When Ewan McGregor was but a wee lad in a sleepy town in Scotland in the ’70s, some 3,200 miles away in a Manhattan townhouse on East 63rd Street, Roy Halston Frowick was living on a diet of baked potatoes with beluga caviar, chilled Stolichnaya, rent boys and mounds of cocaine piled in Elsa Peretti silver ashtrays.
Yesterday the contest between the Duke of Richmond and Mr. Edwards at Chichester was a very hard run thing; some believe that the Duke will lose it, but I do not.
[S]he told me very frankly that whenever I returned, she would leave her mate and come to me, as she preferred me above all others. I was becoming a ladies' man after a lifetime of bashfulness!
[…] and if I get a scanty living in the way I do, it is because the credulity of the people require such practices to satisfy their weenings — they wish to know all sorts of things, […]
