Noble Titles... and Other Useless Assets

Let’s talk about titles.

In theory, I’m a Lord. On paper, I own land in Scotland—approximately the size of a pizza box—with a tree on it, probably planted by a guy named Angus who was paid in beer and passive aggression.

It’s all very official. I have the certificate, the embossed seal, and the overwhelming sense that I’ve been part of a marketing campaign disguised as environmentalism.

But let’s be clear: this title means absolutely nothing.  I'm not delusional.

I can't use it to get a loan. I can’t park closer at my local Walmart. No one’s offering me diplomatic immunity or asking me to judge the Highland Games -- but that would be really cool. The closest I’ve come to royal treatment is getting spam emails that now start with “Dear Esteemed Lord Wathen.”

I tried flashing my title at a restaurant once. The hostess blinked twice, called me “sir,” and continued to seat a family of four who came in after me -- after me! Apparently, Wathen nobility doesn’t override the Olive Garden waitlist.

And don’t get me started on the tree. According to the certificate, it’s “protected in perpetuity.” Which sounds great until you realize it’s probably surrounded by fifty other micro-plots owned by people with names like Duke Kevin of Accounting and Baroness Kittycat Brittany from TikTok.

So now I’m part of a loosely-affiliated aristocracy built on entertaining novelty gifts.

Still, I embrace it. I do.  Because if the modern world is going to be this absurd, you might as well lean in and kiss it. At least I didn’t spend $70,000 on an NFT of a cartoon monkey wearing sunglasses. my friend spent probably something like $49.99 and got to call myself Lord.

Your move, crypto bros.

—Lord Wathen
Noble Titleholder, Tree Co-Parent with a Non-Coparenting Mother, Still Waiting for Respect Like Rodney Dangerfield But Demanding It Like Aretha Franklin

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