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brf-rumortrackinganon · 9 months ago

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My central thesis has always been that the Harkles wanted everything the Wales have and more. I know I remember reading that she cried after hearing William was made Prince of Wales. Right from the get go, her PR was all "Meghan is way better suited to be royal". Then there were all the Commonwealth flowers on her bridal veil and their insistence that they move into Windsor Castle. Now I don't believe everthing Neil Sean says, but his latest video mentions that Megxit was an ultimatum to get Windsor. As that is the traditional home of the Monarch, I feel as though they were attempting a coup.

Then there is the thought that Harry believes that the Dutchy of Cornwall should be split and he should eventually be made co-King or King of the Commonwealth. Let the Wales have that tiny island while they are jetted and feted around the world.

Here's my question for you. Did Meghan and Sparry REALLY believe they could leapfrog over the Wales??? I know her jealousy and envy of Catherine is bunny boiler level and he absolutely eviscerated his brother in Waagh. Has this been their plan all along?? Death by a thousand cuts for the Wales to force them to resign their place in the LOS or that they could somehow convince Charles to make Harry the heir??

I'd like to know where you think the delusions stem from. It wouldn't be the first time in history that younger brother has attempted to remove old brother from the throne.

Sincerely appreciate your blog and all the work you put into it. I'm always learning something new.

I'm pretty sure that was exactly their plan: they wanted to use their popularity to force The Queen to name them as her successors. I don't remember where I read this or when, but allegedly Harry sent "documentation" to someone - to whom specifically I can't recall, but options are The Queen, Charles, William, and/or grey suits - providing evidence for claims that he and Meghan were more popular than any of the others and deserved more than what they were getting.

And if they couldn't get the actual crown, they were going to do their damnedest to try and get a co-kingship with William. That's where Meghan's obsession with the Commonwealth came from; she had been told (again, I don't know by whom - all signs point to Harry exaggerating to keep her interested or maybe Charles spitballing ideas during his 'Magnificent Six' planning circa 2012) that William would rule Britannia and Harry would rule the Commonwealth.

I think that's why Meghan went all in on 'racist Kate.' Not only did she want to knock Kate out of the spotlight, she wanted to do enough damage that Commonwealth/realm nations would threaten to quit and The Queen would capitulate by offering to install Harry and Meghan as new leaders. This actually had a chance of working; it's been said quite often during her last years and since her passing that The Queen saw the Commonwealth as her greatest legacy and there was speculation that she would have done anything she could have to keep it in tact. And had Meghan played her cards right, she and Harry probably could have ended up becoming the main ambassadors of and for the Commonwealth, like a Commonwealth version of the UN Secretary-General.

But where the plan failed, obviously, was that it required blaming Kate for problems and issues that don't exist. Because remember, in 2021 when Meghan was making these claims, we'd just gone through the huge global reckoning that was Black Lives Matter and the agreement during/after BLM was "call racist people out on their BS. Put them on blast. Don't let them get away with it anymore." So not only would Meghan have been perfectly justified to name names, cite events, bring receipits, air the real dirty laundry and everyone would've been so much more supportive of it. But she didn't. Instead she played coy and said something like "I'm protecting them even though they don't deserve it."

Girl, please. That was Meghan's one chance to go justifiably scorched earth and air out all the dirty laundry and she fumbled hard.

Anyway. Let's get this train back on track. Where do the delusions come from? Traumatic childhoods courtesy of Mommies Dearest.

We all know Harry's story with Diana. She was a young, fun, free spirited loving mom larger than life with a neediness that she depended on her children to fill, rather than her own husband or other adults her age, so Harry grew to find satisfaction in supporting and providing her what she needed. He probably saw, and understood, the way Diana received what she wanted by exaggerating what she needed and following it up with excluding or isolating herself until whoever came chasing after her to give her what she wanted. And ultimately this led her (and Harry) down a path that ended up killing her; she exaggerated the relationship with Dodi to get attention from Hasnat or the BRF, then isolated herself in France to force whoever (Hasnat? Charles Wales? Charles Spencer?) to come chase after her. We know how that ends.

That's where Harry's delusions, IMO, come from. He saw how it well it worked (mostly) for Diana - exaggerate her needs/wants, then run and hide until she gets it - so he does it too. He probably started doing it right after she died, when no one knew what to do or how to handle him so they kept indulging in everything he wanted, so those wants kept manifesting bigger and bigger. And I think the way we see the BRF treating Harry is what would have happened to Diana had she lived; eventually the public would sour on her (this was already happening, by the way), which would then enable the BRF to grey rock her, devenomizing her in effect, and move on without Diana having too much of an influence on their day-to-day.

It's sort of similar for Meghan. We don't know specifically what happened (the way we do with Harry and Diana), but we know that Doria was a young, fun, free-spirited mother herself married to an older husband who had other priorities (eg kids from his first marriage). Unlike Diana, Doria probably didn't want the responsibilities of motherhood (which is the vibe Meghan and Thomas have given about Doria during Meghan's childhood) and left. And like the BRF, Thomas may have also overcompensated Doria's absence in Meghan's life by giving her everything she asked for, which made her asks get bigger and bigger and when Thomas couldn't deliver, she threatened to leave him...like Doria did and Thomas, erstwhile girldad he was, just kept throwing more and more at Meghan to keep her happy. Her delusions come from preying on other individuals' trauma to ensure she gets what she wants. The bigger her wants (ie the more grandiose her delusions), the harder she manipulates other people's trauma to make sure she gets what she wants. Which is kinda the opposite of Harry and Diana; they create the trauma to get people to do what they want, whereas Meghan exploits it to get people to do what she wants. Both are skills they learned after being abandoned (metaphorically and literally) by their mothers.

And all of Meghan's PR about "young mother," I think it's more insidious than that. Yes, it's a very overt evocation of Diana's narrative. Yes, it's a judgement against Kate. But it is also digs at Doria. "See? Motherhood is hard but I'm prioritizing my kid. How dare you to have left me" kind of spiteful digs meant to shame her for whatever happened that caused her to disappear. Meghan is the kind of person who must always have the last word, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's been targeting or belitting Doria about not knowing certain things about Archie/Lili because she wasn't around when Meghan was that age.

So...yeah.

I've realized now that this is the third or fourth Wednesday in a row that I write these super long analytical/in this essay I will posts. I guess Wednesdays are my thinking days...

#ask #sussexes #theories #brf

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doomandgloomfromthetomb · 11 months ago

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Brian Eno - CJOM-FM, Windsor, Ontario, July 21, 1974

What was Brian Eno doing in Windsor, Ontario, in the summer of 1974?! I don't know, exactly (I also don't know exactly if he was in Windsor, Ontario — see the YouTube comments for some discussion as to whether he was across the border in Detroit, instead). But I do know that this is a cool little slice of late-night radio with Eno and DJ Ronnie Legg — some candid discussion, some joking around, some catty gossip.

Eno had obviously had a very busy year already — he'd released his solo debut Here Come The Warm Jets (50 years old last month!); he'd gone on tour with the Winkies, (a tour which was cut short due to Brian's famously collapsed lung); he'd performed with Kevin Ayers, John Cale and Nico at the Rainbow Theatre (later released as June 1, 1974); he'd helped Nico record The End; and, as he tells Legg, he was already well into the making of Taking Tiger Mountain By Strategy. Dude was making things happen!

But Brian sounds cool as a cucumber on the air here, explaining his departure from Roxy Music and his dislike of the touring lifestyle, along with some typically ahead-of-the-curve recommendations of Sparks and the burgeoning krautrock scene. "I'm gonna have to write these names down!" Legg (who otherwise seems quite hip) exclaims when Eno tells him about Kraftwerk, Neu!, Can and Harmonia. Good as always to remember that those were different times; you couldn't just dial up obscure German bands on your phone. But I'm sure that Brian knew that — someday — you would.

Speaking of different times, one thing Eno doesn't seem too enamored with is Lou Reed, who was then touring behind the sleaze-tastic Sally Can't Dance. He says that he's seen Lou twice already in '74 and pretty much hated both experiences. Fair enough — I can see how the cartoonish funk-rock that Reed and his band were playing at the time would definitely not be Eno's cup of tea. "He seems to have moved against all the things that I thought were interesting in the original Velvet Underground — which were the qualities of 'bad' musicianship rather than 'good' musicianship that distinguished them. The fact they didn't know when to let up when they weren't tasteful at any point. The new band that he's got now are incredibly tasteful and very into long, funky guitar solos. I mean, who needs it?"

#brian eno

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the-empress-7 · 6 months ago

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Did all of this "my family's not safe" bs start after the Plat Jub trip to the UK? Or because they were able to stay at Froggy Cott and had the umbrella protection there and at the 2 events they attended, it wasn't an issue and now they don't have that umbrella because they are NFI to any BRF events yet want IPP so they can do anything/go anywhere they want in the UK (and elsewhere)? So they really don't want to see his family at all, they just want to be able to (private) jet in and out of the country any time they want and be treated as a head of state.

It all started since the night his pencil dick fell into her. For real, she started the "I fear for my life because I am not white" since the day she met him, it's when she staged the false break in at her Toronto rental, which then eventually led to him releasing the love shield statement.

You have to understand that she has carefully plotted this from all the way in 2016. In short order, Harry went from being her unwitting puppet to co-conspirator.

You are right that it has ramped up and there are a few reasons for it 1. The Queen died which messed up their timeline 2. FC was never good enough for them, even if they still had it, we'd still be here today. She was never going to settle for anything less than Windsor Castle. 3. Until last year (post eviction) Charles was still offering them accommodations at CH or St. James. Like I just said, not good enough.

Not having IPP status or whatever would look like its equivalent has really put a spanner in their plan to campaign their way to getting Harry elected as Head of the Commonwealth and then Co-King (readers please don't come argue with me about this paragraph, I know what the facts are but the Harkles do not).

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kaoharu · 10 months ago

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hello friends welcome to my milgram outfit observations 👍 im your host yves and im a totally seasoned clothing analyzer

anyways onto the observations themselves warning for incoming long post cause im a rambler o7

tagging @urrvw & @monopoisonous ^–^ !!! hi guys

alrighty now then as you can see in the newest milgram art, all the male prisoners seem to be wearing the Exact Same suit at first glance however there are some stark but also miniscule differences in both the type of suit and style of the outfits as a whole on each of them ( at least to me anyways )

some of the more noticeable parts of the suits that are different for each would be the pockets , buttons , and vents while some smaller things wld be the lapels , shoulders , seams , and collar type + tie as well as shoes

( i drew up a helpful graphic for the suit jacket parts for your convenience using fuuta as an example since we can see the most of his suit 👍👍 )

— MIKOTO

so based off the details we can see of mikotos jacket, he is Most Likely wearing some variation of a two / three buttoned single breasted notched or closing front lapel sports jacket or blazer with flap pockets. he also has front darts ( front seams ) going up the whole front of his jacket, as opposed to the side seams i highlighted on fuuta's jacket

his jacket also appeared to be a fitted silhouette as the shoulders are sligjtly defines and lifts slightly up, unlike a structures or sack jacket. as for his shirt, he seems to be wearing some type of cutaway collared shirt with a four in hand knot tie ( its very hard to tell to be honest im guessing on the general size of the knot ) his collar is neatly done and more reminiscent to how an office worker might wear theirs

finally we have his shoes, seemingly very similar to harukas, but i believe they are plain toe derby loafers since the shape is more rounded than it is sharp like a wingtip

— KAZUI

next we have kazui who im guessing is wearing two button single notched lapel suit with jetted pockets. the jacket is prob a fitted silouhette as it goes across the shoulders in a relatively straight line but kinda ? showing off his shoulders in a way. i believe he has side seams as well if you look closely to his shoulder not being covered by the bouquet 👍

his shirt seems to be a (semi)spread collared shirt with a (?) half windsor knot <- once again its hard to tell really 🤷‍♀️ then unlike all the other dudes, kazui actually has a suitvest underneath his jacket this is usually only done for formal events such as weddings, galas, or high profile business meetings . . . his collar is neat and closed tho not as much as shidous

then we have his shoes, which i think are cap toe derby loafers, his shoes are very similar to shidou, like how mikoto and haruka had similar ones, but the overall shape of kazui's shoe suggest a more casual derby rather than an oxford

— SHIDOU

shidou has a six buttoned double breasted notched lapel blazer jacket with jetted pockets. the jacket seems to be a structured sihoulette since the shoulders go pretty much straight across rather than dipping at all. he also appears to have front darts starting from his breast pocket, tho it doesnt span the whole front like mikoto

his shirt wld appear to be either a classic or spread collared shirt and an oriental tie / simple knot 👍 this a knot that is often done by wives for their husbands iirc . hrm !! his collar is completely closed as well

and like i mentioned in kazuis section, i believe shidou has cap toe oxford. these are often seen and worn in mainly formal settings

— FUUTA

fuuta has a two buttoned single breasted notched lapel blazer jacket with flap pockets. it would also appear that it has a fitted silhouette, and as pointed out in the graphic i drew he has side seams running from around the underarms to the bottom of the jacket

his shirt underneath is most likely a full cutaway w a four in hand knot ? its tied rather loosely compared to the other tho as uu can see his collar is more open than kazuis

fuuta is so silly cause he has pennyloafers ( i love these shoes btw theyre basically slip ons and once broken in theyre very comfy in my experience 👍 anyways tho ) these are often worn in business casual setting

— HARUKA

haruka has a three buttoned single breasted notched lapel sports jacket with flap pockets, tho he has a noticeable lack of seams that are used to fit the jacket on a perskn better. this makes the jacket look slightly ill fitted to him but it cld also be intentional as the shoulders imply that its a sack silhouette type

as for his collar, it looks most similar to a classic one w a kelvin knot, done a bit looser than normal but still tighter than fuutas tie

finally, im pretty sure haruka has wingtip derby loafers, as mentioned in fuutas section, as overall design of the shoe is similar to fuuta but the tipe is slightly more pointed looking

aaaaand thats pretty much it ❓️ i dont have any connections to make so yepp . . . sorry these got shorter and shorter LOL

#✧ chatting !#wahoooo my singular contribution to the milgram fandom #no maintagging for me. feel free to maintag addons tho mutuals #idk if that works for reblogs but yeag

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supercap2319 · 1 year ago

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Henry and Alex both fall for Pokemon coordinator male reader that use a Primarina

Alex and Henry didn't want to be here. They certainly didn't want to be here and be next to each other in the press box, but it was their duty to their families, so they sucked it up.

Prince of Wales Henry George Edward James Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor. And first son Alexander Claremont Diaz were the special guests in today's Pokemon contest. They were supposed to watch, observe, and cheer for whoever one the whole event. Henry liked watching Pokemon contests. They were better than showcases and much more elegant than battles. Alex, on the other hand, preferred battles, but he knew that the battling part came later on, so he was bored out of his mind. They both were.

They tried not to hide how dreadfully boring all the contestants and their performances were as they watched the master of ceremonies try to hype the energy of the crowd, but it wasn't working for Alex or Henry. That is until a young man came on next.

"And now… all the way from (insert place you live here) it's Y/N, L/N!"

Alex and Henry watched as a young man came into the center of the stage as they were both finally focusing on something else other than their boredom. The young man took out a Pokemon and flashed an innocent smile as he threw it up into the air. "Primarina, go get 'em!'" In a flash of light a Pokemon that resembles a cross between a sea lion and a mermaid. Most of its body is white, but it has a long, blue, fish-like tail. It has a long snout with a round, pink nose, bright blue eyes with long white eyelashes, and long light blue hair trailing off the back of its head.

"Use sing!" He commanded as Henry and Alex and the crowd watched as the mermaid-like Pokemon sang a wonderful song that was captivating and beautiful as the young coordinator commanded his Pokemon to switch to a move called Sparkling Aria as it created a balloon out of water until it expanded and grew to giant size. Everyone watched as it floated towards the ceiling as both boys wondered what he planned to do with it.

"Ice beam!" Primarina opened its mouth as it let out a stream of light blue energy and the bubble of water was frozen solid. The crowd oohed and ahhed at the sparkles the ice created. "Now use Aqua Jet!" The Pokemon jumped high as it shot like a rocket towards the ice bubble in a stream of water over its body as it broke through and shattered the bubble until the pieces broke off and ended up hitting each other, creating a wave of sparkles around the arena. Henry and Alex were simply enchanted by his performance as they joined the crowd in cheering for the young man.

After he left, the results of who was making it to the second round were in, and both young men were glad to see the trainer with the Primarina had made it. When it was all said and done, Alex and Henry went to the center of the stage to present the ribbon to the winner of today's contest. Y/N L/N. "Congratulations, Y/N. Your performance was simply divine." Henry smiled.

"Yeah, bro. I mean dude. You killed it at the end with that sick battle combo your Chikorita used." Alex said.

Y/N blushed and bowed. "It's an honor to meet you both and thank you." He smiled at them and they smiled back at him.

#x male reader #male reader insert #male x male #alex claremont diaz #henry fox mountchristen windsor #rwrb movie #pokemon #coordinator reader #alex x henry #Alex x Henry x male reader #Pokemom mashup #red white and royal blue

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sussex-newswire · 4 months ago

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"I wanted to write this column about what I know of Prince Harry, because, as he prepares to turn 40 this weekend, I’ve heard a lot of fairly negative things said about him, character assassinations that bear no resemblance to the man I’ve come to count as a friend, the one who cares passionately about injured veterans, and who’s done more than most to change perceptions of mental health in this country.

"...It was genuinely groundbreaking when Harry – or Haz, as I had by then taken to calling him – spoke so movingly about the grief he bottled up after the death of his mother, Diana...Professor Sir Simon Wessely, then president of the Royal College of Psychiatrists, said that the Prince had achieved more in terms of communicating mental health issues in a 25-minute interview than Wessely had in a 25-year career.

...

"I visited them at their then-home Frogmore Cottage in Windsor, was with them at Buckingham Palace on the day that they left the UK in 2020, and last year I travelled to their new home in Montecito, to interview Harry on the eve of the publication of his book, Spare.

"I spent an afternoon at the house, the kids running around happily as we drank tea. Harry proudly showed me the DIY photo wall he’d recently created, featuring pictures of his mum.

"When I left, packed off by the happy couple with a jar of their homemade jam (which I then left in the back of a taxi in a jet-lagged stupor; somewhere in Los Angeles, a cab driver has one of the earliest batches of American Riviera Orchard’s produce), I was reminded of the fact that they are a pretty ordinary couple existing in an absolutely extraordinary situation.

"There are no airs or graces with them, no desire to do anything other than protect their children from an increasingly digital world that likes nothing more than seeing the worst in people. A world that forgets that no matter how high profile a person is, they’re just doing their best, like everyone else."

#harry and meghan

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wheelsgoroundincircles · 8 days ago

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1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1

World's Only 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 390 With a Factory Sunroof Comes out of Hiding

Introduced for the 1969 model year, the Mach 1 was one of no fewer than six performance Mustangs available at the time. Sold alongside the GT, the Boss 429 and 302, and a pair of Shelby models, the Mach 1 became hugely popular. Specifically, Ford sold a whopping 72,458 units, almost a quarter of all Mustang production that year.

What made the Mach 1 such a big hit? Well, for starters, the package included more goodies than the GT. It came with a matte black hood with racing-style pins, a scoop, a unique stripe package, and an upgraded suspension. And unlike the Boss and Shelby models, it wasn't restricted to a specific engine.

Ford offered a more affordable version equipped with the two-barrel 351-cubic-inch (5.8-liter) Windsor V8. Customers who wanted more than 250 horsepower had access to the four-barrel variant, which delivered 290 horses. The options list also included the FE-type 390-cubic-inch (6.4-liter) unit good for 320 horsepower.

But unlike the GT, the Mach 1 was also available with the mighty 428-cubic-inch (7.0-liter) Cobra Jet V8. Offered in both Ram Air and non-Ram setups (Q- or R-code), the Cobra Jet mill generated 335 horsepower. While not quite as potent as the NASCAR-spec V8 in the Boss 429, it was the most potent mill customers had access to in the regular-production 'Stang.

High sales numbers also mean that first-year Mach 1 is quite the common classic nowadays. Sure, the Cobra Jet version is rarer at around 13,000 units, but it's a model you won't have issues finding. And it's not awfully expensive either.

That's not to say that some Mach 1s aren't very rare or unique. But that depends on features and the color combo. Sometimes, it takes a tiny item like air conditioning combined with an unlikely exterior/upholstery color match-up to turn a Mach 1 into a rare gem. This 1969 example in Gulfstream Aqua blue is a tad different because it flexes an option you won't find on any other Mach 1.

You won't notice it at first glance, but look closer, and you'll eventually see that this Mustang rocks a sunroof. Wait, what? A first-generation Mustang with a sunroof? You bet that's a weird feature because Ford did not offer such an option on the Mustang at the time. But a sunroof was available on the Mercury Cougar, and apparently, someone convinced Ford to put it on a Mach 1.

That someone is none other than Carroll Shelby, the man responsible for the cool GT350 and GT500 that turned the first-gen Mustang into a proper muscle car. And the story goes it's one of only two 1969 Mach 1s with a factory sunroof, so it's pretty much a one-of-one if we also factor in the options and the paint.

So what is the story behind this 'Stang? Did Carroll order it for his personal collection? Well, not exactly. Apparently, the car was specified for a doctor who took care of Shelby's mother. He asked if there was anything he could do for him in return, and the doctor requested a Mach 1 with a sunroof. Still working with Ford at the time, Carroll made some calls and turned the doctor's request into reality.

More than 50 years later, this unique Mach 1 is still around. And based on the way it looks, it went through a rotisserie restoration. It's spotless from every angle, and the Gulfstream Aqua color shines better than when this muscle car was new.

The blacked-out hood hides a 390 FE V8, so this Mustang wouldn't normally be as desirable and valuable as a Cobra Jet. However, that factory sunroof gives one-of-one status and puts it into six-figure territory. Hit the play button below to watch it sitting pretty at the MCACN show.

#ford mustang mach 1 #ford mustang #ford #mustang #car #cars #muscle car #american muscle

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houseofbrat · 5 months ago

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A carefully constructed plan inspired by Operation Bubble which protected the late Queen from Covid-19 was thrown into action.

He would have weekly treatment in London and factor in vital periods of rest time at Sandringham, Highgrove and Windsor.

But his health plan was thrown into turmoil when Prince Harry announced he would jet from Los Angeles to see his father.

While the King delayed his helicopter flight from Buckingham Palace to Sandringham, his wayward son was given just 30 minutes of his company at Clarence House.

Plans were in place to avoid the King contacting a secondary infection and Harry flying 5,000 miles on a jet was not ideal.

Aides prevented Harry, 39, joining his father at Sandringham fearing “we’d never get rid of him” and he needed to reduce his social contact while undergoing cancer treatment.

[...]

But the King was withdrawn from all public duty for 103 days although he continued reading government red boxes.

It can now be revealed the decision to postpone his public facing role was made as a “precautionary measure” because of the King’s diminished immune response to other diseases.

The Royal Household copied Covid-style protocols — or tiers imposed by the Government during the pandemic — to minimise secondary infection such as seasonal cold or flu.

A source said: “We had to minimise potential risk from other people, not because he couldn’t do the job.”

But as winter turned into spring and weather became warmer it meant they could relax the Covid-style tiers.

This was demonstrated when the King emerged from the Easter Sunday service and was greeted by 60 well-wishers at St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle.

Just days earlier, the monarch and his team had received news that the treatment had gone better than anyone could have expected.

One insider said: “He was raring to go after the positive results and didn’t want to hang around any longer”.

It meant the King told aides that a trip to Australia, seen as the most important tour a monarch will ever take, must go ahead in the autumn, as first revealed by The Sun.

In May, his public comeback began at London's University College Hospital MacMillan Cancer Centre where he told patients he was having treatment later that day and confessed in an off-script moment he had lost his sense of taste.

[...]

Around 27,000 messages and get well soon cards had been sent to the King and Princess of Wales, and he told then-Prime Minister Rishi Sunak some of the “wonderful messages and cards” have “reduced me to tears”.

Despite the King’s positivity and drive to return to work and tour Australia, his aides and doctors remain “protective” about how many hours a day he can carry out public-facing duties.

While famous for being a “workaholic” with Harry and William once saying they would find him in his office working during the night, the King has been made to restrict public face-to-face interaction to only five hours a day.

This is expected to be the same when he goes to Australia with Camilla in October where the tour is expected to have engagements on around seven days.

Sources explain rest and recuperation are built into the King's usually hectic schedule so he is not exhausted.

[...]

In truth, if it was not the cancer then the prostate procedure would have stopped him riding at Trooping, it is said.

Amid the recovery his personal doctor Michael Dixon, previously slated and accused of backing controversial homeopathy, has been credited with aiding his recovery with a programme of complementary treatment.

The King will now spend summer months at Birkhall on the Balmoral estate and be surrounded by family, including the Princess of Wales who is continuing her own cancer journey.

He will keep a positive frame of mind tending his garden, taking long walks, painting and fishing.

And he will be ready and raring to go for Australia in October where his recovery could be even further down the line.

The trip Down Under which includes speaking at Common wealth Heads of Government Meeting in Samoa is expected to last less than two weeks including travel and take in Sydney and Canberra.

[...]

The King has been open about his prostate problem and cancer but it is unlikely he will now specifically name which cancer he has, so that to “reach out and embrace as many people as he can impacted by cancer. The more specific you are the fewer people you are able to engage and support.”

Of making the news public, an insider said: “I can’t tell you what a difference that has made for him, it came with his support.

“When presented with facts of how many suffered enlarged prostate, and that there was a public health campaign and therefore some good can come of his personal setback, he totally got that and has been genuinely bowled over by the scale of response to that and cancer itself.”

On social channels, Buckingham Palace has collaborated with charities MacMillan, Maggie’s and Cancer Research UK.

And when the King chose his comeback event, he attended University Hospitals cancer ward where he bonded with patients revealing he had lost his sense of taste and had treatment later that day.

But a source added: “Never say never. There are no current plans to reveal the cancer.

“But if he felt that the time was right . . . ”

[archive link]

#fleet street #Matt Wilkinson #King Charles III #Queen Camilla #australia #the commonwealth #my gif

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eternallyfrustratedwriter · 4 months ago

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And I Lit A Fire That Wouldn't Go Out

Chapter 9

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In a small town in the backwoods of Ohio, Dia stood at the cemetery entrance, the wind ruffling the hair that managed to peak out of the beanie pulled low over her face. She was wearing baggy clothes over her regular jumpsuit, the effect being that her form was mostly obscured and now appeared almost shapeless. An old belt held her pants up and the lettering on the sweatshirt had long since faded to the point of being unreadable. Her eyes were hidden behind Windsor sunglasses, the lenses almost jet black that did a remarkable job at hiding how her eyes seemed to almost glow in the in the fading light of the day.

Hands stuffed in her pockets, she slowly made her way through the graves to a small stone that showed signs of neglect. A corner of it was chipped off and several cracks were running through it, the writing faded but still legible. Weeds tried to make their way into the available spaces in the rock, dead leaves covering a bundle of flowers that had long since died. She stared at the stone for a few seconds before crouching down and starting to carefully clean it up the best she could. When it seemed the best she could make it, she fully sat on the ground and let one of her fingers trace the letters lightly.

A small tear escaped her, eyes closing as she took in a shaky breath. Memories of green eyes and a warm laugh went through her mind causing her heart to clench in pain. Before she could slip deeper into her sadness, though, Dia heard familiar footsteps approaching her. The smell of a freshly lit cigar filled her nose as the steps stopped a few paces behind her. A heavy silence hung between them before the newcomer broke it, voice awkward and gruff as he talked.

"So, this is why you wanted to stop in this shit hole. Who's that, an old boyfriend?" asked Logan, tone short as he gestured towards the stone.

"He's my brother," said Dia, voice almost too quiet to hear even with enhanced hearing.

Logan shifted awkwardly behind her as he ran a hand over his face, muttering the word 'fuck' behind his hand as he tried his best to backpedal. Eventually, he settled for crouching down beside her and lightly resting one of his hands on her shoulder. After he was sure she wasn't going to just shrug him off, he curled his fingers around it before giving a light squeeze. Dia took in a shaky breath before placing her hand over his, taking comfort in the small touch.

"Do you want to talk about him?" asked Logan, eyes fixed firmly on the stone that had clearly seen better days.

"His name was Nelson and he was 10 years older than me. I was our parents' accident baby and they didn't hide that. They weren't extremely awful or anything like that, I wasn't hit and I always had my basic needs met. It was just obvious that I was an afterthought to them. Nelson never treated me like an afterthought, though. He made sure to include me in his life even after he left for college. He'd been about to finish the first semester of his second year in med school when the draft happened. He was one of the unlucky bastards that was picked in the first draft." started Dia, eyes now taking on a faraway unfocused look as she remembered her past.

"He ended up becoming a combat medic for the army. He wasn't on the front lines but he was pretty damn close. He was in the conflict for a year and a half when the field hospital he was working in was attacked. He survived the initial assault but later died from his injuries two weeks later. The medical report said his heart just gave out. I ended up running away from home a few days after my 17th birthday. I couldn't stay here anymore and my parents had all but stopped acknowledging my existence, too caught up in their grief for my brother. I made my way all over the country with a band of hippies, living out of a van and bathing in rivers. I got several tattoos, pierced that probably should have been left unpierced, and just drifted for 5 years.

On the 8th anniversary of my brothers' death, I ended up making my way back here in a Volkswagen Beetle that had a busted AC and passenger window that wouldn't roll down for shit. It was a crappy car but damn did I love that thing. Anyway, I bought a week in a janky motel and took a week for nostalgia. Most people didn't recognize me but those that did were surprised to see me alive. Yeah, apparently my amazing parents were telling people I was dead," said Dia, snorting softly after that last word before continuing. "I came here the day before I left town again so I could visit him and apologize for staying away for so long. When I got here, though, instead of finding some solitude and having a heart-to-heart with a hunk of stone I ended up finding this weirdo passed out and curled around the headstone."

A small smile was now creeping onto Dia's face, eyes fixed on the ground still but the coldness in them had worn off. It was replaced with a soft warmth as she chewed softly on her bottom lip, considering how to continue the story. Logan, for his part, patiently waited for her to continue. By this time he'd also lowered himself down beside her as the lamps that dotted the small cemetery flickered on, flickering shadows dancing off of them.

"That weirdo ended up being a man named Mitch Hargrave. He'd been drafted into the army the same time Nelson had, them belonging to the same troop. Nelson had ended up taking Mitch under his wing since Mitch had only been barely 18 when he'd been dragged into the war, not even done with high school. I ended up dragging him to the diner that used to be across the street and we talked for hours. When I left town the next day, I took the sorry bastard with me." finished Dia with a soft chuckle.

"Feel better?" asked Logan, arm now fully wrapped around her shoulder as he subtly pulled her closer to him. Her head softly rested against his chest, able to hear the steady rhythm of his heart. Feeling her eyes start to droop, she ended up just nodding softly against him. "Hey, no falling asleep. You won't like how I carry you back."

While the words sounded harsh the small vibration in his breathing from holding back laughter betrayed him. In response, Dia simply burrowed deeper into his chest while wrapping her arms around him for good measure. Suddenly, Logan was standing up and throwing Dia over his shoulder, one arm wrapped around her thighs to hold her steady as he started towards the exit.

"I warned you."

After their late-night conversation among the dead, the tensions they'd started the trip with seemed to fall away slowly. Conversation, when it happened, flowed easier though they both weren't big talkers, content to bask in the silence. Dia was almost able to believe she was on one of the aimless road trips that had occupied so much of her time when she was younger. The illusion was furthered by them being huddled close to a small fire they'd managed to build in the wilds of British Columbia. They'd been on the road for about 4 days and they would be making the final stretch tomorrow. Scotts motorcycle that had been "borrowed" for the trip was dirty and she knew they'd be getting an earful when they brought it back.

Hotdogs had been stuck onto the least dirty sticks they could find and were being slowly cooked over the fire. Neither of them was particularly worried about germs but that didn't mean they wanted to eat dirt either. Dia grabbed the beer she'd gotten from the convenience store they'd visited, one of her nails turning sharp before she flicked the cap off of it and took a long swig. Logan who had been about to use his claws to open his bottle rethought his decision before holding the bottle out to her, eyebrow raised. She raised one of her own in return before flicking the cap off for him as well.

As they were eating and making their way through the 6 pack of beer, Logan awkwardly cleared his throat as he repositioned himself. It was clear there was something on his mind but he was having an internal debate of whether or not it would be worth saying it. Eventually, his curiosity won out as he swallowed the last of his half of the six-pack, placing the now empty bottle in the bag they'd designated for trash before lighting a cigar and taking a long drag from it.

"So, while I was in the med bay I heard Jean and the professor talking about a Mitch. Jean said something about Scott wanting you guys to get back together?" said Logan, trying, and failing, to look nonchalant as he directed his gaze up at the stars that blanketed the sky. His gaze was a little too fixed on their surroundings and his posture was stiff as he tried to appear casual.

Dia bowed her head deeply as her ears plastered themselves to her head, hat abandoned for the night. A small flush could be seen on her cheeks as she covered her eyes with one of her hands, the other one occupied by the beer she'd been sipping on for the past half hour.

"God... Mitch and I were together for a few years before I sprouted the ears and tail. We'd ended up semi-settling down in Nevada in the Vegas area. I was a bartender and Mitch worked for one of the hotels as a maintenance man. After my new powers emerged, though, I knew we couldn't stay. I'd heard about this place in New York for mutants, the passion project of a trust fund kid is how it was presented. At that time it was my only lifeline so I clung to it. I told Mitch I'd go on ahead and he could make his way up after he'd sorted things out in Vegas. You already know how well that plan went." said Dia as she swallowed down the rest of her beer before gathering her knees close to her chest, gaze now firmly on the small fire.

"I'd nearly forgotten about him when we finally reunited a little over a year after I was kidnapped. We did our best to pick up where we'd left off but it was hard. Still, we did manage to gain a bit of happiness for a while. He built a house out in Buchanan and got a job at a small diner that was run by an older couple. They didn't have kids of their own so they ended up semi-adopting him, giving him ownership of it a few years later when they weren't able to take care of it themselves anymore. I'd split my time between the mansion and there, inviting Scott to spend holidays with us. Of course, good things just aren't meant to last.

The bubble burst about five years ago. We were on a walk and we'd stopped in front of this pond and were looking at our reflections in the water. I looked like I hadn't aged a day while the man I was in love with now looked like he could be my father. The fact that I was going to outlive him hit me in the head like a giant anvil. Suddenly, I was staring down the barrel of forever and I knew he wasn't going to be there to meet me on the other side." Tears slipped down her face and dropped off of her chin, wetting the knees of her pants.

Throughout the story Logan had just been looking over at her, occasionally taking a puff on his cigar. He didn't have any comforting words to offer, his last 15 years, the only ones he could currently remember, having been spent in self-imposed solitary confinement. Occasionally something would stir feelings of familiarity in him, blurry images knocking against the in his mind that didn't want to budge. Sometimes, at night before he fell asleep, he'd hear a soft voice whispering his name and telling a story he'd never be able to remember when he woke up. These moments would leave him bathed in sadness and aching for something he couldn't quite articulate.

He settled for awkwardly patting her on the back instead before putting the cigar out and going to lay down a small distance away from her. While he knew that she could regenerate as well he still didn't want to end up stabbing her when he inevitably had a nightmare. After all, just because you could regenerate didn't mean it didn't still hurt.

#x men oc #mutant oc #Logan Howlett #Wolverine #James Logan Howlett #Wolverine x OC #Logan Howlett x OC

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what-if-queen-camilla · 1 year ago

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Chapter 39

31st August 1997

Around 10 am, a black Audi stopped in her driveway. Mark from Charles' security team got out of the car and greeted Camilla with a sorrowful face. "Ma'am.", he said firmly, opening the door for her. She had quickly dressed herself in the outfit she had worn at her mother's funeral three years ago; black seemed the only colour acceptable to wear on this through and through black day that would undoubtedly go down in history as exactly that. "Oh Mark…", she sighed, looking at him just as saddened as he had previously looked at her. Mark had been around for years, they knew each other well, and she'd always appreciated his discretion and politeness. "We'll take an RAF jet from Brize Norton to Aberdeen, Ma'am.", he explained to her as they drove onto the M4 and Camilla nodded understandingly. She wasn't keen on flying at all, not to speak of such a tiny little RAF jet but she just had to pull herself together now and stay strong for everyone else. She just hoped that Charles wouldn't have left for Paris already when she arrived. She needed to see him, even if it was just for a few seconds, she needed to look in his eyes, to hold his hand, to give him a kiss… she just felt like she needed to give him as much love as she could for him to carry with him and keep him going for that awful ordeal that laid ahead of him…

Thank God there were no paparazzi yet when they landed at Aberdeen Airport about an hour later. Camilla couldn't believe how much colder it was up here than it had been down in the South despite the early hours, but maybe it was just the nature of the situation that made her shiver. Outside of the airport, they got into another black Audi, driven by a member of Balmoral staff who didn't say a single word the entire hour plus twenty minutes the ride took, which made it feel endless. Camilla felt sick inside and though she was trying hard not to let show, she was incredibly anxious of any possible encounters with any member of the family apart from Thea and Charles. She knew the Castle, she had been here before, she and Andrew had been frequent guests here in the seventies and early eighties, and clearly these kinds of houses never really changed so it almost felt rather familiar when she was escorted through the entrance hall and up the stairs to the family's private apartments, where she'd hopefully just quickly meet Charles, take her daughter and could disappear again - but as always with those Windsors, it had to be as dramatic as possible. She hadn't entered Charles' apartment properly yet when she heard several people shouting at each other, including her Prince and both his parents, with his father sounding quite aggressive which made her shiver once more. Wasn't the whole situation horrible enough already? And where on earth were the children? A servant motioned for her to follow him into the next room, obviously some kind of a drawing room, and her heart stopped beating for a second when she finally caught sight of William, Harry and Thea, sitting on a chaise lounge, her poor little daughter between her brothers, holding their hands as if she was trying to comfort them, Harry was sobbing heartbreakingly and William's eyes just seemed completely empty.

"Mummy?", Thea reached out anxiously, and without thinking any further, Camilla just did what felt most natural to her, rushed over to the children and pressed all three of them against her as tight as she could. "Oh boys, I'm so very sorry.", she whispered, heavily gulping down her own tears. "I know your mother and I weren't quite the best of friends… but she loved you so very much.", she added, and for a few moments, they just sat there, holding each other, and Camilla hoped that her motherly heart was great enough to give as well some comfort to these poor boys, until the door flung open and they rushed apart, Camilla performing a deep curtsy in front of the Queen, who, followed by the Duke of Edinburgh, who's face had turned red in anger, and Charles who just looked completely lost, entered the room. "Your Majesty…", she said politely, her eyes fixing the ground, as she couldn't bear looking at Charles as she went on to greet his father and him as protocol required: "Your Royal Highnesses… My sincere condolences on the heartbreaking news…" "Darling…", she could read Charles' lips silently forming, but she didn't know what to do. "Mrs Parker Bowles.", the Queen greeted her without any emotion in her voice. "It's good that you're here. This is not a place for a child of Theodora's age under the given circumstances.", she added, motioning for Thea to walk over to her mother but both her brothers pressed her little hands even tighter and she refused to do what she had just been told. "Granny, please.", William said, and Harry cried even more. "First, I'm not allowed to accompany Dad to Paris and now you're sending off our sister.", he sobbed and Camilla covered her mouth with her hand as this was getting all too much. In some way, she thought it was touching and precious how Thea wanted to be there for her brothers - and how much comfort William and Harry apparently got from her little sweetheart, despite her young age, and it felt wrong to separate the siblings in a situation where they obviously needed each other. But this wasn't up to her…

"Goodness, Henry, stop crying, you're not a girl! Pull yourself together and behave like a man!", the Duke ranted and Camilla winced. How did he speak to a 12-year-old who had just lost his mother? Insecurely and disbelieving she looked from one to the other and didn't know what to do or say. Charles stood behind his mother, obviously in a state of shock, unable to do or say anything either. "Enough is enough!", Prince Philip declared, rushing over to the children, pulling Thea away from her brothers, tears streaming down her little face, as she fell into her mother's arms. "Mrs Parker Bowles. This is family business!", he said sharply. "And neither you nor your daughter will ever be a part of this family!" "Grandpa!", William screamed, horrified and disbelieving looking from his grandfather to his grandmother, then to Charles, and back to his grandfather, who then gave a challenging glance to his eldest son: "Charles! Tell her!" Camilla looked at Charles and it took everything in her not to rush over to him, pull him into her arms and take him and the children anyway, just far away from this awful and loveless place. Of course, he'd told her about his father's outbreaks and how he'd treated him when he still was a child but experiencing all of this first-hand would probably haunt her in her dreams for the rest of her life. He looked at her so desperately, beggingly almost, and she knew that the only thing she could possibly do to help now was to take Thea and disappear as soon as possible, though it broke her heart to leave him and the boys in this absolutely devastating moment… "Come on, Thea.", she said to her daughter. "We'll better take our leave." "But Mum!", she insisted, but Camilla took her by her hand. "No, darling, we have to go!", she hissed, turning to Charles and the boys one last time, praying they'd feel at least a little bit of love and comfort she had so wanted to give them but wasn't allowed to, before she went off.

#king charles #queen camilla #royal baby #royal family #fanfiction #fanfic #prince william #queen elizabeth ii #prince philip #princess diana #prince harry #Balmoral

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mariacallous · 1 year ago

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FIRST SOCIALITE (HUSBAND): “I can’t read this thing!” (Tossing aside Truman Capote’s magazine excerpt from his forthcoming novel Answered Prayers.)

SECOND SOCIALITE (WIFE): “But darling, you must read all of it. If you don’t, we won’t have anything to talk to anybody about.”

The above exchange actually occurred, but as often happens with popular hot controversies, the principals prefer not to be identified, even after telling the tale on themselves. The social stakes are too high. Being on the wrong side in one of these tempests in a teabag could be fatal. What if Kitty Miller never invites you again … or “Swifty” Lazar hangs up on you … or the Bill Paleys hear you didn’t step over the line at what has now become the Smart Set’s own Alamo? Or what if Truman Capote prevails and comes out on top? What if he writes a sequel that tells even more?

Staying alive and well in society means never zigging when you should zag.

“Whoever gossips to you will gossip of you,” goes the old Spanish proverb, and this one came home to roost for the International Set’s crème de la crème with the publication in the November Esquire of Capote’s “La Côte Basque 1965” — the “tail” of the long-awaited “kite” called Answered Prayers that is the writer’s next major work of fiction.

Society’s sacred monsters at the top have been in a state of shock ever since. Never have you heard such gnashing of teeth, such cries for revenge, such shouts of betrayal and screams of outrage. Well, anyway, not since Marcel Proust flattered his way into the salons of the Faubourg St. Germain and then retired to a cork-lined room to create a masterpiece, recalling the details of the Baron de Montesquiou’s “preciosities” and rendering him into the “Baron de Charlus,” setting down the vivid details of a world of le gratin where the rich see only one another.

What did Capote write that so enraged so many? Oh, just everything he ever heard whispered, shouted, or bruited about — the same kind of stories that have been wafting among the fine French furniture crowd since Maury Paul first saw the Blue Book dining out on Thursday and coined the phrase “Cafe Society.”

“La Côte Basque 1965” is a 13,000-word story about a luncheon between “Lady Ina Coolbirth,” a 40-ish multiple divorcée on the rebound from an affair with a Rothschild, and the innocent narrator, “Jonesy,” at Henri Soule’s exclusive Manhattan restaurant. While drinking Champagne and eating a soufflé Furstenberg, “Lady Ina” gossips about the International Set, telling one “no-no” after another on one and all, including herself. Capote has peopled his story with real persons, using their real names as well as with a number of other real persons, using fake names. The most shocking of “Lady Ina’s” send-ups are the stories about Cole Porter putting the make on an Italian waiter called “Dixie,” the one about “the governor’s wife” and her sordid sexual put-down of the climbing Jewish tycoon “Sidney Dillon,” and the histoire of trashy “Ann Hopkins,” who tricked a blue blood into marriage, then murdered him after he got the goods on her and threatened divorce.

Other naughty things in the story are the opening dirty joke … the bad breath of Arturo (Lopez Wilshaw) … the duchess of Windsor never picking up a check … Maureen Stapleton’s nervous collapse … Carol Matthau’s dirty mouth … Princess Margaret’s dislike of “poufs” … Gloria Vanderbilt’s failure to recognize her first husband … Oona O’Neill fluffing off the boyish J.D. Salinger … Joe Kennedy having his way with an 18-year-old school chum of his daughter’s … “Sidney Dillon” and his womanizing and social climbing .. . “Cleo Dillon” loving only herself .. how the famous TV comic “Bobby Baxter” goes off with a hooker and his pushy wife, “Jane,” has the last laugh … the weird young movie cutie who marries the son, then the father, only to find herself divorced because of a German shepherd … Lee Radziwill coming off better looking than Jackie Kennedy, who resembles “a female impersonator” … the love affairs of “Lady Ina,” how much she needs a man, and her envy of the domestic bliss of two attractive lesbians who reside in Santa Fe, “the dyke capital of the United States.”

Capote insists that the gossipmongering central character, “Lady Ina Coolbirth,” is strictly an invention — but friends of Lady (“Slim”) Keith, Pamela Harriman, Carol Portago, and Fleur Cowles are all nevertheless incensed. “Well,” sniffs Truman, “let them all martyr and identify themselves if they like … let them hang from the cross claiming they’re hurt … those who want to say they are models, that’s up to them!”

Other characters in “LCB ’65” are so thinly disguised as to be seen through tissue paper clearly — among them “Ann Hopkins,” undoubtedly representing Mrs. William Woodward Jr., who killed herself on October 10, seven days before Esquire hit the stands, and “the governor’s wife,” said to be the late Marie Harriman.

Many other names were dropped, some in passing, some to devastating effect. John Hersey has said that “the final test of a work of art is not whether it has beauty, but whether it has power.” But try telling that to the friends of the late Cole Porter, or Maureen Stapleton, Elsie Woodward, Josh and Nedda Logan, Johnny Carson, “Babe” Paley and her powerful husband, Bill. (I remarked to Truman that I didn’t know that his now ex-friend Mr. Paley had ever been an “adviser to presidents,” as “Sidney Dillon” is described in the piece. Truman just grinned and said, “I didn’t either.”)

Everybody written about in “LCB ‘65” has been guessed and second-guessed at with little or no concession to Capote’s own thesis — that this is a fictionalized version of a world he knows very well.

For years Capote has been society’s adored and adorable resident intellect and court jester. In a world where parties are still often “given against someone” … where bitchery, snobbery, and hauteur are still prized right along with poise, manners, and money … where the merits of plastic surgeons are argued in the same way the religious used to argue theology — gossip has always been the great staple, the glue holding beleaguered life-styles and sinking social values together. But it’s one thing to tell the nastiest story in the world to all your 50 best friends; it’s another to see it set down in cold Century Expanded type.

Capote has always been the gossip’s gossip nonpareil. He has been leaving them laughing and quaffing blanc de blanc with the best of them, ever since he came of age as an enfant terrible pet of the rich after Other Voices, Other Rooms catapulted him to fame in 1948. He has sailed on their yachts, masterminded their love affairs, and been such a focal insider that his Black and White Ball for publisher Kay Graham is still remembered as one of society’s best parties.

When the gorgeous women of the world’s tycoons and power brokers sat down to spoon up soufflé with Capote, or when Truman tickled the risibilities of the powerful tycoons themselves with his outrageous tidbits and fascinating possibilities, he was always the brightest, most entertaining little imp imaginable. Oh yes, of course, he was — well, everyone knew, “queer.” But in such an amusing classy way — in the manner of the great Italian count who remonstrated with an English lord for snobbery, saying, “My dear fellow, when your ancestors were still painting themselves blue, mine were already homosexual!” You know, that sort of thing. And then, of course, didn’t that more or less make dear “Tru” all the more manageable and “safe”?

Society always thought it had something on Capote, in the same way the French le gratin had Proust’s desperate desire to belong, his suspected inversion, and his Jewishness on him. What’s more, society believed Truman to be a lightweight climber who aspired to stay in its good graces. (Snorts Truman, “Yes, they have always made that mistake about me! Why, if anybody was ever at the center of that world, it was me, so who is rejecting whom in this?” Summoning up an echo of Beau Brummell’s “In society stay for just as long as it takes to make an impression. After that — go!,” Truman continues: “I mean I can create any kind of social world I want, anywhere I want!”)

It seems simply never to have occurred to many people that the writer’s goddess might turn out to be not “Babe” Paley, but Truman’s own muse. He was, after all, so seductive, so naughty, so charming. He knew everything about everybody and — what’s more — had total recall. But now, the same people who listened so delightedly and told tales out of school find themselves hoist by their own windiness. There they are, splashed through the pages of Esquire like hollandaise that has missed the asparagus. God! And that ain’t all — there’s more to come. It is all going to be bound between hard covers into a book. A book!

Capote, meanwhile, is also a literary name. The almost universal acclaim for In Cold Blood lifted his reputation from that of a poetic mannerist into the pantheon of American belles lettres. So the Establishment world that reads and writes has also joined the hue and cry. The question whether Capote has indeed ruined his reputation by stooping to writing gossip, as opposed to whether he is only doing the same kind of work attempted by ether famous writers in the past, will be argued for a long time. There seems to be no such thing as an indifferent opinion of “LCB ’65.”

Feuds and furors flash and die in these media-mad days, but the roar over Capote’s roman á clef vignettes, observed and recorded in explicit detail, rages on. “LCB ’65” was a one-shot last November, but its reverberating ripples still lash both coasts.

(Capote yelps: “When I was in New York a few weeks ago everybody was falling all over themselves being nice to me. The machinations going on behind the back of the people who are in the book you wouldn’t believe. Most of the attackers are just pilot fish, trying to outdo one another in being vicious in their sycophancy. They all want to stay in my favor but maintain a great front of animosity.”)

Capote rushed back to California from New York to finish up another 30,000-word installment for May publication. The reaction to “LCB ‘65” inspired him to crank that up to 40,000 words, and now, he says the literary Establishment can sit around waiting for their turn. They are “on” next, and then there’ll be four more magazine assaults before Answered Prayers appears in hardcover.

Dissenters to what one social Don Quixote calls “Capote’s character assassination in the guise of art” have been pellucidly vocal: “Disgusting! It’s disgusting!” says society’s favorite extra man, real-estate investor Jerome Zipkin, shooting his immaculate French cuffs. “Truman is ruined. He will no longer be received socially anywhere. What’s more — those who receive him will no longer be received.”

Patrick O’Higgins, a writer and pal of Elsie Woodward — the mother-in-law of the late suicide, Ann Woodward — is himself one of the more exquisite tale-tellers of this same world, but he says: “Truman’s gone downhill. People think, ‘What a shame that a great talent should be reduced to writing gossip.’ Some people are really hurt because they’ve been kind to him. The Paleys were always so fond of him. But Elsie hasn’t been hurt. She didn’t even read the piece. She couldn’t care less. All she’ll say is ‘Je ne le connais pas!’ — isn’t that perfect?”

Columnist Jack O’Brian: “He knows what will sell in this market … he’s Jackie Susann with an education.”

Writer Wyatt Cooper, husband of Gloria Vanderbilt: “I hate talking when my feelings are negative. It isn’t constructive. I’m very fond of Truman. We used to have lunch, gossip, and it was fun. But lately it wasn’t. His viciousness ceased to make it fun. I even talked to him about it two years ago and he thanked me later for caring. I think this destroys all the things he has built up. He can’t really pretend to sneer at these people in the Jet Set. He worked too hard to be ‘in’ himself. Of course Gloria is offended! He made Carol Matthau come out tough and bright, but has Gloria looking vapid and dumb, in a very unfair way.”

Wyatt, who collaborated with Truman on a television project and has known him for years, continues in his “more in sorrow than in anger” vein: “I had always wanted Truman to write a truthful, non-idealized version of his painful and strange childhood as an outsider. It could have been great. But, you know, he has always had a love-hate for all these beautiful women he has been close to. His mother was an alcoholic and killed herself, and children of alcoholic mothers often end up attacking women. Truman would like to be glamorous and beautiful. He has often acted out fantasies of his own by telling his women friends how to act, who to have love affairs with, by manipulating them. Now he has his ultimate revenge, by making them ridiculous in print.”

Gloria Vanderbilt: “I have never seen it and have heard enough about it to know I don’t want to.”

Director Peter Glenville: “Ignoble, utterly ignoble!”

Esquire’s own media critic, Nora Ephron, who didn’t even like the mild version of reminiscence and revelation dished out by Brendan Gill in Here at The New Yorker: “There has always been a disparity between Capote’s fiction and the public personality, and now finally the two have come together and the public personality has won.”

William and “Babe” Paley are said to have now instructed their distinguished relatives to the effect that longtime pal Capote is persona non grata. And society’s favorite current story is of how Truman phoned Paley to ask what he thought of “LCB ’65.” Paley reportedly said, “Well, I started it and dropped off to sleep and when I woke up, they’d thrown it out.” (Zing!) When Capote protested that it was important that Paley read it, his old friend said wearily, “Truman, my wife [get that — “my wife,” not “your friend Babe”] is ill. I really haven’t time for it.” (Zowie!)

Truman found Wyatt Cooper unable to lunch with him when he was in New York over the holidays. (Cooper: “How could I — out of loyalty to Gloria. She says she’ll spit at him if she sees him.”) And Capote tells of being “cut” in Quo-Vadis by “a pitiful old society woman I often took about in Paris because I felt so sorry for her. No, don’t mention her name — it’s too sad.”

Mrs. Josh Logan was said to be so incensed she rushed across a crowded room to call Dotson Rader a “traitor” just because he also writes for Esquire. Nedda Logan informed Dotson that “that dirty little toad is never coming to my parties again.” (Some dialogue in “LCB ’65” refers to a Logan soirée: “‘How was it?’ — ‘Marvelous. If you have never been to a party before.’”)

Then there are the artful diplomats, like those two brilliants who’ve won fame straddling the fine line between practicing journalism and personal social acceptance among the Upper Crust — yes, fashion’s elegant Diana Vreeland, as well as that friend-of-the-“400” (sometimes now referred to derisively as “the 4,000”) Aileen (“Suzy”) Mehle. Told that Truman wanted to know why she had never written so much as a word in her syndicated society column about the only subject consuming “her crowd” since November, Suzy says: “Why? Why, there’s nothing for me to write. Truman’s done it all himself!”

And Mrs. Vreeland (rising high above the smoke of controversy just as a perfect hostess ignores a cigarette in the butter) dismisses the gaudy gossip, the sex scandals, the barely concealed identities, the homosexual revelations, the obscenity, the accusations of murder, and the matter of whether or not Capote has been “antisemitic,” “anti-gay,” and/or “disloyal” to friends and playmates, by putting one unerring finger on just what she considers important. “Yes — yes! The paragraph on the fresh vegetables and their size is really unique in the article. It’s a ravishing statement on the rich!”

Then there are the happy cynics like Emlyn Williams, distinguished Welsh actor-writer: “It was terrible, just awful, but it was so funny-riveting. I couldn’t help laughing.”

Then there are the defenders of Art. Rust Hills, a former fiction editor: “Fascinating stuff. Yes, of course, it’s okay he published it all. I think the artist does have a supreme right to use any material. Remember, life is short but art is long” … Painter David Gibbs: “Oh, don’t be absurd — all art is revolution! Why can’t people get that through their heads? This is brilliant stuff!” … Dotson Rader: “Marvelous, beautiful writing. It’s unimportant whether it’s true or not, since it is presented as fiction. Truman was always treated by these people as a kind of curiosity, expected to do his act. That was humiliation coming from people who had no qualifications other than being rich and social. Everybody in the world has been telling Truman their deepest confidences for years and he never said he wouldn’t use them.” … Geraldine Stutz, a woman of fastidious opinions: “It’s only a scandal to a small insular world; most people won’t know, and couldn’t care less about who might be who. What counts is that it is a wonderful piece of writing and an extraordinary re-creation of the tone and texture of those days in that world” … C. Z. Guest: “Everyone knows the man’s a professional and they told him those things anyway. He’s a dear friend of mine, but I wouldn’t discuss very private matters with him. I don’t even know who those fictional people are.”

Screenwriter Joel Schumacher, himself one of the Beautiful People: “If Truman had written a glittering vision of society, he’d have been termed an ass-kisser and his work a piece of crap by these same people. They always want some candy-ass lie written about themselves. This same world thinks it supports art and artists, but never understands that all a writer has is his experience. These people feel a good press is owed them. Why? In the fame-and-fortune game, whether it’s society, show business, big business, or politics, everybody lives on a plane of incomparable elitism, more money, more privilege than others. So why are they so shocked when somebody tells even a slightly unattractive truth about them?”

So, speaking of Beautiful People, the night before flying to Los Angeles to interview Capote I’m at Pearl’s with seven of them (or what I call semi-B.P.s, in that most of these work hard yet are still “social” enough to be written about and invited everywhere). After the lemon chicken has been served and Pearl has stopped clucking over us, the question goes: “What’s the one thing each of you would like to know from Capote?” They told me.

In this gathering, these youthful realists were amused and entertained by Capote’s daring. Most of them thought the writing was important. Only one of the seven Beauties completely disapproved of the piece. This Frito-colored hair and the women with was the most “social” — by whatever terms — person there; also the richest: a person who found “LCB ’65” “disgusting, unnecessary, mean, bitchy, Truman, like some Napoleon on spiteful, disloyal, and not even very well written.”

General laughter and the retort: “We’re sorry you can’t express yourself more definitely.” But such dissenting opinions were in the majority in the weeks to come. And always, the final clincher by Capote’s detractors was that this hideous, disloyal, tasteless thing the writer had done was bad enough in all its aspects, but its chief minuses were that it was “boring” and “wasn’t even well written.”

A society that habitually enfolds ennui and stinging cultural criticism around its shoulders like a familiar sable wrap could make such pronouncements and still not talk about anything else for two solid months.

Beverly Hills: La Côte Basque 1965 may have been a place, as Esquire noted, “where the plat du jour is seated somewhere in sight,” but La Scala, late 1975, is a place where Henri Soule probably wouldn’t have sent his enemy Harry Cohn. La Scala’s food is indifferent and its service based on benign neglect, yet it offers a carelessly cultivated charm and ambience of New York–in–California. Once inside, out of the relentless 73-degree sunshine, away from the gas-fed fire burning in the Beverly Hills Hotel lobby, away from the denim-tailored suntanned men with Frito-colored hair and the women with smart-looking Mark Cross–type bags that read “Bullshit,” a person can almost imagine being in New York.

Truman, like some Napoleon on Elba yearning for the East (I fancy), suggests we meet here. He has a day off from his acting role as the portly eccentric who lures facsimiles of the world’s most famous detectives to his mansion for sinister purposes in Neil Simon’s movie Murder by Death.

Enter reporter, tape recorder cocked, to find Truman talking with the departing screenwriter Peter Viertel. We slide into a booth and Truman, looking more and more like a diabolical version of the character actor Victor Moore, says nix to the recorder. “I’ll have more to say if you don’t use it.” I protest that I haven’t his fabled total recall. “Oh, you’ll do all right. You’ll see, you’ll get a better story this way.”

Already the interview is out of my hands into the subtle control of Capote. Only around Truman do I ever feel a real kinship with those glamorous women like C-Z, Jackie, Lee, Gloria, Carol, Slim, Babe, Kay, Fleur, Pamela, etc. He inspires a compelling intimacy. I begin to tell him everything. I spurt confidences, betray my instincts, and allow myself to be drawn out. For each question I ask, Truman asks two. “Seductive” is how one longtime friend described Capote, and she is right. I cling to the edge of the table to keep it from turning completely.

Then he orders a double Russian vodka with no ice and a tall orange juice on the side. Oh well, that makes me feel better. If he’s going to drink like that, I’ll be okay. (When the interview ends, two double vodkas, a half-bottle of red wine, and four J&Bs on the rocks later, Truman is as fit as ever and I am still in his power.)

Truman answers the questions put by Pearl’s diners. He punctuates his softly drawled, easily imitated, and widely recognized vocal mannerism with bursts of irrepressible laughter. And some amazed and genuine outrage. He begins most of his sentences with a drawn-out “W-e-e-e-l-l-l…”

WHY DID HE DO IT? WHY GO QUITE SO FAR? asked the retailer.

“Why did I do it? Why? I have lived a life of observation. I’ve been working on this book for years, collecting. Anybody who mixes with a certain kind of writer ought to realize they’re in danger. [Chuckle.] I don’t feel I betrayed anybody. This is a mere nothing, a drop in the bucket. To think what I could have done in that chapter. My whole point was to prove gossip can be literature. I’ve been seriously writing this for three and a half years. I told everybody what I was doing. I discussed it on TV. Why has it come as such a great big surprise?”

IS THERE REALLY MORE COMING, OR IS THIS ALL? THEY SAY YOU CAN’T FINISH THE BOOK, asked the fashion arbiter.

“This thing was only a chapter. My God, what will happen when ‘Unspoiled Monsters’ comes out? [Don’t you like that title?] I’ve never before heard it suggested that this wasn’t part of a whole book. Even my ‘Mojave,’ published in Esquire before this, was part of Answered Prayers, though we didn’t publicize it as such. ‘La Côte Basque 1965’ is certainly no short story. Of course it’s a book! [Exasperation.] Lord, I have a lot to say, baby! I haven’t even begun to say it, though the book is 80 percent written.”

IS IT TRUE YOU ARE DYING OF CANCER? asked the art dealer.

“Irving Mansfield likes to go around telling everybody I’m dying of cancer, but I’m well now. Oh, that reminds me of a story.”

Truman cocks his platinum head so I get a good view of his flat baby-pink ears, which seem to have come in a child’s size and never grown.

“When Jackie Susann died, the Times called me for a quote. I was reminded of a judge who once ruled against Father Divine in some property dispute. Later the judge dropped dead of a heart attack and when they asked Father Divine to comment, he said, ‘I hated to do it, but …’ “

Capote explodes with roars of laughter that rumble up out of his ample belly into a series of hah-hah-hahs. “So I just told the Times, ‘I hated to do it, but …’”

DID YOU WRITE THIS JUST TO MAKE MONEY AND TO SOCK AWAY SOMETHING FOR A LOVER, AS THEY SAY? asked the producer’s wife.

“I have never in my life done anything just for money. I’ve never had any reason to. Why would I need money? My God, I made over $3 million from In Cold Blood and I haven’t spent it. I sure haven’t made any money out of ‘La Côte Basque 1965.’ That’s absolutely cracky! You know you don’t make money from magazines.

“As for my personal life, I don’t care what anyone says or writes about me personally. I have been a public exhibit all my life. So let them go ahead and make me a monster. I was a beautiful little boy, you know, and everybody had me — men, women, dogs, and fire hydrants. I did it with everybody. I didn’t slow down until I was 19, and then I became very circumspect. But everybody knows where everybody else is sexually. There are no secrets, and that’s why I don’t understand the shocked response to ‘La Côte Basque 1965.’ What is all this business? Are these people living in some other medieval century? I’d never sue anyone for anything, but I’ve been lied about my whole life. I’m just surprised they don’t hire a hit man.”

We stop to order. Truman has steak sliced thin as prosciutto, special mayonnaise, fettuccine Alfredo, and Brie. He is emphatic that he won’t be driven out of New York or sell his U.N. Plaza apartment. (“No, no. that’s not so.”) Nor has he bought a house in Topanga Canyon. (“I guess they think that because that’s where the Manson family lived and I’m a monster, too.”) I notice a slight tremor to Truman’s tiny hands as he lifts his glass and feel a pang for his strain.

WERE YOU TAKING REVENGE FOR ALL THOSE YEARS IN SOCIETY, LIKE A PET DWARF KICKING THE ROYALS IN THE SHIN AT LAST? asked the WWD biggie.

“I didn’t mean anything vengeful, not even remotely. And I’m disappointed in these people, with all their pretensions for reading, art, theater, and culture that they’re so stupid and can’t see it as a work of art. This book is a serious work of art — if you don’t see it as that, then you don’t see it as anything. I’ve always done good things. Would I actually sit down and write about something like that as a joke, as revenge?”

I ask, “But didn’t it really occur to you that you’d be called a traitor and disloyal for publishing this specific kind of work, using people’s names?”

Truman sighs: “Well, it is true nobody likes what you write about them. Even those I was sympathetic to in In Cold Blood didn’t like themselves in print. Loyalty wasn’t the question, but on the other hand, I don’t care. I really don’t. If that’s the mentality — tant pis … I haven’t lost a single friend I’d want to keep in any event. These people saying these things weren’t friends of mine to begin with. Nedda Logan has always hated me, ever since I published that Brando piece in The New Yorker. What do the Logans have to do with anything, just because they once gave a party for Princess Margaret, who everyone knows is a terrible bore!”

IS IT TRUE ESQUIRE LAWYERS SHOWED THE “ANN HOPKINS” PART TO ANN WOODWARD FOR LEGAL CLEARANCE AND, RECOGNIZING HERSELF, SHE KILLED HERSELF? asked the designer.

“The most vicious thing about all this is that story! It’s absolutely untrue that Esquire showed her the copy. That’s ridiculous. Of course nobody showed it to her, as it would have been tantamount to admitting it was about her. I never let anybody read it in toto, and that’s why it was impossible for her to have seen or heard of it. The manuscript was kept in a bank vault. I was very careful with it; sometimes I let a few people read part of it with me sitting there. The new portion, ‘Unspoiled Monsters,’ I’ve never shown to anybody. This book wanders in all directions. It’s not just about the ‘Côte Basque’ people, and my God, of course I’m not taking out after Babe Paley in the next part. She isn’t even mentioned. How do these things get started? The book is really about ‘Kate McCloud.’ And nobody but me knows who she is, and nobody is going to know.”

I tell Truman that Elsie Woodward herself does not feel Ann committed suicide for any reason having to do with him. He says, “You see …. “

DON’T YOU CARE THAT ALL THESE PEOPLE ARE GOING TO CLOSE THEIR DOORS TO YOU? asked the play producer.

“Well, in the first place, I don’t think all these people will. I maintain the people who are really mad are the ones left out. Jean vanden Heuvel said, ‘I hope it isn’t true I’m not going to be in by name. “La Côte Basque” was delicious and I hereby propose myself for another section.’

“Look, I’m not using Proust as a model because what I’m doing is in the latter half of the 20th century as an American. But if someone like Proust were here now and an American, he’d be writing about this world. People say the language is filthy. I think that’s the way people talk and think now — exactly. I think it’s beautifully written. This thing about me never being invited again just shows such an ignorance of human nature that I can’t believe it. People don’t understand how their own minds work. No matter what happens, you have to respect somebody because he is an artist, if you have any pretensions to culture. There’s a fantastic ingratitude in America toward its artists. I mean, you do marvelous things and they just …

“Well, France is loyal to its artists, England to its artists, even Russia to its artists [chuckle], when they are dead. No other country treats its creative people like we do. Here they wait for you to fail. They love it. If people think I’m just a bitch, then I surely am 100 percent misunderstood. I consider myself a fine artist. I drove down here from working in British Columbia to start work on the movie and found the world had exploded. This place has been in the same uproar as New York.”

I say that maybe people in Hollywood are afraid they’ll be next.

Truman laughs. “Oh, they’ll get theirs!”

He turns serious: “Look, my life has been dominated by my own levels of taste in art, especially the art of narrative prose writing, wherein my particular art lies. I have never compromised that. I may have compromised other things in my life, personally, emotionally, or whatnot, but never that. This book, this whole thing, has been the ultimate of my art. You have to be true to your work. I’ve always said there’s no such thing as writing down. Writers always do the best they can.”

We go out into the sunshine. I take a good look at Truman and am infected perhaps by his own line describing Henri Soulé as “pink and glazed as a marzipan pig.” We walk toward the Beverly Wilshire while I think only in food clichés. I note Truman’s new butter-colored moccasins … his apricot-yogurt sweater … his Champagne lick of hair … the strawberry-colored heels of his tiny French carroty hands … his pale raspberry-tinted sunglasses … his soft Cardin hat with its gingerbread texture. l’m relieved to see that he is wearing an ordinary unappetizing pair of trousers that make him look as if he has been hit in the ass with a shovel.

Truman carries his current overweight bulge before him like some defrocked Santa Claus. He gives several autographs en route. He tries to buy a denim vest covered with pockets, discovers that an expensive camera comes with it, and shrugs, “They should give it to me.” At the hotel we fall into the El Padrino bar and Truman asks for a telephone. Disturbed by reports of Diana Vreeland’s displeasure, he dials her direct.

He calls her “darling,” “angel,” “precious one,” and tells her twice that he loves her. He hangs up triumphant and exclaims: “She says it’s the only important and interesting thing she has ever read about the rich!”

Burbank, Stage 15: I am watching Truman “act.” He stands on a step ladder reading Murder by Death lines in a singularly hideous dining-room set. Peter Sellers, Elsa Lanchester, and Timmy Coco play the scene with him. As far as one can see, Capote makes no effort to “act” but simply plays himself. When the heavy chandelier falls, smashing the table and almost causing serious injuries, Capote quips: “The ghosts of Gore Vidal and of Jackie Susann, no doubt.”

In his mobile dressing room, I ask about this acting bit: “Oh, I just thought it would be fun to do something different and I really liked the script. It’s going to be a good movie. I probably won’t act again. It was just for a change from working on the book, and I knew I didn’t have time to take a vacation. How am I as an actor? [Chuckles.] Let’s see, just say, ‘What Billie Holiday is to jazz … what Mae West is to tits … what Gucci is to loafers … what Schlumberger is to enamel bracelets … what Cartier is to tank watches … what Guerlain is to perfume … what Roederer is to Champagne … what Chekhov is to the short story … what Seconal is to sleeping pills … what King Kong is to penises, Truman Capote is to the great god Thespis!”

Truman is suddenly struck by an idea. “My agent Mr. Irving Lazar has given several parties of late and didn’t invite me. So maybe you’re right. Maybe I am a social outcast. Tell you what — call him up and ask about it!”

I’m reluctant, but Truman pays no attention to me. He gets Lazar’s phone number, he dials, and hands me the telephone. I give my message to the secretary, who says “Swifty” will call back. When I hang up, Truman is exasperated. “No, that’s not what I want you to say.” He re-coaches me in my lines. Before Lazar can return the call, Truman is called to the set. When the call comes through I tell Lazar that his client is now a social outcast and ask if this applies in Hollywood, since Truman has not been invited to Lazar’s parties.

Lazar says, grimly, “I wouldn’t have any comment about that.”

Floundering, I say, “You wouldn’t have any comment?”

Lazar: “No.”

I stumble, “Okay, well, I’ll tell Mr. Capote what you said.”

Lazar’s voice rises. “I didn’t tell you to tell Mr. Capote anything.”

“Yes, I know,” I reply, weakly, “and I will tell him that you say you have no comment.”

Lazar screams: “I don’t want you to tell Mr. Capote I said anything. Dammit, I knew I shouldn’t have taken this call!” (Slam.)

Truman loves it. He roars over having discomfited the agent of Richard M. Nixon. Two weeks later he calls New York to ask what people are saying now. I sense that he is anxious. He speaks bitterly of what he calls “the ‘walkers’ … my vociferous critics … what do they have to do with me … with my work?”

Soon it comes out that now the Paleys, the Whitneys, Gloria Vanderbilt, Mike and Jan Cowles, others who were indeed real friends, have drawn the line against Truman. Unlike the Baron de Montesquiou writing to Proust for reassurance that he is not the model for “Baron de Charlus,” Lady Keith does not get in touch with Capote at all. No, she has gone on a trip to the South Pacific with — the Irving Lazars.

Where does all this leave our hero? “Well, I won’t retire to my cork-lined room yet,” says Truman. “I’m just going to a Palm Springs spa to take off 20 pounds before a college lecture tour. Then I’ll drop the other shoe.”

I remind him that nobody can really judge a literary work for 50 years. “This won’t even be dated in 50 years!” says Truman with a bulldog tenacity.

Then I tell him the story of how Gertrude Stein, with all her artistic pretensions, didn’t like the portrait Picasso painted of her and made the classic hick comment: “But it doesn’t look like me!”

Picasso then said, “But it will!”

Truman applauds. He says, “You know. I’m beginning to think what’s happening now is better than the book!”

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