In an explain! exclusive preview for his upcoming memoir, STRIKE (a sequel memoir to his four-time platinum, Oscar-nominated, Tony-award winning bestseller, SPARE), ex-Prince Harry has sent over a pre-print pre-edit pre-manuscript.
Not recommended for people with mummy issues, daddy issues, the British, people who like cookies and people under the age of 18.
I woke up in a cold sweat. It had been years since I’d lived in England (said in a Bri’ish accent, innit), but the scent of tea and crumpets floated around me always. I’ll go to the Blue Chip Cookie Store and order what Canadians refer to as a “cookie” — what a funny culture!
But then, I’ll eat the cookie and it will taste like tea and I will actually go cry to my mum because I’m in love with her — I mean I love her — but wait I can’t, she’s dead. Too soon? my mum is so beautiful any man would be lucky to have her i can’t believe anyone would give her up it makes no sense i want to murder my dad he’s a cu—.
I hate my dad.
It’s then that my forebutler, John, wakes me from my blissful daydream. That’s right, I said “forebutler” — the Royal Family has butlers for its butlers. What a ridiculous concept! Anyhow, Jeremy tells me it’s time to make the rounds. He dresses me in a hurry, feeding me a “cookie” (pronounced kew-kay) with his free hand as I look at my beautiful colonial blue and white body in the mirror. I think about my years of service to the Royal British Army and how much I’ve sacrificed. A single tear wells in my eye, but I stifle it — I’m a big prince and big princes don’t cry in front of their forebutlers! My sexy mum taught me that. Joseph leads me to the “elevator,” a thimble-sized metal container. I swear it looked exactly like a lift! My dad loves lifts, I wonder how he’s doing, maybe I can visit him and kick his ass, I mean kiss his ass, I mean go visit him to say “fuck you,” I mean “hello.”
Having to walk such a distance down the hallway on my own has left me winded, but Jimothy tells me we will be able to rest inside the box for a few minutes. I absolutely demolish the rest of my “cookie” in relief.
My time gallivanting about the Commonwealth left me homesick for the bleak, grey skies of home and the fuking Bukingham Palace. But as luck would have it, new-worlders have this lovely little thing they call a “season,” where the palace shrubs change in appearance — how quaint! My mum would’ve loved it.
I was told that soon, “summer” would end and the skies would adopt the proper hue of the Isles. While this thought brings calm to my interior storm, going outside still distresses me greatly. I spend most of my days confined to my tiny palazzo, alone with only my 40 or so staff to accompany me. My aftbutler had to enlist the assistance of a sub-aftbutler to pry me from my bed each morning and puppeteer my legs out the door.
The pair — whose names escape me are probably important to them — assist me with my princely duties. Though I found their fashion choices odd at the time — when accompanying me to my meet-and-greets, they dressed in skin-tight lime green bodysuits — their ability to walk my legs from person to person while saluting was second to none. I know that as you read this, you feel a great sadness for those carrying this great burden. And, dear subject, I applaud your compassion.
It is hard work, but someone has to do it, and that someone is me.
The views and opinions expressed in this excerpt from STRIKE totally reflect the views and opinions of the explain! editorial board. What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
This is part of The Ubyssey's 2023 spoof issue, explain!. To read more, click here.