“I landed on the dog’s bowl,” it’s reported that Harry writes, after being “knocked down” by his brother, “[the bowl] cracked under my back, the pieces cutting into me. I lay there for a moment, dazed, then got to my feet and told him to get out.”
I wouldn’t dare doubt the veracity of this detail, but I would just say that I’ve spent the last 25 minutes Googling different dog bowls and am yet to find one that would break under the weight of a man falling on it, let alone smash into shards that get stuck in said bloke’s back, leaving visible scars.
Was Guy’s bowl made from crystal? Stained glass? Was he given a human wine glass to drink from, as an apology for the whole leg-breaking thing? Whatever the answers, Meghan came home a few days later and noticed that while she was away, something – or somebody – had scraped her husband’s back.
She must have feared the worst, her mind leaping to different conclusions. Fortunately, the explanation was simple: “Oh Christ, um, yeah, that? Basically my brother, Willy, the heir to the throne, came over the other day and put his water down – piping hot he was – then knocked me to the floor, ripping my favourite necklace and smashing the dog bowl, which broke into pieces and cut into me, leaving these marks. So er, yeah, that’s why?”
Meghan, for some reason, “wasn’t that surprised”. Just classic Harold.
‘Nott Cott’
PlattyJoobs, Panny-D, Statty-Funes [State Funeral], Nervy-B, Lizzy Line… we thought these abbreviations start on Hunsnet (“the home of hunfluencers and the go-to experts to discuss all things hun”), but maybe they are set from the top, originating within the monarchy before being released into society.
We now await a response from BuPa. That’s Buckingham Palace, not the healthcare group. Though, thinking about it, Harry may well have required their help, too. Dog bowls are lethal.
FIIIIIIGHT!
So, British Army 0 – 1 Royal Air Force Search and Rescue. Who would have called that upset? Not me, though it is possible Harry held back, or at least told Meghan he held back, lest he do something worse in retaliation.
“Babe, you know I know karate,” he might have said, wincing as she pulled shards of Fluff Trough from his back and dabbed the wound with TCP.
The people to feel sorry for are their opposing security details, waiting outside and presumably bursting in when they heard the shouts and glass breaking. What is the protocol there? Stand aside and let it happen? Battle each other, like dæmons in His Dark Materials when their humans fight? Start a sweepstake and take the afternoon off, since prince-on-prince violence doesn’t count? One day, let’s hope Peter Morgan shows us in The Crown.
