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.
[…] 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, […]
[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!
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.
