press’ and anyone else. It’s getting so old now- fed up of reading all this moaning. Kate and wills come across as 19th century villains in a melodrama with all this ‘Harold’ and ‘willy’.
THE HOUSE WAS XANADU.
High ceilings, priceless art, beautiful swimming pool. Palatial, but above all, ultra-safe.
Better yet, it came with security, paid for by Tyler.
We spent those last days of March 2020 exploring, unpacking. Trying to get our bearings.
Halls, wardrobes, bedrooms, there seemed no end of spaces to discover, and niches for Archie to hide. Meg introduced him to everything.
Look at this statue!
Look at this fountain!
Look at these hummingbirds in the garden!
In the front hall was a painting he found especially interesting. He started every day locked on to it. A scene from ancient Rome. We asked each other why. No clue.
Within a week Tyler’s house felt like home.
Archie took his first steps in the garden a couple of months later, at the height of the global pandemic lockdown.
We clapped, hugged him, cheered.
I thought, for a moment, how nice it would be to share the news with Grandpa or Uncle Willy.
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.
When we told Tyler, he said he hadn’t known.
He’d forgotten the painting was even there.
He said: Gives me chills. Us too.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
High ceilings, priceless art, beautiful swimming pool. Palatial, but above all, ultra-safe.
Better yet, it came with security, paid for by Tyler.
We spent those last days of March 2020 exploring, unpacking. Trying to get our bearings.
Halls, wardrobes, bedrooms, there seemed no end of spaces to discover, and niches for Archie to hide. Meg introduced him to everything.
Look at this statue!
Look at this fountain!
Look at these hummingbirds in the garden!
In the front hall was a painting he found especially interesting. He started every day locked on to it. A scene from ancient Rome. We asked each other why. No clue.
Within a week Tyler’s house felt like home.
Archie took his first steps in the garden a couple of months later, at the height of the global pandemic lockdown.
We clapped, hugged him, cheered.
I thought, for a moment, how nice it would be to share the news with Grandpa or Uncle Willy.
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.
When we told Tyler, he said he hadn’t known.
He’d forgotten the painting was even there.
He said: Gives me chills. Us too.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex
RubyRowallan
Well-known member
“…now I dealt mostly with just three, all middle-aged white men…”
“… he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple….”
Prince Harry - a middle-aged white man
“… he’d not appreciated the full impact this might have on a young couple….”
Prince Harry - a middle-aged white man
Milliemoo99
VIP Member
wow...this is .......interesting, extremely interesting.....after this latest ........publicity, I wouldnt be surprised!
Thank you to everyone who is keeping these threads updated......im still bemused as to the point of the book and all this publicity..
The book seems to be written in such a childish and overblown way, I was thinking of comparing it to something like The Secret Garden, where the poor neglected rich girl, whose family dont care for her at all, finds salvation in a garden! But thats a fictional childrens book. Not reality by any stretch of the imagination.
Also the book has obviously been written by an American, with little or no knowledge of British culture, saying things like The Queen of England!!! huh
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.
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.
struggs123
Chatty Member
I 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 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.
MyRightTit
VIP Member
When Harold was born he was an ugly baby. Sorry, but true. William was a beautiful child. As Harold grew into a young boy he became a spoiled (still ugly) little shit. He became a cheeky chappie in his late teens/twenties. But still ugly. And spoiled. And still a little shit.
William grew to be even more beautiful, a handsome young man. But he was nice with it. Polite & charming. Yes he's lost his hair but that makes him even more distinguished imo. Harold will have totally lost his hair in a couple of years. But he has none of the redeeming features William has. He'll always be a spoiled, ugly, balding, little shit.
William grew to be even more beautiful, a handsome young man. But he was nice with it. Polite & charming. Yes he's lost his hair but that makes him even more distinguished imo. Harold will have totally lost his hair in a couple of years. But he has none of the redeeming features William has. He'll always be a spoiled, ugly, balding, little shit.