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

[Meemew]

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.

So she had an epidural, didn’t tear at all even though it was an induced first birth, numbness gone, was up and walking, passed urine, had all the tests and the baby checked over and signed out within two hours?

LITERAL BOLLOCKS!!!!!

 

[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…

 

[LadyMuck]

She asked if I wanted to see Granny.
Yes…I do.
She led me upstairs, to Granny’s bedroom.
I braced myself, went in. The room was dimly lit, unfamiliar—I’d been inside it only once in my life.
I moved ahead uncertainly, and there she was.
I stood, frozen, staring. I stared and stared. It was difficult, but I kept on, thinking how I’d regretted not seeing my mother at the end.
Years of lamenting that lack of proof, postponing my grief for want of proof.
Now I thought: Proof. Careful what you wish for.
I whispered to her that I hoped she was happy, that I hoped she was with Grandpa. I said that I was in awe of her carrying out her duties to the last. The Jubilee, the welcoming of a new prime minister.
On her ninetieth birthday my father had given a touching tribute, quoting Shakespeare on Elizabeth I: …no day without a deed to crown it. Ever true.
I left the room, went back along the corridor, across the tartan carpet, past the statue of Queen Victoria. Your Majesty.
I rang Meg, told her I’d made it, that I was OK, then walked into the sitting room and ate dinner with most of my family, though still no Pa, Willy, or Camilla.
Towards the end of the meal, I braced myself for the bagpipes. But out of respect for Granny there was nothing. An eerie silence. The hour getting late, everyone drifted off to their rooms, except me. I went on a wander, up and down the stairs, the halls, ending up at the nursery. The old-fashioned basins, the tub, everything the same as it had been twenty-five years ago.
I passed most of the night time-traveling in my thoughts while trying to make actual travel arrangements on my phone.
The quickest way back would’ve been a lift with Pa or Willy…
Barring that, it was British Airways, departing Balmoral at daybreak.
I bought a seat and was among the first to board.
Soon after settling into a front row, I sensed a presence on my right. Deepest sympathies, said a fellow passenger before heading down the aisle. Thank you. Moments later, another presence. Condolences, Harry. Thanks…very much. Most passengers stopped to offer a kind word, and I felt a deep kinship with them all.
Our country, I thought.
Our Queen.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

And all during this time you were writing your shite book, trashing the Queen’s family.

 

[Anna2020]

MEG 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.

 

[Tangerine Cat]

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.

If Someone you loved had been attacked you’d be furious, not 'sad'. Megs had her mitts all over this to make out she’s the innocent party which makes me think there’s so much more to come out about her.

I'm taking a bit of a break from all this crap. Much as I’d love to be here, I can’t watch Harry do this to himself, the inconsistencies are glaringly obvious, documented and videoed for all to see. He’s got a tenuous grip on reality if he thinks he can tell barefaced lies and we’ll accept them.

I’ll pop in, but not be on here so much for a bit. Love to you all, you’re a great group of people x


p.s. They’ll always be c*nts

 

[Lady_H]

She 100% didn’t give birth to those kids, did she.

 

[StSaturnindeLucian]

In no universe did Harold actually have the thought that “each man felt himself to be the One True Monarch”. He doesn’t have the intellectual ability to come up with such a concept and totally lacks the empathy required to be worried about anyone who isn’t himself, or possibly Meghan.

I think he can't handle the fact that The Queen was not indulging poor wee special him. The way he has to be the favourite, special relationship etc Truth is too hard for him to handle.
It's easier to believe the mean courtiers were deliberately keeping them apart and the Queen was powerless against them.

 

[jonathanlynch]

My mother collaborating with an author to covertly get her story out there is fine but when my dad does the same after Mummy did it first then he was the one who started all of this off. Also when we collaborate on a book with an author (and try to cover up our involvement) it is perfectly ok but when Camilla does it then she is a villain. So toxic and an answer for everything.

 

[mumpty]

@Fliss122 I've only ever heard 'penmanship' used by Americans. Another tick in the column of Megs wrote the whole thing. (Although I will stand corrected by any Americans on this thread if it isn't a commonly used word there)

 

[Macmama]

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.
Within two hours of our son being born we were back at Frogmore.

Shite. Utter shite. If baby’s head is there, with cord around the neck, you’re not going for a c-section. They’ll loop it over once the head’s born, and baby will magically be fine. Drama for absolutely no reason.

Also, Meghan wouldn’t have been able to move her legs properly two hours after an epidural. More shite.

 

[Kezzle1]

Harry and Meghan #300 Delusions of Intelligence

 

[Anna2020]

I RANG GRANNY on January 3.
We’re coming back to Britain, I said. We’d love to see you. I told her explicitly that we hoped to discuss with her our plan to create a different working arrangement.
She wasn’t pleased. Neither was she shocked. She knew how unhappy we were, she’d seen this day on the horizon. One good chat with my grandmother, I felt, would bring this ordeal to an end.
I said: Granny, are you free?
Yes, of course! I’m free all week. The diary is clear.
That’s great. Meg and I can come up for tea and then drive back to London. We have an engagement at Canada House the next day.
You’ll be exhausted from the travel. Do you want to stay here?
By “here” she meant Sandringham.
Yes, that would be easier, and I told her so.
That would be lovely, thank you. Are you planning to see your father too?
I asked, but he said it’s impossible. He’s in Scotland and can’t leave until the end of the month.
She made a little sound. A sigh or a knowing grunt.
I had to laugh.
She said: I have only one thing to say about that.
Yes?
Your father always does what he wants to do.
Days later, January 5, as Meg and I boarded a flight in Vancouver, I got a frantic note from our staff, who’d received a frantic note from the Bee. Granny wouldn’t be able to see me.
Initially Her Majesty thought this would be possible, it will not…The Duke of Sussex cannot come to Norfolk tomorrow.
Her Majesty will be able to arrange another mtg this month.
No announcements about anything shall be issued until such a meeting takes place.
I said to Meg: They’re blocking me from seeing my own grandmother.
When we landed I considered driving straight to Sandringham anyway. To hell with the Bee. Who was he to try to block me?
I imagined our car being stopped at the gate by Palace police. I imagined smashing past security, the gate snapping across the bonnet. Diverting fantasy, and a fun way to spend the trip from the airport, but no. I’d have to bide my time.
When we reached Frogmore I rang Granny again.
I imagined the phone ringing on her desk. I could actually hear it in my mind, brrrang, like the red phone in the VHR tent. Troops in Contact!
Then I heard her voice.
Hello?
Hi, Granny, it’s Harry. Sorry, I must have misunderstood you the other day when you said you didn’t have anything going on today.
Something came up that I wasn’t aware of. Her voice was strange.
Can I pop in tomorrow then, Granny?
Um. Well. I’m busy all week. At least, she added, that was what the Bee told her…
Is he in the room with you, Granny?
No answer.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[peradetlic]

Didn't see this posted, so thanks to original poster in friendly reddit sub...

 

[Scotch Mist]

I'm shocked at the level of pettiness displayed by Harold which of course lessens the effect of any real grievances he may have had. How can anyone take this outpouring of self pity seriously? He's clearly more than a few sandwiches short of a picnic

I'm still struggling to post due to the Samsung update and can't keep up with all the threads but am still here and will be back posting more soon hopefully.

 

[Anna2020]

For days and days we couldn’t stop hugging the children, couldn’t let them out of our sight—though I also couldn’t stop picturing them with Granny. The final visit. Archie making deep, chivalrous bows, his baby sister Lilibet cuddling the monarch’s shins.
Sweetest children, Granny said, sounding bemused. S
he’d expected them to be a bit more…American, I think? Meaning, in her mind, more rambunctious.
Now, while overjoyed to be home again, doing drop-offs again, reading Giraffes Can’t Dance again, I couldn’t stop…remembering.
Day and night, images flitted through my mind. Standing before her during my passing-out parade, shoulders thrown back, catching her half smile. Stationed beside her on the balcony, saying something that caught her off guard and made her, despite the solemnity of the occasion, laugh out loud. Leaning into her ear, so many times, smelling her perfume as I whispered a joke.
Kissing both cheeks at one public event, just recently, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder, feeling how frail she was becoming.
Making a silly video for the first Invictus Games, discovering that she was a natural comedienne.
People around the world howled, and said they’d never suspected she possessed such a wicked sense of humor—but she did, she always did!
That was one of our little secrets.
In fact, in every photo of us, whenever we’re exchanging a glance, making solid eye contact, it’s clear: We had secrets. Special relationship, that’s what they said about us, and now I couldn’t stop thinking about the specialness that would no longer be.
The visits that wouldn’t take place.
Ah well, I told myself, that’s just the deal, isn’t it?
That’s life.
Still, as with so many partings, I just wished there’d been…one more goodbye.
Soon after our return, a hummingbird got into the house. I had a devil of a time guiding it out, and the thought occurred that maybe we should start shutting the doors, despite those heavenly ocean breezes.
Then a mate said: Could be a sign, you know?
Some cultures see hummingbirds as spirits, he said. Visitors, as it were. Aztecs thought them reincarnated warriors. Spanish explorers called them “resurrection birds.”
You don’t say? I did some reading and learned that not only are hummingbirds visitors, they’re voyagers.
The lightest birds on the planet, and the fastest, they travel vast distances—from Mexican winter homes to Alaskan nesting grounds.
Whenever you see a hummingbird, what you’re actually seeing is a tiny, glittering Odysseus.
So, naturally, when this hummingbird arrived, and swooped around our kitchen, and flitted through the sacred airspace we call Lili Land, where we’ve set the baby’s playpen with all her toys and stuffed animals, I thought hopefully, greedily, foolishly:
Is our house a detour—or a destination?
For half a second I was tempted to let the hummingbird be. Let it stay.
But no.
Gently I used Archie’s fishing net to scoop it from the ceiling, carry it outside.
Its legs felt like eyelashes, its wings like flower petals.
With cupped palms I set the hummingbird gently on a wall in the sun.
Goodbye, my friend.
But it just lay there.
Motionless.
No, I thought.
No, not that. Come on, come on.
You’re free. Fly away.
And then, against all odds, and all expectations, that wonderful, magical little creature bestirred itself, and did just that.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

 

[Wackie Jeaver]

frequently putting a hand over his mouth and shaking his head

presumably trying not to vomit?

 

[Ndrangheta]

Where the hell is social services? All this drug-taking with small children around ... makes no fucking sense to me. Someone in the Montecito area needs to make a phone-call and report him. Presumably Dorito is around the kids too ... a convicted drug dealer? Allegedly.

 

[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.

 

[LadyMuck]

FROGMORE GARDENS.
Hours after Grandpa’s funeral.
I’d been walking with Willy and Pa for about half an hour, but it felt like one of those days-long marches the Army put me through when I was a new soldier. I was beat.
We’d reached an impasse. And we’d reached the Gothic ruin. After a circuitous route we’d arrived back where we’d begun.
Pa and Willy were still claiming not to know why I’d fled Britain, still claiming not to know anything, and I was getting ready to walk away. Then one of them brought up the press.
They asked about my hacking lawsuit.
They still hadn’t asked about Meg, but they were keen to know how my lawsuit was going, because that directly affected them.
Still ongoing.
Suicide mission, Pa mumbled.
Maybe. But it’s worth it. I’d soon prove that the press were more than liars, I said. That they were lawbreakers. I was going to see some of them thrown into jail. That was why they were attacking me so viciously: they knew I had hard evidence. It wasn’t about me, it was a matter of public interest.
Shaking his head, Pa allowed that journalists were the scum of the earth. His phrase.
But…
I snorted.
There was always a but with him when it came to the press, because he hated their hate, but oh how he loved their love.
One could make the argument that therein lay the seeds of the whole problem, indeed all problems, going back decades.
Deprived of love as a boy, bullied by schoolmates, he was dangerously, compulsively drawn to the elixir they offered him.
He cited Grandpa as a sterling example of why the press wasn’t anything to get too vexed about.
Poor Grandpa had been abused by the papers for most of his life, but now look.
He was a national treasure!
The papers couldn’t say enough good things about the man.
So that’s it, then? Just wait till we’re dead and all will be sorted?
If you could just endure it, darling boy, for a little while, in a funny way they’d respect you for it.
I laughed.
All I’m saying is, don’t take it personally.

Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.

Deprived of love as a boy? Another dig at the Queen

 

[Autisteuse]

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.

It is embarrassing. And it’s even more embarrassing for those of us on the left who don’t have time for all this performative nonsense - after all we have a climate crisis to deal with, the war in Ukraine and its consequences, a plummeting GDP, a shambolic government, a crumbling NHS, an energy crisis; our rivers are full of shit, towns are flooding, people are relying on foodbanks so they don’t die of starvation and this tone deaf little shite, who knows all the buzzwords, all the jargon… complains he got the smallest bedroom.

WORD OF THE DAY: backpfeifengesicht - a face worthy of a punch. In all good bookshops now.