Gotta love 'em!

I spend a great deal of time fantasizing, mostly about cake – chocolate with inch-think vanilla frosting, in case you were wondering. On those rare occasions when my mind isn’t occupied by dessert, I also like to imagine what it would be like to be stinking rich and have absolutely no responsibilities. Oh, the things I would do with my money. I wouldn’t spend it on cars or houses or jewelry or caviar or vintage wines. Money is meant to be blown creatively. To that end, I’ve been doing some research in preparation for my future as a rich person, and in the process have uncovered the biographies of some of history’s greatest men, eccentric British aristocrats. They never contributed to the general welfare, I grant you, nor did they produce great works of art or thrive as amateur scientists. They did, however, know how to squander their inheritances with panache. Here are a few of the notables…

William Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck (1800 – 1879)
William Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, the name by which all other aristocrats’ names must be measured, was a fabulously wealthy recluse. When I say recluse, I don’t mean a little shy or introverted. He lived in an enormous mansion, but relegated himself to about a half dozen unfurnished rooms, all painted pink; his valet had the distinction of being quite literally the only other person ever allowed in these quarters. And here’s where things get for-real crazy. Our wacky aristocrat commissioned a whole slew of laborers, who were incidentally instructed in writing by their employer not to acknowledge his existence should they inadvertently run into him, to construct a vast and elaborate system of subterranean tunnels and rooms. He had this new addition to his estate painted – what else? – pink. Just to top it all off, the guy dined exclusively on freshly-killed chickens, conveyed to him in his underground bunker by a rail system.

John Mytton (1796 – 1834)
Like Lord Byron, an eccentric British aristocrat excluded from this list for having accomplished something, John Mytton kept a bear as a pet. Unlike Byron, Mytton would periodically utilize his furry friend as a means of transportation, riding the wild animal around his estate. On one occasion, the bear responded to this indignity by taking an enormous bite out of Mytton’s leg, but Mytton, undeterred, refused to have the bear put down until it ferociously attacked one of his servants. Mytton also enjoyed a good prank. One particular evening, when entertaining friends, he waited for them to leave before dressing up like a highwayman, catching up with their carriage, and robbing them at gunpoint. The greatest thing of all is that this is really just the tip of his lunacy iceberg. He died aged 38 in a debtor’s prison, his intake of port, which came out to an almost unbelievable 8 bottles a day, likely being a contributing factor.

Robert Coates (1772 – 1848)
Unlike many other aristocrats, Robert Coates aspired to a career, that of an actor. Like many other aristocrats, Robert Coates had no discernable talent. In fact, he was by all accounts one of the worst actors to ever grace the stage. Fortunately, he had enough money to finance his own plays, invariably casting himself as the male lead. Although audiences jeered, laughed, and generally made clear their feelings regarding his acting chops, as well as his absurd, self-designed costumes, Coates’ inevitable infamy actually attracted theater-goers curious to see one of his catastrophic performances. They were not disappointed. Coates’ memory was almost as bad as his acting, so he would often make up dialogue, which somehow failed to live up to Shakespearean standards, a problem since Romeo was his trademark role. Needless to say, he often had difficulty finding actresses willing to portray Juliet. Best of all, if Coates felt a given scene had gone particularly well, he would halt action and repeat it, often more than once. Like the film director, Ed Wood, a little over a century later, Coates heroically soldiered on in the face of ridicule, convinced of his own genius.

Jemmy Hirst (1738 – 1829)
Jemmy Hirst was a gentleman farmer whose lunacy was so notorious that he was invited to tea by King George III, himself no stranger to insanity. Hirst, when first summoned by the King, demurred, offering as his excuse that he was busy teaching an otter to fish. Eventually he relented, ensuring his visit would be unforgettable by pouring water on the head of a nobleman whom he believed to be hysterical. As you may have gathered from Hirst’s adventures in otter-training, teaching animals to do unusual, maybe even unnatural, things was something of a passion for him. When fox-hunting, he rode a bull that had been trained to behave like a horse; in place of hounds, he used pigs. His version of philanthropy was to summon the poor to his home where they would be fed for free, the catch being that the food would be served in a coffin. Intriguingly, Wikipedia refers to this coffin as his “favorite” implying that he had something of a collection. Sartorially he was no slouch either, owning a hat with a nine-foot brim and choosing to be married in a toga.

Some honorable mentions:

Phillip Thicknesse (1719 – 1792) in his will asked that his right hand be cut off and sent to his estranged son.

Sir Benjamin Slade (1946 – present) is currently best known for his attempts to find an heir to his estate, as he is childless. Much more interestingly, he recently offered up his dog to serve as best man at same-sex weddings performed at his country home, explaining that the pooch is, “a bit gay.”

Chris Eubank (1966 – present) is a British boxer who trained in the South Bronx. While not exactly an aristocrat, he did squander a small fortune, at one point purchasing the title of Lord of the Manor of Brighton for the express purpose of appointing a town crier. He’s also a monocle enthusiast.

John Christie (1882 – 1962), founder of an opera festival, decided at one performance to remove his glass eye, polish and replace it. This was wildly inappropriate as he happened to be seated next to the Queen at the time. What really makes the story, however, is that after popping the eye back into its socket, he turned to the Queen to ask if he’d put it in straight.

William Buckland (1784 – 1856) would deserve a longer entry if I believed the almost-certainly apocryphal tale which states that he, upon seeing the preserved heart of King Louis XIV of France, scooped it up and ate it.