Ah, the nobility -- our betters. We've seen Downton Abbey, we know how they roll: all genteel, with their cucumber sandwiches and pantaloons, droppin' honorifics like a motherfucker. Not all of them are as subdued and proper as you'd think, though. There's a fine line between "eccentric duke" and "poop-smeared psychopath," and the following folks skipped gaily across that line, only occasionally checking in to pop a squat on the sanity side before skittering back into full-blown madness.
5The Prince of Silence Would've Very Much Liked to Be Invisible
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His proper name was William John Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck (1800-1879) of Nottinghamshire, England. His proper title was Marquess of Titchfield, fifth Duke of Portland, but you could call him the Prince of Silence. Or Bill. Or, preferably, nothing at all. Although rumored to have a disfiguring skin disease or deformity, it seems more likely that Bentinck just hated being near people, or was perhaps winning the most epic game of hide and seek ever played.
As evidenced by his formal portrait.
The only person who was regularly allowed to see him was his valet. Bentinck wouldn't even permit a doctor to examine him; shouting from behind a locked door, the doctor would ask the valet questions, and the valet would call back an answer to the best of his ability. Amazingly, this technique seemed to have worked, since Bentinck lived to the ripe old age of 79 ... for all anybody ever knew, at least.
In the event that servants did encounter Bentinck, they were instructed never to acknowledge his existence and to walk by him "as if he were a tree." Bentinck himself would make that easier by retreating to the wall and pretending to be a statue. Those who failed to ignore him or play along with his statue game were instantly dismissed.
Which explains why this was titled "Photo of Stacked Chairs."
The Prince of Silence might have had an easier time avoiding people if he hadn't been constantly adding to his home, Walbeck Abbey. He spent lavish amounts of money and employed thousands of workmen at a time. One project was a magnificent riding house of immense size, which was stocked with over a hundred horses and lit by 4,000 gas jets. When roller skating became popular, he had a rink built, expressly stating that his employees should enjoy it as often as possible. Aw, he just wanted people to be happy!
... because happy people are content; they do not come looking for the Prince of Silence.
We're not saying this guy was a ninja, just that he was totally qualified.
His main construction efforts were focused underground, though. Fifteen miles of tunnels were constructed, some large enough to drive a carriage through. There was also an underground library, a billiards room, and an observatory fitted with a glass roof. A vast subterranean ballroom was built, complete with a hydraulic lift capable of carrying 20 people. Why a man who shunned humanity like a Milford Academy alumnus would create a room specifically for parties, nobody knows. The labyrinthine tunnels connected to the house and grounds above via trapdoors so Bentinck could wander without risk of encountering anyone. To relay orders, an elaborate system of mailboxes was used. Also: Every room and tunnel was painted bright pink.
All right, we're calling it: Bentinck was Prince's great-great-great-grandpa.
4Mango, King of the Pickles, Was the Best Drinking Buddy You Never Had
John Mytton of Shropshire, England (1796-1834), was known alternately as Mad Jack or Mango, King of the Pickles (you know you're seriously nutbar when "Mad [Your Name]" is the least crazy thing people call you). Above all else, Mad Jack hated to be bored. He must have found dinner parties terribly dull, because he was forever trying to spice them up. After inviting a parson and a doctor over for dinner, he hid along their route dressed as a highwayman. Jumping out of a bush, he fired pistols over their heads while roaring "Stand and deliver!" They turned their horses and ran, with Mad Jack chasing behind them. They were not terribly amused by his Victorian take on Punk'd.
At another dinner party full of guests who were in all likelihood expecting the only excitement that evening to be spice-based, Mad Jack rode a bear into his dining room. The bear calmly went along with this until Jack dug a spur into its side, at which point it bit him on the leg. There's no record of how they got the bear, which was probably a bit pissed off at that point, out of the house. When "wrestling the angry bear out of your home" doesn't even make the anecdote, you have thrown a good dinner party.
We're gonna guess it was hauled away unconscious after being challenged by Mad Jack to a drinking contest.
He also once won a bet in which he rode his horse into a prominent local hotel, went straight up their grand staircase, and then, while he was still riding it, had it jump down off the balcony, leap over the dining patrons, and exit through a window. One of the few jobs Mad Jack ever held happened after he ran for Parliament in 1819. Deciding it was easier than campaigning, he simply paid voters a 10-pound note for their vote. Obviously, he won. Upon attending his first session at Westminster, he lasted 30 minutes before becoming so bored that he left, never again to return.
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Tragically, no one would invent a mic for him to drop for another 58 years.
He did accomplish one significant medical breakthrough: a truly unique cure for hiccups. Late one evening, while so obviously drunk that we shouldn't even have to state it, Jack had a bad case of the hiccups. None of the conventional cures got rid of them, so he simply lit his shirt on fire. After a servant beat out the flames, Jack exclaimed, "The hiccup is gone, by God!" There is no evidence that this method does not work 100 percent of the time, and we heartily encourage you to try it at home.**By reading this text, you are absolving Cracked of responsibility in all nipple-based lawsuits from this point until the end of time.
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That said, drop by tomorrow for "7 Amazing Nipple Injuries You Can Sustain Right Now."
Mad Jack died at 38, deeply in debt but incredibly popular. It is said that 14,000 people turned out for his 15-mile funeral procession, probably half expecting him to spring out of his coffin and start firing T-shirts into the crowd.