This is the problem with people like both of them (yes, I do include Harry in this, the delicate little flower he has become). Nobody is allowed to opine, unless of course it's to say how marvellous they are. Like I said what JC said wasn't big or clever, but it was his right to say it. How is it not we are not allowed?? Imagine honestly if they were to somehow stumble upon here, unlikely though it may be. But the rage that would follow! The utter idea that we're allowed to say what we like about them! This with Clarkson is a very dangerous precedent imo.
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" THEY ARE BOTH LYING CUNTS, THAT bleeping BALLOON -FACED G IMP PET OF THEIRS IS A GOBSHIT ENABLER WHO CANT GET A SHAG FOR OBVIOUS REASONS & QUITE FRANKLY - LIKE THE OOZLUM BIRD - THE SOONER THEY FLY AROUND IN EVER-DECREASING CIRCLES & DISAPPEAR UP THEIR OWN bleeping ARSES , THE BETTER.
THERE. THAT DO YOU FOR A QUOTE?
ONE MORE THING BEFORE YOU GO- ILL THANK YOU TO KEEP THEIR PUNCHABLE BOAT-RACES OUT OF MY WIFES FACE.
GOOD MORNING! "
" THEY ARE BOTH LYING CUNTS, THAT bleeping BALLOON -FACED G IMP PET OF THEIRS IS A GOBSHIT ENABLER WHO CANT GET A SHAG FOR OBVIOUS REASONS & QUITE FRANKLY - LIKE THE OOZLUM BIRD - THE SOONER THEY FLY AROUND IN EVER-DECREASING CIRCLES & DISAPPEAR UP THEIR OWN bleeping ARSES , THE BETTER.
THERE. THAT DO YOU FOR A QUOTE?
ONE MORE THING BEFORE YOU GO- ILL THANK YOU TO KEEP THEIR PUNCHABLE BOAT-RACES OUT OF MY WIFES FACE.
GOOD MORNING! "
Piers earlier tonight with Roya, Jennie Bond, Awful shouty tessa Dunlop and Ann Widdicombe debating if Harkles should attend Coronation
Quite. it comes to a petty pass when Farage speaks good sense & rightly asks ‘cue bono?’
Some people are making huge amounts of money out of this storm & for some smiting the RF & the Commonwealth is enough.
Mr & Mrs Harold Steptoe are useful idiots, only I think that she is that bit smarter with reflexes that allow her to dump & move on without doubt or regret.
Wow. Got to watch this interview on GMB this morning with Tom Bower and a lawyer woman supporting the harkles. And the awful susanna reid who states that H never said he hates his family. Wtf. And the lawyer basically calls Tom B a liar re his book. But he responds well and she backtracks. Interesting that comments are turned off
It's almost like those defending the Harkles don't know what's been going on.
This is Interesting, watching this interview which was a year ago, on GMB with Piers and the weatherman following the OW interview and claims of racism. How stupid does weatherman look now, that H has denied those claims. And why didn't H say something earlier to refute this
For as much as I would like William's era to start soon, lets not consider KC3 already Markled. There's one thing about the men in grey suits: they are usually very competent. If you remember the 90's, TRF family was not as loved as they are today. The Queen was super criticised about neglecting her older children, over indulging all of the children, and specially by the reaction after Diana's death.
Yet they got through it and in the 2000's the popularity was reinstated and the Jubilees glorious.
This ain't over and in 10 years I know TRF will be there, probably with KC3, and the Harkles little more than an anecdote.
Yet they got through it and in the 2000's the popularity was reinstated and the Jubilees glorious.
This ain't over and in 10 years I know TRF will be there, probably with KC3, and the Harkles little more than an anecdote.
Neil Sean. M smells fear in this senior royal
That witch is gonna smell her OWN fear pretty soon when they book her, take everything off her person, make her bend over and grab her ankles while a VERY large matronly woman with HUGE gloved hands, does a body cavity search of her, and then tosses an orange jumpsuit at her and with a maniacal laugh says, “Welcome to prison, Dutchess!”
duck her.
I sure hope, and I can’t wait!
Paul Burrell's interview with Wootton
Headliners on Clarkson apology. Still have a feeling Nick is a secret tattler.
Headliners on Clarkson apology. Still have a feeling Nick is a secret tattler.
I'm getting to the point where I think Markle is getting paid to drive this train by an entity that wants to disrupt Britain on a number of levels.
I find it very uncomfortable that we have journalists and commentators in the US fundamentally criticising not only our Head of State, but also the very system by which we assign that role. It's verging on an attack on our political system from a number of US quarters. Harry is such a dunce, he doesn't realise the implications of what's happening.
But then he's never really understood what the Royal Family is, despite actually being a part of it. The Royal Family is essentially the process pool from which Britain gains a Head of State, but the two are somewhat different. He got his police protection because the government pays to protect the Head of State, their immediate family and anyone who acts for the Head of State in a specific context; no-one gets police protection because they are just "Royal" per se.
To expect that protection outside of those categories while The Queen was alive was like the US secret service protecting, I dunno, Biden's adult grandson and his wife while they flew around the world.
Neither Harry or Meghan seem to understand the actual situation. Meghan did the equivalent of, say, marrying Sarkozy's brother or something, who then turns round to say that everyone in France is stupid and racist.
And that Harry admits he picked fights with those protection officers, slapping them and so on? An equvalent here would be someone like Trump Junior hitting one of the White House secret service detail on a regular basis.
It's so beyond the pale, I don't know what to say.
I find it very uncomfortable that we have journalists and commentators in the US fundamentally criticising not only our Head of State, but also the very system by which we assign that role. It's verging on an attack on our political system from a number of US quarters. Harry is such a dunce, he doesn't realise the implications of what's happening.
But then he's never really understood what the Royal Family is, despite actually being a part of it. The Royal Family is essentially the process pool from which Britain gains a Head of State, but the two are somewhat different. He got his police protection because the government pays to protect the Head of State, their immediate family and anyone who acts for the Head of State in a specific context; no-one gets police protection because they are just "Royal" per se.
To expect that protection outside of those categories while The Queen was alive was like the US secret service protecting, I dunno, Biden's adult grandson and his wife while they flew around the world.
Neither Harry or Meghan seem to understand the actual situation. Meghan did the equivalent of, say, marrying Sarkozy's brother or something, who then turns round to say that everyone in France is stupid and racist.
And that Harry admits he picked fights with those protection officers, slapping them and so on? An equvalent here would be someone like Trump Junior hitting one of the White House secret service detail on a regular basis.
It's so beyond the pale, I don't know what to say.
am still irritated that, after all of these interviews & NF/book/articles, that H/M are not challenged with the facts of Megxit--- that she had set up companies in the US, immediately started filing for trademarks in order to directly profit under the trade name of "sussex royal" and that they were going to be financially independent & get paid what they were worth as "professionals." that she pestered guys in Hollywood (ex- brad pit) & wanted to star in action movies and only work with top directors.... this entire false narrative of fleeing the UK media & the leaking RF has all just been a fabricated series of lies because they cannot admit to themselves that they failed to take Hollywood by storm and that the RF refused to let them profit off their titles...
Yes I blame Cashley.Still bitter at how he left Arsenal lol
i totally agree-- Some Russians have again, in recent days, advocated for using nukes to destroy the UK.... but i think that H/M have become serious national security risks for both the UK and US. both Russia and China would be delighted to fracture the strong partnership between our 2 countries &, hack away at NATO partners in any way possible. also, by portraying KC as weak, it will lessen his influence with the Commonwealth and worldwide negotiations/initiatives....
What he said was misogynistic and gross, but his whole brand is being a bit of an hole. What's Harry's excuse for his attitude towards Pat and other women who aren't St Diana and The Blessed Meghan M? Failing to point out his own misogyny in the past while writing his tell-all is pretty inexcusable in someone who is now so feministe, imo.
Alex Beresford’s just a great big walloping tit.
In the highly unlikely event the RF do apologise to the Cunts (still don’t know what for exactly) the Cunts would take great delight in refusing their apology, like JC. They want a grovelling apologies all round but are so spiteful & vindictive they’d refuse them all anyway. It just making them look like dicks (frost bitten ones).
"I hadn't smiled in months. School was horrible. One of the matrons, named Pat, bullied me unmercifully. After showers she made me wait until last for a towel. She always made me share a it with Norman: a fat, common, bucktoothed boy, with bottle-bottom spectacles; his father was little more than a jumped up accountant. We called him Tojo, At lunch, if we had prunes and custard, Pat would always ensure that I got exactly seven - she said "that was all I was worth and what I would become."... though sometimes she gave me eight.
I missed my family. And most of all I missed Pa's hugs.
At last the summer holidays came. Pa came to collect me in the Aston Martin. Mummy was away in Brighton with her friend: again. I didn't mind. I just wanted to get away from the Pat. Willy was there. He looked so much older now. But he was the same old Willy. full of fun.
No sooner had we left the school than he snatched the school report from my bag - after distracting me with a Twix. I tried to get it back but Pa's security pinned me to the back seat - Willy was in the front, as always. Even the security officer was smirking as Willy read page after page of my tutors unfairly judging me. And to put a cap on it, Pat wrote, "Henry is a vindictive, thoroughly unpleasant boy without a single virtue."
Which wasn't true at all. I could reach onto the top of the cistern in a peeing contest. I could hold my breath for fifty four seconds in a sink of water - sometimes longer if Bates had his way. And at Bulldog I was known as The Demon, for a move I developed of jumping up and kneeing the little kids in the chin - a move that worked for both 'on the floor' and 'off the ground'. Pat stopped me doing this, and banned Bulldog, when Tojo bit off half his tongue and ended up in hospital with concussion.
'They can laugh at me' I thought, as I watched the verdant trees flash past, 'But they wouldn't be laughing if they knew I hadn't smiled in months.'
It wasn't only Willy who had grown. Zara had to. I didn't know where to look. The last time I had seen Zara she was a little girl, just my cousin. Now she was bigger and listening to the Sugarcubes. She still reeked of horses, but she smelled of something else, Willy noticed it too. "It's White Musk," Zara explained, before hurrying off to the stables with two of her mother's bulldogs, Tyson and Bruno.
I liked the broad, almost African, skies of Norfolk. And anywhere was a relief to be out of the reach of that twisted sadist, Pat. But Sandringham haunted me. As it was here in 1843 that my ancestor had been murdered by having a red-hot poker shoved where the sun don't shine: after he was captured by diamond stealing slave traders during the Crusades against Robin Hood. I would lie in bed at night - kept awake by Willy's sleep apnoea - and imagine the curlews on the marshes were ghosts - or the unrestful souls of the dark eyed dead - or Pat's shriek when she saw me choking Tojo to make sure he had both shoulders on the ground - as he fitted, blood spurting from his mouth but still refusing to be yield and be caught - the fat little tit.
Everyone was very serious. John Smith had been elected Prime Minister. Pa and Auntie Anne no longer loved our mummy and Zara's daddy. Right Said Fred were number one. The Firm had called a meeting to decide on what must be done.
It was raining. A summer tumult poured from white skies, swirling with thunder and distant lighting. It pummeled against the window. The glass awash with a distorting lens of liquid film: running downwards, ever downwards; filling the gutters: pattering upon the shingled path in a symphony of gloom. We were directly beneath the cyclonic eye, without hope of respite.
Willy didn't notice. Mummy's new friend had bought him a Gameboy. He didn't buy me one. He said he wasn't made of money, so we'd have to share. He obviously didn't know William, he never shared anything.
Thus I found myself wandering the corridors of Sandringham house. There was no-one in the lounge so I went via the secret passage to the conservatory, then on through the billiard room to the library. I've never liked books. Yet rather than push on to the study, my attention was drawn to a fawn leather bound tome extruding from the shelf. Some greater force drew me, compelled me: ignoring the rasping cries of the magpie on the window ledge, it's beak tapping at the pane in existential warning. Cocking my head I read the book's title along the spine, 'Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery'. As a person always ready to make peace, I was intrigued. I tilted the book to take it from the shelf, and was startled to hear a grinding of gears from deep within the bowels of the earth.
The bookcase heaved upon an axle, opening with panting sigh, it swung to reveal a passage beyond. To my surprise a spiral staircase of pure crystal faded into illumination: lit by a dark-fire as one only sees when staring too closely at a candle. Thus bidden, I could not but accept the challenge, I stepped into that space and climbed that stairway - unsure if I would find kismet or death - the bookcase sealed into normalcy in my wake.
I smelt Matey. Heard the tinny trill of Steve Wright in the afternoon drifting from a boombox. This was Zara's room. The door to the en-suite was slightly ajar. I crept on my lightest toe to peep. She was sitting in the bath, the showerhead held like a microphone, stumbling over the words to 'It Only Takes A Minute'.
A prehensile human urge gripped me - some deep psychic energy filling me - surging up from the roots of the earth I tapped into the primeordeal - I needed to pee.
But fortune was with me. For by accident, or inscrutable design, my elbow touched the door. Zara caught sight of the peripheral movement and let out a scream unheard since Lizzie caught the Nigel kissing the gay chef. I kicked into survival mode, using all the skills I had learned in Beavers.
Willy must have heard the scream. For he came running. I confess from my vantage beneath the bed, between the po and a crocodile-skin suitcase, I saw only ankles: and the dancing poorly tailored hem of Zara's bathrobe.
I could barely breath. Knowing I stood condemned if discovered.
In my desperation I reached out to the cosmos.
Being favoured, the universe gave answer.
For then I saw it: a single pearl: some lost keepsake of the greater whole.
A token reaching across the aeons to guide the lovelorn and the lost toward their true destiny.
For the first time in months I smiled, .
Zara and Willy, like the saps they are, decided the peeper must have fled the room and went in pursuit: giving me chance to escape
- with my precious pearl.
They never knew it was me.
And never will."
I missed my family. And most of all I missed Pa's hugs.
At last the summer holidays came. Pa came to collect me in the Aston Martin. Mummy was away in Brighton with her friend: again. I didn't mind. I just wanted to get away from the Pat. Willy was there. He looked so much older now. But he was the same old Willy. full of fun.
No sooner had we left the school than he snatched the school report from my bag - after distracting me with a Twix. I tried to get it back but Pa's security pinned me to the back seat - Willy was in the front, as always. Even the security officer was smirking as Willy read page after page of my tutors unfairly judging me. And to put a cap on it, Pat wrote, "Henry is a vindictive, thoroughly unpleasant boy without a single virtue."
Which wasn't true at all. I could reach onto the top of the cistern in a peeing contest. I could hold my breath for fifty four seconds in a sink of water - sometimes longer if Bates had his way. And at Bulldog I was known as The Demon, for a move I developed of jumping up and kneeing the little kids in the chin - a move that worked for both 'on the floor' and 'off the ground'. Pat stopped me doing this, and banned Bulldog, when Tojo bit off half his tongue and ended up in hospital with concussion.
'They can laugh at me' I thought, as I watched the verdant trees flash past, 'But they wouldn't be laughing if they knew I hadn't smiled in months.'
It wasn't only Willy who had grown. Zara had to. I didn't know where to look. The last time I had seen Zara she was a little girl, just my cousin. Now she was bigger and listening to the Sugarcubes. She still reeked of horses, but she smelled of something else, Willy noticed it too. "It's White Musk," Zara explained, before hurrying off to the stables with two of her mother's bulldogs, Tyson and Bruno.
I liked the broad, almost African, skies of Norfolk. And anywhere was a relief to be out of the reach of that twisted sadist, Pat. But Sandringham haunted me. As it was here in 1843 that my ancestor had been murdered by having a red-hot poker shoved where the sun don't shine: after he was captured by diamond stealing slave traders during the Crusades against Robin Hood. I would lie in bed at night - kept awake by Willy's sleep apnoea - and imagine the curlews on the marshes were ghosts - or the unrestful souls of the dark eyed dead - or Pat's shriek when she saw me choking Tojo to make sure he had both shoulders on the ground - as he fitted, blood spurting from his mouth but still refusing to be yield and be caught - the fat little tit.
Everyone was very serious. John Smith had been elected Prime Minister. Pa and Auntie Anne no longer loved our mummy and Zara's daddy. Right Said Fred were number one. The Firm had called a meeting to decide on what must be done.
It was raining. A summer tumult poured from white skies, swirling with thunder and distant lighting. It pummeled against the window. The glass awash with a distorting lens of liquid film: running downwards, ever downwards; filling the gutters: pattering upon the shingled path in a symphony of gloom. We were directly beneath the cyclonic eye, without hope of respite.
Willy didn't notice. Mummy's new friend had bought him a Gameboy. He didn't buy me one. He said he wasn't made of money, so we'd have to share. He obviously didn't know William, he never shared anything.
Thus I found myself wandering the corridors of Sandringham house. There was no-one in the lounge so I went via the secret passage to the conservatory, then on through the billiard room to the library. I've never liked books. Yet rather than push on to the study, my attention was drawn to a fawn leather bound tome extruding from the shelf. Some greater force drew me, compelled me: ignoring the rasping cries of the magpie on the window ledge, it's beak tapping at the pane in existential warning. Cocking my head I read the book's title along the spine, 'Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackery'. As a person always ready to make peace, I was intrigued. I tilted the book to take it from the shelf, and was startled to hear a grinding of gears from deep within the bowels of the earth.
The bookcase heaved upon an axle, opening with panting sigh, it swung to reveal a passage beyond. To my surprise a spiral staircase of pure crystal faded into illumination: lit by a dark-fire as one only sees when staring too closely at a candle. Thus bidden, I could not but accept the challenge, I stepped into that space and climbed that stairway - unsure if I would find kismet or death - the bookcase sealed into normalcy in my wake.
I smelt Matey. Heard the tinny trill of Steve Wright in the afternoon drifting from a boombox. This was Zara's room. The door to the en-suite was slightly ajar. I crept on my lightest toe to peep. She was sitting in the bath, the showerhead held like a microphone, stumbling over the words to 'It Only Takes A Minute'.
A prehensile human urge gripped me - some deep psychic energy filling me - surging up from the roots of the earth I tapped into the primeordeal - I needed to pee.
But fortune was with me. For by accident, or inscrutable design, my elbow touched the door. Zara caught sight of the peripheral movement and let out a scream unheard since Lizzie caught the Nigel kissing the gay chef. I kicked into survival mode, using all the skills I had learned in Beavers.
Willy must have heard the scream. For he came running. I confess from my vantage beneath the bed, between the po and a crocodile-skin suitcase, I saw only ankles: and the dancing poorly tailored hem of Zara's bathrobe.
I could barely breath. Knowing I stood condemned if discovered.
In my desperation I reached out to the cosmos.
Being favoured, the universe gave answer.
For then I saw it: a single pearl: some lost keepsake of the greater whole.
A token reaching across the aeons to guide the lovelorn and the lost toward their true destiny.
For the first time in months I smiled, .
Zara and Willy, like the saps they are, decided the peeper must have fled the room and went in pursuit: giving me chance to escape
- with my precious pearl.
They never knew it was me.
And never will."
- Status