I've got a feeling it will be a fairly easy read, so I'll wait for a charity shop copy!Well, we flew through that last thread ... carry on here.
When I was in Tesco today I was very tempted to pick up a copy of the book. I had absolutely no intention of doing so but I now feel it should be in the collection for its notoriety alone. I did manage to resist.
Me too … and hopefully I’ll get one where a couple of people have had a margin note and foot note argument. They always brighten it upI've got a feeling it will be a fairly easy read, so I'll wait for a charity shop copy!
Not round here … it was chucking it down.I can’t believe some bookshops opened at midnight for the release. Were they seriously expecting queues?
Oo there’s a thought. If I ever manage to get a charity book copy I could add some annotations to it. Would they still sell a copy with Fuckwit written inside?!Me too … and hopefully I’ll get one where a couple of people have had a margin note and foot note argument. They always brighten it up
The Princess Diana one I had from the Charity shop was hilarious. The footnote arguing was bonkers.Oo there’s a thought. If I ever manage to get a charity book copy I could add some annotations to it. Would they still sell a copy with Fuckwit written inside?!
I could also alter the cover…
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I saw that and thought the same.Am I missing something, do meghan and harry have an official amazon account, and have left a review of their own book?
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The flip from 'mummy' to cock and back again is so rapid that my head is spinning. Freud may have had a point.It was still so hard to think of Mummy in the realm of Death. Mummy, who’d danced with Travolta, who’d quarreled with Elton, who’d dazzled the Reagans—could she really be in the Great Beyond with the spirits of Newton and Chaucer? Between these thoughts of Mummy and death and my frostnipped penis, I was in danger of becoming as anxious as the groom.
My penis was oscillating between extremely sensitive and borderline traumatized. The last place I wanted to be was Frostnipistan. I’d been trying some home remedies, including one recommended by a friend. She’d urged me to apply Elizabeth Arden cream. My mum used that on her lips. You want me to put that on my todger? It works, Harry. Trust me. I found a tube, and the minute I opened it the smell transported me through time. I felt as if my mother was right there in the room. Then I took a smidge and applied it…down there. “Weird” doesn’t really do the feeling justice.
Make it stop!!The flip from 'mummy' to cock and back again is so rapid that my head is spinning. Freud may have had a point.
To be fair to Harry I can understand why he’d find someone parked in Diana’s space hard to accept. It’s just another sign that shows she is gone and life has moved on without her.The flat had three tall windows, but they admitted little light, so the differences between dawn, dusk and midday were nominal at best. Sometimes the question was rendered moot by Mr. R, who lived directly upstairs. He liked to park his massive gray Discovery hard against the windows, blotting out all light entirely. I wrote him a note, politely asking if he might perhaps pull his car forward a few inches. He fired back a reply telling me to suck eggs. Then he went to Granny and asked her to tell me the same. She never did speak to me about it, but the fact that Mr. R felt secure enough, supported enough, to denounce me to the monarch showed my true place in the pecking order. He was one of Granny’s equerries.
Every day Mrs. R parked her car in Mummy’s old spot.She was guilty of an even more egregious vehicular crime than her husband.
I can still see her gliding into that space, right where my mother’s green BMW used to be. It was wrong of me, and I knew it was wrong, but on some level I condemned Mrs. R for it.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
He is insufferable.About Invictus games
A Paralympics for soldiers from all over the world! In London’s Olympic Park! Where the London Olympics had just happened! With full support and cooperation from the Palace. Maybe?
The first step would be pitching the Royal Foundation Board, which oversaw my charitable projects and Willy’s and Kate’s. It was our foundation, so I told myself: No problem.
But when the actual day came, not so much. I realized how badly I wanted this, for the soldiers and their families, and if I’m being honest: for myself. And this sudden attack of nerves kept me from being at my best. Still, I got through it, and the board said yes. Thrilled, I reached out to Willy, expecting him to be thrilled as well. He was sorely irritated. He wished I’d run all this by him first. My assumption, I said, was that other people had done so. He complained that I’d be using up all the funds in the Royal Foundation. That’s absurd, I spluttered. I was told only a half-million-pound grant would be needed to get the games going, a fraction of the foundation’s money. Besides, it was coming from the Endeavour Fund, an arm of the foundation I’d created specifically for veterans’ recovery. The rest would come from donors and sponsors. What was going on here? I wondered. Then I realized: My God, sibling rivalry. I put a hand over my eyes. Had we not got past this yet? The whole Heir versus Spare thing? Wasn’t it a bit late in the day for that tired childhood dynamic? But even if it wasn’t, even if Willy insisted on being competitive, on turning our brotherhood into some kind of private Olympiad, hadn’t he built up an insurmountable lead? He was married, with a baby on the way, while I was eating takeaway alone over the sink. Pa’s sink! I still lived with Pa! Game over, man. You win.
Prince Harry, The Duke of Sussex.
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