As leaked excerpts from Prince Harry’s ghost-written ‘pulp fiction’ memoire, ‘Spare’ continue to pop up in the gutter press tabloid news sheets, publishers Backstab Bios, have speculated on best case, and worst case, marketing scenarios – that every fucker and their dog would buy at least two copies of this royal celebrity-orientated crap - and read the first few shit-raking pages before tossing it in the trashcan, or using it as bog paper - then giving the second copy away as a birthday present to some wanker they don’t like – as opposed to the worst case scenario that no fucker would buy a copy, as Harry’s such a whinging twat who married a gold-digging Yoko Moano carbon copy, possessed by an inflated Me, Me, Me ego far beyond the realm of her limited, double digit IQ - a situation that’s not compensated for in any intellectually-balancing manner either, due Harry being as thick as pig shit, and the type of bungling twat who could fuck up a perfectly good anvil.
To wit, from a literary perspective, the entire content of the 416 page hardback edition is a concocted pile of blame-shaming, finger-pointing trivia and drivel - and at £28 nicker per copy, then one can buy a couple of decent reads from established authors for the same price – or less, as opposed to Harry's character assassination hate tome.
“Mummy’ (Princess Diana) would have been mortified and heartbroken that our family relationship has ended up where it's ended up”, claims ex-royal Harry, viz the conflict with 'Daddy' (sic) King Dobby III, and his elder brother, Bald Willy.
If, that is, of
course, Mummy was still around – and not been murdered in a set-up car smash in
a Paris tunnel by Daddy’s assassins - (probably by the same crew who snuffed (cheese-wired) Di’s bodyguard / lover, Barry Mannakee, in a rigged motorbike 'accident') - due a fit of Saxe-Coburg und Gotha pique and jealousy, and to
stop her marrying a Muslim nobody – even if his father did sort-of own Harrods - on behalf of the Sultan of Brunei.
‘Well written, Harry’, state some fawning reviewers of ‘Spare’ – but let’s get realistic here, Harry’s not the sharpest pebble on the beach, in fact not even smart enough to write a shopping list, let alone ‘a memoire’. For, truth be known, the entire bio’ was salvaged, sorted, and compiled from a heap of Harry’s scribbled notes, boozy, bacchanalian, ramblings and 'selective memory' recollections into a state of readable mediocrity, by celebrity ghost-writer, R.J. Molestrangler.
Hmmm, ‘Spare’ might well be the title of Prince Harry of House Hewitt’s memoir, but from a proofing reader’s perspective it might be better titled ‘Spare Us’.
While some sympathetic ‘poor Harry’ readers are giving the bio’ full marks, others, and especially so the Taliban, are incensed by the content, that Harry boasts of murdering their mujahideen brethren in cold blood while a military mission tourist to Afghanistan.
To quote: “When
I was a pilot / gunner in the Army Air Corp, flying an Apache helicopter and
wearing my best Geronimo t-shirt, I used to shoot all the nasty unwashed Taliban
oicks I could catch in my chain gun sights – and one day I - rat-a-tat-tat! - snuffed twenty-five
of their number with a single burst.”
No shit, Sherlock, Harry’s obviously following in the royal footsteps of the familicide-fixated Plantagenet clan; as a body count of twenty-five is more than Richard the Third, or Hannibal Lecher, ever did - combined.
Killer Harry quote: "They were chess pieces, removed from the board. Bad people eliminated before they could kill good people."
Yeah right – more at: ‘before they could kill other bad people’.
Fer fuck’s sake, who wants to play chess with Dirty Harry under the articles of Hewitt’s Law – and get snuffed for that sneaky 'accidental' extra square jump with your knight.
Then Harry, cued by a muted roll of melodramatic drums, morphs literally, into a faux emotional state, to win over the readership with his ginger ‘soft side’.
“I cried after
my Daddy, the Prince of Wales, had Mummy and her Muslim lover boy Dodo murdered
in Paris in a car crash set-up by MI5 agents”.
“I cried even more when Daddy’s nasty old broomstick merchant ‘new wife’, the chain-smoking ‘Royal Romp’ – Gorgonzilla Porker-Toilet-Bowls, would jab me with her long, dirty Witchipoo fingernails and say I was a ginger mingin cuckoo, and that Daddy Chazzer isn’t my real Daddy, cos Mummy had been shagging her riding instructor, Jimmy Hewitt, and I was really just a royal ranga bastard”.
Ergo, one might be tempted to speculate and sport a wry smile, that our beloved, and alas, departed, People’s Princess got her own back on her murderous scrote of a husband, Prince Dobby Big Ears, as he was then - (pre-Monarch status) - by cuckooing and curdling the royal house's Kraut DNA, and planting ranga Harry the Spare and his ginger-mingin Spencer-Hewitt mongrel genes in the Saxe-Coburg und Gotha bloodline.
From a psycho-analyst
opinion, ‘Bald Patch’ Harry’s just a lost soul who wants to be liked, and preferably,
loved – even when dressed for the party in Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler’s
personal Sunday best SS uniform – a major socio-political gaffe he now blames
Willy n Kate for - due the fact the thick twat can’t think for himself.
There again, the pathetic wanker is seduced to conform to the self-serving demands of his B-actress delusional drama queen spouse, Duchess Meghan - of Sussex; a pampered prima donna who is clueless as to where Sussex actually is - and wed Harry so her stateside ‘brand’ (sic) value was boosted by the association with Food Bank Britain’s Saxe-Coburg und Gotha gene line Royal Family - yet still complains and whinges for Poor Me sympathy over the most trivial of shit – while hopelessly infected with a severe case of ‘royal throne syndrome’.
Hence her derogatory sobriquet of Yoko Moano following the release of their nauseating joint Cuckoo in the Nest / Arche-shite Productions / Netflix-broadcast Ginge & Whinge Show – a mega-bucks spinning extravaganza of theatre -six hours of concocted slapstick waffle n tripe - starring Ginger & Whinger – ensconced in the Golden State, Montecito-sited, Fortress Hewitt - drawbridge raised, and proclaiming to the world at large on Meghan’s ‘Me, Me, Me’ crazed narcissist ‘influencer’ website that they are victims – of black-ism, and ginger-ism, and thus pushing the money-grubbing PR smoke and mirrors ‘above reproach’ propaganda dynamic.
Ah well, perhaps this problematic and embarrassing brouhaha would not be a global reach newsworthy scandal issue if Harry had been raised to stop thinking with his bollocks instead of his brains (sic) – and not opted to marry some self-promoting, gold-digging three-hole slapper just cos she gave him a fair suck n swallow blow job, and simultaneous prostate massage.
So, WTF is a
critical thinker to make of this semi-confessional, angry drunk, blame-shaming rant
from Harry, the royal stoner; and his bullshit talk of 'reconciliation' with King Daddy III, and elder brother / King-in-Waiting, Prince of Wales, Willy - after Harry's concept of burying the hatchet was to embed it, craven style, deep in Willy's back. Yep, you've got it - Harry's lost the plot.
To wit, after viewing the antics of Harry n Meghan for the past few years, we, the public demographic at large, have formed a considered opinion that neither are IQ-appropriate to be doing anything on their own, and should be monitored and chaperoned by a responsible adult – preferably one with a background of supervisor rank at a mental health institution.
Allergy warning: for readers suffering from HSS (Hypersensitive Snowflake Syndrome) – there is no known EpiPen medication remedy for adverse reactions to the 'politically incorrect' – aka the Truth.
This article was composed in a known propaganda-infested area - and whilst purposely blending high octane unorthodox irreverence, slanderous allegations and unbridled conjecture with measures of wild rumour and caffeine-boosted public interest factoids - may also contain traces of slight exaggeration, modest porkies, misaligned references, 5G electrosmog radiation, and a chemtrail residue of genetically-modified nano-particle bush telegraph innuendo.
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