I'm worried going to blamed personally at some point for the absolutely terrible life 666 has had "and then Fatpiggy of Tattle said something mean about us and my wonderful wife collapsed into a weeping pile (again, because she's such a strong feminist but also; a delicate creature who feels every slight like a dagger to the heart) and I knew I had to protect Aldi and Lidl and my darling, talented, young wife from the evils of misinformation".On today’s episode of “it’s everyone else’s fault but mine!”
Agreed - Didn't happen.I call bollocks on this.
2 epidurals at that, remember. The first didn’t work we are toldBIB - thank you! I was so confused by that, tryingnotto think how the hell would a hand mirror be of any use?!
The birth scene definitely reads like total invention. He suddenly was a medical expert, mentioning the possible need for a c-section. But of course once he whimpered at Meghan to do it, hey presto, the baby was born.
And no way were they discharged from hospital and back at Frogmore, mere hours after she had had an epidural.
These are simple things that they could have fact checked surely when inventing this narrative.
My anaesthetist kept pumping me full of medication in my epidural, it only numbed my butt and my thighs2 epidurals at that, remember. The first didn’t work we are told
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!
Al utter lies, written and " adjusted" by her for the final read-through at the printers.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.
“Irrelevant at best, stupid at worst”! Love it. Kudos to the insects. They had the measure of Harry.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, shit. 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 fuck 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
Bollocks to the pair of them.Maybe he's too young to remember the anti-drugs campaign "Just Say No"! I have no sympathy for his drug-addled arse, I know addiction is a terrible thing, and you have to want the help to overcome it, but honestly with him I just cant go there.
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.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.
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