Book reviews for selfish, exiled royal family members— Spare

While shopping for my weekly supply of triple-ply organic toilet paper, I stumbled across a copy of exPrince Harry’s tell-too-much memoir, Spare. I know people say “don’t judge a book by its cover” but seeing that emotionless ginger face stare back at me beside stacks of Andrex somehow compelled me to take home a copy - before being violently sick in a public convenience. After having the hardback watch me perform unspeakable acts in my room for a little over a week, I decided I should finally get around to reading the damn thing. Nights of torment followed.

Has Harry heard of over-sharing? Does he have a filter for the murky effluent that streams from his mouth? Does he have an unnatural and insecure obsession with his genitalia? We certainly know the answer to one of those questions. Having consumed 400 pages of infantile rambling I can safely say that I have become more intimate with the ex-Prince’s man-hood than even my own. To be perfectly honest, we’re now on a first name basis.

Somehow, I feel Harry will not be remembered as one of the great auteurs. His literary work doesn’t quite hit the mark of Shakespeare, Dickens, or Brontë. While Tolkien is immortalised by “not all those who wander are lost”, I dread the day when I read a bronze plaque proclaiming “an older woman who liked macho horses treated me like a young stallion”.

To be fair to the lurid self-obsessive, his book is not without its cultural significance. His writing has done wonders for revitalising the use of the word todger. This can clearly be seen by the distinctly todger-shaped spike in internet searches. No doubt he will be made an honorary member of the Todger Appreciation Society as thanks for his invaluable service.

(Data Provided by Google Trends)

Harry reveals many shocking statements about his family, claiming that, despite its facade of crippling dysfunctionality, inside there’s no real family to be dysfunctional in the first place. Most of the pages appear to be defending his less informed choices - his Nazi costume wasn’t really highly insensitive, it was a misunderstood message - and, if in doubt, it’s best to blame it on the Queen.

If you’re a fan of stories about rich white men who are jealous of their older brothers, or romances set amongst Waitrose own-brand cucumbers, I can highly recommend this book to you. Like certain strains of cheese, the writing style (and contents) have a strong and acquired taste. However, if you have more palatable interests, or any ounce of self respect, it is best you steer well clear of this exposé into the heart of things that you couldn’t give less of a shit about.

A saying I’ve often heard is that a book is a gift you can open again and again, but after 416 wipes, my copy of Spare will finally run dry.