![]() ![]() So… I stand beside James Purefoy and ask whether he has a tip for the next race. ![]() I can’t not go up to him, especially as our surroundings offer a conversational gambit rather more sophisticated than “Mum really fancied you in A Knight’s Tale.” Mark Antony, Solomon Kane, The Black Prince. It was a racecourse – Epsom, I think, wouldn’t swear on it – and this young editorial assistant was wandering the paddock, starry eyed and a little skew-whiff thanks to an afternoon spent in hospitality.Īnd there he is – James Purefoy! Resplendent in a grey flannel suit, striding around like he owns the place. A backstreet in Soho, he was between jobs… No, I’m kidding. The first time I met James Purefoy, it cost me £20.
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