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

[LadyMuck]

I know violence is not the answer.But I really want to talk to him with my fist.
He is loving it isn’t he?All the attention, the faux fawning.He actually believes these people think he is great.He can’t see that they are just humouring him.Anything to get that exclusive interview.
I suspect Meghan is now considering Plan B.The divorce, and how much money she can rinse out of the RF.

If you read TRG upthread, she thinks Smeg and Doria will do something to H to 'remove him' or tip him over the edge. Maybe mess up his medication/drugs

 

[triesherbest]

the virtue signalling in his book actually makes me sick. he's so brainwashed by this radical leftist nonsense. that with the put-on american accent and vernacular is just too much, it's incredibly cringeworthy.

he looks like a massive simp at this point, a simp to meghan, the US and the 'woke'. he's an embarrassment to the UK.

 

[elliebee27]

He was really mad that they wouldn't go out of their way to sue and ruin everyone's lives because not everyone liked Meghan and people have freedom of speech on the internet to say abhorrent things if they so choose. Everyone else goes through the same treatment. It was no different. Camilla had the worst of it. Remember KP's kindness mantra on Instagram? They wouldn't have done that for anyone but they did it for Meghan, it was them trying to protect her but he wanted lawsuit after lawsuit and statement after statement, feeding the beast!!

 

[Cheesecakelover]

'The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine'
What the actual duck is this pish? An autobiography or a chick-lit book..im beginning to think she has been in his ear with this book, no way would a man think that


Jesus bleeping wept.

Wonder if they had a wind machine that was blowing her hair as she walked towards them with her eyes glistening with tears.

 

[Gerry o]

If it’s true (and if not where the hell was Doria all that time?) how did TW get it wiped from the net? This must’ve been done before or as soon as she met Harry but she was a nothing at that point so where did she get the power you’d need to get that to happen? Confused.

Yes I am confused too Why hasn’t her sister or brother leaked it or even came out to say it like why would they be sued if it actually true there are prison records and police records for that as proof I’m wondering if this is all lies

 

[Churchill's Ghost]

I WAS SUMMONED TO Buckingham Palace. A lunch with Granny and Pa.
The invitation was contained in a terse email from the Bee, and the tone wasn’t: Would you mind popping around? It was more: Get your arse over here. I threw on a suit, jumped into the car.
The Bee and the Wasp were the first faces I saw when I walked into the room. An ambush. I thought this was to be a family lunch. Apparently not. Alone, without my staff, without Meg, I was confronted directly about my legal action.
My father said it was massively damaging to the reputation of the family.
How so?
It makes our relationship with the media complicated.
Complicated. There’s a word.
Anything you do affects the whole family.
One could say the same about all your actions and decisions. They affect us as well.
Like, for instance, wining and dining the same editors and journalists who’ve been attacking me and my wife…
The Bee or the Wasp jumped in to remind me: One has to have a relationship with the press…Sir, we’ve talked about this before!
A relationship yes. But not a sordid affair. I tried a new tack.
Everyone in this family has sued the press, including Granny. Why’s this any different?
Chirping crickets. Silence. There was some more wrangling, and then I said:
We had no other option. And we wouldn’t have had to do it if you’d all protected us. And protected the monarchy in the process. You’re doing a
disservice to yourselves by not protecting my wife.
I looked around the table. Stony faces.
Was it incomprehension? Cognitive dissonance? A long-term mission at play? Or…did they really not know? Were they so deep inside a bubble inside a bubble that they really hadn’t fully appreciated how bad things were?
-For instance, Tatler magazine quoting an old Etonian saying I’d married Meg because “foreigners” like her are “easier” than girls “with the right background.”
-Or the Daily Mail saying Meg was “upwardly mobile,” because she’d gone from “slaves to royalty” in just 150 years.
-Or the social media posts about her being a “yacht girl” and an “escort,” or calling her a “gold-digger,” and “a bleep,” and “a witch,” and “a slut,” and the N-word—repeatedly.
Some of those posts were in the comments section on the pages of all three Palaces’ social media accounts—and still hadn’t been expunged.
-Or the tweet that said: “Dear Duchess, I’m not saying that I hate you but I hope your next period happens in a shark tank.”
- Or the revelation of racist texts from Jo Marney, girlfriend of UKIP leader Henry Bolton, including one saying that my “black American” fiancée would “taint” the Royal Family, setting the stage for “a black king,” and another averring that Ms. Marney would never have sex with “a Negro.” “This is Britain, not Africa.”
-Or the Mail complaining that Meg couldn’t keep her hands off her baby bump, that she was rubbing it and rubbing it as if she were a succubus.
Things had got so out of hand, seventy-two women in Parliament, from both main parties, had condemned the “colonial undertones” of all newspaper coverage of The Duchess of Sussex.
None of these things had merited one comment, public or private, from my family.
I knew how they rationalized it all, saying it was no different from what Camilla got. Or Kate.
But it was different.
One study looked closely at four hundred vile tweets about Meg. Employing a team of data specialists and computer analysts the study found that this avalanche of hate was wildly atypical, light-years from anything directed at Camilla or Kate. A tweet calling Meg “the queen of monkey island” had no historical precedent or equivalent. And this wasn’t about hurt feelings or bruised egos. Hate had physical effects. There was a ton of science showing how unhealthy it is to be publicly hated and mocked. Meanwhile, the wider societal effects were even scarier.
Certain kinds of people are more susceptible to such hate, and incited by it. Hence the package of suspicious white powder that had been sent to our office, with a disgusting racist note attached.
I looked at Granny, looked around the room, reminded them that Meg and I had been coping with a wholly unique situation, and doing it all by ourselves.
Our dedicated staff was too small, too young, grossly underfunded.
The Bee and the Wasp harrumphed and said we should’ve let it be known that we were under-resourced. Let it be known?
I said I’d begged them repeatedly, all of them, and one of our top aides had sent in pleas as well—multiple times.
Granny looked directly at the Bee and the Wasp: Is this true?
The Bee looked her right in the eye, and, with the Wasp nodding vigorously in assent, said: Your Majesty, we never received any of these requests for support.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex

I don’t know about the UK, but in the US, official government accounts are not allowed to delete comments on social media because they become part of the official records (due to my position, every email in my work account is considered official correspondence and captured each night - even deleted ones)I think they can hide them but they cannot delete them.

And I thought they didn’t read social media or comments about themselves…and what about the vile comments their sugars leave?

 

[Wackie Jeaver]

Apart from us lot, I've yet to see anyone call out the truly awful 'writing' - anyone seen anything? Maybe Moehringer is too big a name in the US, and perhaps even over here, but I would not want my name anywhere near this bilge...

 

[NorthernValkyrie]

Dearest 43 on her curtsy sounds remarkably similar to CP Mary of Denmark...

 

[Kezzle1]

Why does he think every time he makes these grand pronouncements to his family at these meetings and is met with silence it's because they are stunned by his eloquence and reasonings rather than being stunned by his utter stupidity?

 

[triesherbest]

I'm at the Chelsy Davy bit now. I'd be so weirded out if one of my exes put me in a book tbh, like why do you remember all those details you weirdo

 

[The Tipsy Titian]

Stephen Colbert asks "Would you like a cocktail before we begin?" and Harry enthusiastically responds

View attachment 1873372

I soooooooo want to slap that face I'm assuming there's a queue

 

[9Pine]

'The tears in her eyes glistened in the spring sunshine'
What the actual duck is this pish? An autobiography or a chick-lit book..im beginning to think she has been in his ear with this book, no way would a man think that


Jesus bleeping wept.

The Not-So-Secret Diary of Harold Windsor, Aged 38 and 1/3 years.

 

[Kezzle1]

Also, these revelations that are being alluded to on twitter. If true, she will definitely say he did the same to her, the reason for her low profile these last few days?

 

[lollipop_panda]

Wait, why is Harold so happy about this tour? This was when they feared for Sprog's life when a fire broke out the heater expired and Sprog was in grievous danger in the kitchen. And then, the evil aides refused to let them stay with Sprog but go on to their next engagement!!
Is Harold suggesting it wasn't as serious as 43 made out in her podcast to take attention from Serena Williams? SURELY NOT!

So basically, this isn’t Hazno’s autobiography, it’s Megz’s biography.

 

[ToodliePips]

SOON AFTER THAT DAY it was announced that the two royal households, Cambridge and Sussex, would no longer share an office. We’d no longer be working together in any capacity. The Fab Four…finis.
Reaction was about as expected. The public groaned, journalists brayed.
The more disheartening response was from my family. Silence. They never commented publicly, never said anything privately to me.
I never heard from Pa, never heard from Granny.
It made me think, really think, about the silence that surrounded everything else that happened to me and Meg. I’d always told myself that, just because everyone in my family didn’t explicitly condemn press attacks, it didn’t mean they condoned them.
But now I asked: Is that true? How do I know? If they never say anything, why do I so often assume that I know how they feel? And that they’re unequivocally on our side?
Everything I’d been taught, everything I’d grown up believing about the family, and about the monarchy, about its essential fairness, its job of uniting rather than dividing, was being undermined, called into question. Was it all fake? Was it all just a show? Because if we couldn’t stand up for one another, rally around our newest member, our first biracial member, then what were we really? Was that a true constitutional monarchy? Was that a real family? Isn’t “defending each other” the first rule of every family?

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

Perhaps by this time Pa and Granny knew that anything said even privately, would end up being spread by you and TW and would be twisted and you would claim it to be ‘your truth’

 

[Autisteuse]

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.

“ I also set a framed photo of my mother on a little table. Meg’s idea.”
Dear God. She really has infantilised him, trapped him and parentified herself, hasn’t she? I actually find this incredibly disturbing - it’s like 550 pages of Stockholm Syndrome. When she starts degrading him in preparation for dumping him, he’s going to need to be sectioned. I’m not taking the piss, here - I do think he’ll absolutely implode, and it will be horrible to watch.

 

[ToodliePips]

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.

What, did she have another dose of food poisoning? Heading for the cludgie pronto?

 

[struggs123]

I'm at the Chelsy Davy bit now. I'd be so weirded out if one of my exes put me in a book tbh, like why do you remember all those details you weirdo

She's absolutely the one who got away, you can tell by some of the other things he writes.

 

[Autisteuse]

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.

Moehringer is known for writing in his subject’s voice - we’re getting pure Meghan here, with a few interpolations from Hazzard. Remember the ghastly op ed she wrote for Vogue? Same tone, same style, same ghastly gush…

 

[TheCutiePatootie]

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

Wasp and Bee were like;

And then;