Once hailed as the Viscount of Vibes, Barry of Villareal is the last of the great Ruritanian aristocrats who traded courtly duties for court appearances, and ceremonial robes for silk shirts unbuttoned to the navel.

By birth: noble.
By nature: feral.
By 11am: usually horizontal, face-down on a sun-lounger in Ibiza.

Educated at the prestigious Institut de Quelque Chose (expelled), Barry spent his formative years perfecting the fine arts of champagne sabrage, yacht-hopping, and avoiding meaningful employment. His family crest features two martini glasses crossed beneath a rampant unicorn, and his personal motto: "In Gin We Trust" is tattooed across his ribcage in Gothic script.

Once romantically linked to a minor heiress, two-thirds of a pop trio, and (briefly) the Duchess of Montevento’s third husband, Barry’s love life is the stuff of whispered legend and NDAs.

Despite rumours of exile after "The Incident at the Monaco Grand Prix" (which involved a hoverboard, a Russian oligarch’s wife, and a crate of flaming absinthe), Barry continues to circulate (often heavily) through Europe’s most exclusive parties, flanked by sunglasses-wearing hangers-on and at least one emotional support peacock.

Yet, behind the mirrored aviators and relentless disco, one senses a man desperately avoiding his duties as Baron of Somewhere Unpronounceable, where vineyards go unharvested and the ancestral castle’s Wi-Fi remains catastrophically slow.

Long may he reign - or at least remain upright until brunch.