The Mischievous Genius Who Pranked Britain’s Elite

Imagine a world where pranks aren’t just petty gags like cling wrap on a toilet seat or a jump scare to spook your friends. Picture instead a man from Britain’s upper crust, born nearly 150 years ago, who turned mischief into an art form, targeting the pompous and powerful with unrivaled flair. Meet Horace de Vere Cole, a name you might not know but whose audacious stunts still echo through history as some of the boldest pranks ever pulled.

Cole wasn’t your typical troublemaker. Born into a wealthy, well-connected family, he had all the trappings of privilege—his father a British Army major, his mother tied to the Earl of Oxford, and his uncle a future Bank of England governor. His sister even married Neville Chamberlain, who’d later become prime minister. Educated at the elite Eton and Cambridge, Cole could’ve coasted through life on his pedigree. But he had other plans: to torment the stuffy and self-important with pranks that ranged from clever to downright chaotic.

His mischief kicked off in 1905 while still at Cambridge. Scanning the newspaper one morning, he spotted a story about the Sultan of Zanzibar’s upcoming London visit. Most students would’ve shrugged and moved on, but Cole saw a golden opportunity. He fired off a telegram to Cambridge’s mayor, posing as an official and announcing that the Sultan’s uncle would soon grace the city. With his friend Adrian Stephen and a few accomplices in tow, Cole visited theatrical costumier Willie Clarkson—rumored to have dressed both detectives and crooks, and maybe even Jack the Ripper. Clarkson transformed them with makeup and robes into what they guessed Zanzibari royalty might look like. Astonishingly, it worked. The mayor and a formal delegation escorted the “princes” around town, including a tour of their own university, without a single soul catching on.

Cole’s disdain for arrogance, perhaps fueled by his own gilded upbringing, drove him to target the elite. One standout prank saw him challenge Oliver Locker-Lampson, a former schoolmate turned Conservative MP, to a footrace on a London street. Cole graciously offered a 10-yard head start, and Locker-Lampson, oblivious to his friend’s reputation, took the bait. As the MP surged ahead, Cole shouted “Stop, thief!” A nearby policeman tackled Locker-Lampson, only to find Cole’s gold pocket watch—slipped into the MP’s pocket earlier—spilling out. Cole later confessed it was all a setup, sparing Locker-Lampson charges but not humiliation.

Not every stunt was aimed at bigwigs. Sometimes Cole just wanted to stir the pot. In one wild escapade, he and pals posed as workmen, cordoned off Piccadilly Circus, and started digging random trenches. The ruse was so convincing that police helped redirect traffic. On another occasion, he roamed London with a cow’s teat dangling from his trousers, mimicking something far more scandalous. When an outraged crowd formed, he snipped it off with scissors, leaving shrieks ringing across the city.

His flair for the theatrical shone at a West End show’s opening night. Arriving early, Cole handed out free tickets—but only to bald men willing to let him write a letter on their scalps. As the lights rose, the posh crowd in the upper tiers looked down to see “BOLLOCKS” spelled out below. Crude? Yes. Memorable? Absolutely.

But Cole’s crowning achievement came with the Dreadnought Hoax. A naval friend dared him to prank the officers of HMS Dreadnought, then the world’s most advanced warship. Undeterred by its heavy security, Cole concocted a plan. With no real royals scheduled to visit, he invented some: Abyssinian princes eager to inspect the vessel. He enlisted a crew of accomplices, including Adrian Stephen, artist Duncan Grant, and Virginia Woolf—yes, *that* Virginia Woolf, then Virginia Stephen. Back at Clarkson’s, they donned robes, fake beards, and makeup. Cole, posing as a Foreign Office official, sent a telegram to the Home Fleet’s commander-in-chief, announcing the princes’ arrival.

The group bluffed their way onto a lavish train from Paddington to Weymouth, where the Dreadnought awaited. Greeted with a guard of honor, they toured the ship, spouting a gibberish “language” cobbled from Swahili, Latin, and Greek. They marveled at the ship’s wonders with cries of “Bunga bunga!”—a phrase that stuck. Astonishingly, one officer, Commander Willie Fisher, was Woolf and Stephen’s cousin, yet he never twigged, even as his bearded “prince” of a cousin stood feet away. Rain nearly ruined their makeup, and they dodged a meal to avoid chewing through fake beards, but they pulled it off. The ruse only unraveled days later when the Daily Mail spilled the story.

The Navy fumed—Cole had pantsed their pride—but couldn’t press charges; no laws were broken. Instead, officers “symbolically” paddled the pranksters’ backsides, sparing Woolf the indignity. Cole’s luck didn’t hold elsewhere. His first wife left after he squandered his fortune on a failed real estate scheme. His second bore him a son—fathered, it turned out, by painter Augustus John. Cole died at 55 of a heart attack, leaving a legacy of laughs and lessons.

As for the Dreadnought, she made history in 1915, sinking a German U-boat—the first warship to do so in World War I. Amid the praise, one telegram stood out: “Bunga bunga.” Cole would’ve loved that.

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