TGIHDGF! (Thank God It’s Hot Dead Guy Friday)

April 27, 2012 — 11 Comments

I have to admit that this is my favorite feature in my blog. Sure, plenty of other people have whole blogs devoted to historical hotties, but they don’t provide little blurbs about each person. I offer that little extra because usually their stories make them even hotter. Today’s gentleman is an exception.

Victorian Mystery Man

I stumbled across this picture while doing an Internet photo search but there’s no information on who he is and I haven’t been able to find any. But it’s a shame to just leave it at that. So I’ll just make up a biography for him. Here goes:

Bartholomew J. Throckmorton
A mild-mannered apothecary from Newcastle, Mr. Throckmorton was renowned for his unique preparations. Wealthy customers came from all over England and abroad to purchase his tinctures, elixirs, tonics, salves, potions, lotions, balsams, balms, and his specialty, strawberry lemonade. In 1844 he concocted a special blend of tea in honor of Queen Victoria’s 25th birthday that he called RoyalTea. The queen liked it so much that she knighted him. Sir Bartholomew enjoyed a prosperous and happy life, and died in his sleep at the age of 87.

There. I think that’s a nice fake bio for such a nice-looking sir.

11 responses to TGIHDGF! (Thank God It’s Hot Dead Guy Friday)

    Cory (aka the "roomie") April 27, 2012 at 11:34 am

    love it. could really go for a strawberry lemonade right now with a shot of somethin-somethin.



    i don’t know where in the feck you find these people…loooll. but, i love it.



    Groo-oovy! What fun! Great imagination. And they sell strawberry lemonade at the cafe in the area where I work — so you got me there, ’cause I love it! I wondered if I might purchase also, a fine unguent from Mr. Throckmorton…



    Is this the same Throckmorton who wrote love sonnets to his beloved, a young woman of delicate disposition and health and who, in an effort to improve both, concocted one of his experimental tonics for her, which she drank and, as a result, died an hour later, inducing in Throckmorton a life-long, secret melancholy and aversion delicate young women, or in fact, any women at all, Throckie, as his friends called him, being a lifelong bachelor? Could’st be the same?



      T’was him! Isn”t that sad? And none of his sonnets survived—he burned them in a bonfire along with the ingredients of the aforementioned experimental tonic. And yet he was constantly pursued by eligible ladies, who found him irresistible—not just because of his wealth but because the melancholy made him so alluring. So sensitive and vulnerable. But as you mention, he never did marry. Poor Throckie.



    Even to this day, in parts of Newcastle, “being in the throes of a throck” means suffering from unrequited love. Being a handsome melancholic is catnip to women of a certain cast of mind.



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