Exclusive: Prince Harry pens an open letter to the British people

My Fellow Ordinary Brits,

As a man who cherishes his privacy almost as much as I prize my jar of Goop beard oil (hand-pressed by Gwyneth from organic Hawaiian polyps), I hope you’ll understand my hesitation in stepping back into the public eye to make a few comments for Reaction about recent events (photoshoot in Vanity Fair to follow).

It seems that the media are out to belittle my attempts to escape the royal life and to forge a path as an ordinary man supporting his ordinary family. As I said to an ordinary friend the other day: “I can’t even nip around to Orlando’s to provide a few ‘doo-wops’ for Katy’s next hit single without the paparazzi making a bloody big deal of it… Just what is their problem, Oprah?”

Yet it’s understandable that I’m so victimised. Like my forefathers who fled from England to escape persecution from vengeful monarchs (also forefathers), I arrived in this country with few demands. I just wanted a plot of land next door to George Clooney’s pig shed and that the First Amendment be rewritten in favour of husky gingers who know their way around an Apache. The rest I will earn from the sweat of my brow, which, by the last measure, was still six inches smaller than that of my follicly-challenged sibling, whose name I’m contractually unable to mention outside a CBS interview.

Yet I know that the newspapers will spin it differently. I came to this great American republic because they don’t recognise royal titles and, here, I live under my real name; one “Prince Harry” among all the other Prince Harrys, demanding neither fanfare nor ceremony, and happy to have their worth measured by fanfare at the opening ceremony of their next Netflix documentary.

I have also noticed a jealous few complaining about my move into media production. But the problem with being a royal is that people think that we don’t have our own opinions. Well, that’s such rot! I have opinions. As I lay in bed last night, under the levitating crystal pyramid we bought off Kirstie Alley (a snip at half a Ferrari), I counted all of my opinions, and I got well into double figures. And I’m not even talking 20 or 30. I’m talking late forties, easy…

Private jets fly too fast to pollute…

Ian is the funnier Krankie…

The series finale of Line of Duty lived up to expectations…

That was three, but I have others. I even thought the European Super League was a fantastic idea since it consigned my brother’s beloved Aston Villa to the obscurity of the domestic league.

Speaking of opinionated royals, I also want to say a few things about the Old Wallet, as I like to call my father. There have been some cruel accusations that I was still receiving “Purple Grannies” (as the OW likes to call £50 notes) well into my 30s, but I would like to make it clear that I still hadn’t “recognised my own being”, as we say here in California. A man can’t be blamed if his cosmic equilibrium was still a bit “Yang heavy” but daily Yin supplements with my breakfast smooth (made with cacao and Alpine snow) have solved that along with a $25 million Netflix deal.

All I can say is that hard lessons were learned but I’m now rechannelling my chakra towards sharing this wisdom with others. Such as, if you’re feeling a bit down and wondering how you’ll get through the day, then nothing detoxes the old spirits quite like a $25 million deal from Spotify to make podcasts. Give it a try. You’ll thank me later.

Before I go, a quick word about my dear wife, life coach, and shell partner…

When we first whispered our vows into our unity conche (a gift from Gaga) and threw it into the ocean off Butterfly Beach, we promised that nothing would ever come between us other than the rehydrating yucca butter we’d smeared on our noses. Too much has been written about her already. People think they understand Meghan but they don’t know her as I know her. They don’t know this woman shorn of pretentions, with a simple work ethic, a carefree attitude to her own sense of self-worth, who calls me “H” and, in return, likes me to call her “Princess Meghan, Her Royal Highness, The Duchess of Sussex, Countess of Dumbarton, and Baroness Kilkeel”.

Right. Ordinary life calls! I’m off to Disney this afternoon. I’m auditioning for the role of a dancing clam in the new Hercules remake. I also see that I’ve hit my 800-word limit and it’s another $2.5 mill for the next 500…

No takers? Right ho! Touch elbows later…

ArriveVersace!

H (Prince).

Telephone: 323-555-0174
Any jobs taken! Give me a call!