When we talk about tyrants, we often picture ruthless policies and iron fists. Yet, behind the curtain of oppression, many despots nurtured surprisingly eccentric hobbies and fixations. These 10 odd obsessions reveal a surprisingly human (and often hilarious) side to some of the world’s most feared leaders. From Stalin’s doodles on nude sketches to Hitler’s devotion to a German‑written western, each quirk is as baffling as it is revealing.
10 Joseph Stalin: Leaving Crude Notes On Nude Male Drawings
Stalin cultivated a strange pastime: he would take reproductions of 19th‑century Russian male nudes and pepper them with sharp‑tongued remarks in blue or red ink. Sometimes he defaced the artwork itself, but more often he left marginalia aimed at comrades—both living and dead. One note on a Vasily Surikov drawing targeted Bolshevik agitator Karl Radek, whom Stalin eventually ordered executed: “Radek, you ginger bastard, if you hadn’t pissed into the wind, if you hadn’t been so bad, you’d still be alive.”
Another sketch featured a bearded nude; Stalin drew an inverted triangle over the penis and scrawled, “Why are you so thin? Study Marxism!” Scholars interpret this as evidence of a conflicted attitude toward sexuality—perhaps a latent homoeroticism or a deep‑seated homophobia—directed at Mikhail Kalinin, a peripheral Bolshevik figure. Other margins were bluntly pragmatic: beside a drawing of a man fondling his genitals, Stalin wrote, “You need to work, not wank. Time for re‑education.” Near a scene of a man before a prostrate woman, he barked, “Idiot!!! You’ve completely forgotten what to do.” A rare positive comment appeared next to a youth holding a staff: “This Soviet David is preparing to tackle global imperialism. We will help!” All notes bore the signature “J. Stalin.” They remained hidden by his guards until the Soviet collapse, when a private collector acquired them.
9 Vladimir Lenin: Secrecy
Lenin’s obsession with secrecy was not merely tactical; it was almost doctrinal. In his pamphlet What Is To Be Done? he argued that clandestine operations forged tighter bonds between party cadres and the proletariat. He dismissed democratic mechanisms as “a useless and harmful toy” amid the autocratic glare of the tsarist police. This conspiratorial mindset seeped into the Soviet bureaucracy throughout the 1920s, where most official business unfolded behind closed doors and only emerged publicly when deemed advantageous.
The veil of secrecy allowed the new elite to wage a public “war on the palaces” while privately amassing country houses, sanatoria, supply depots, and medical centers. In a 1918 missive to Stalin, Lenin proposed constructing “one or two model rest homes no nearer Moscow than 400 miles,” insisting they be equipped with top‑tier doctors and administrators rather than the usual Soviet bunglers. He also urged the rapid repair of a branch railway and the inauguration of a self‑driven trolley, promising a “rapid and secret connection” year‑round. Lenin’s emphasis on hidden retreats set the stage for the later red aristocracy that thrived on covert privilege.
8 Muammar Gadhafi: Condoleezza Rice
The Libyan strongman harbored a flamboyant crush on former U.S. Secretary of State Condoleezza Rice. In 2007, Gadhafi broadcast a glowing tribute on Al Jazeera: “I support my darling black African woman… I admire and am very proud of the way she leans back and gives orders to the Arab leaders… Yes, Leezza, Leezza, Leezza… I love her very much.” When Rice visited Libya in 2008, Gadhafi greeted her with a hand‑over‑heart—a gesture traditionally reserved for women—then lavished her with gifts: a locket, a lute, a massive ring, wristbands, and an autographed copy of his memoir.
During the meeting, Gadhafi screened a video collage of Rice set to a custom‑composed anthem titled “Black Flower in the White House.” Rice later recalled, “At the end of dinner, Gadhafi told me he’d made a videotape for me. I thought, what is this going to be? It turned out to be an innocent montage of photos of me with world leaders—President Bush, Vladimir Putin, Hu Jintao—set to music by a Libyan composer.” The State Department described the infatuation as “deeply bizarre and deeply creepy.” After the 2011 rebel takeover, troops uncovered a photo album brimming with pictures of Rice in various outfits, confirming the dictator’s obsessive admiration.
7 Idi Amin: Scotland
Uganda’s brutal ruler Idi Amin cultivated a peculiar fascination with Scotland, a sentiment born during his service in the King’s African Rifles under Scottish officers. Though he despised the British, he romanticized the Scots, proclaiming, “If you go to Scotland, you will talk to the people. They will welcome you to their house. With the English, if they see a black man they see… he is a monkey or dog.” Author Giles Foden noted that Amin’s attachment to Scotland allowed him to maintain a symbolic link to the colonial power while simultaneously rejecting English dominance.
In 1974, Amin audaciously offered himself as the “new king of Scotland.” Footage from 1976 shows an African‑American marching band parading through Ugandan streets in full kilt regalia, complete with bagpipes. The eccentricity reached a climax in 1977 when Amin was barred from attending a Commonwealth gathering at Gleneagles. Ugandan radio announced his intention to storm the UK, prompting the British military to station forces at Glasgow and Edinburgh airports, prepared for a possible incursion by Amin with “at least 250 of his very formidable bodyguard.”
6 Fidel Castro: Dairy
Cuba’s revolutionary leader Fidel Castro nurtured an almost fanatical devotion to dairy products. He reportedly preferred milk to water and could identify each of his cattle by sight. When Minister of Communications Enrique Oltuski misplaced a herd, Castro’s fury manifested in a scathing note: “Enrique, you think you have the biggest balls in this country; you don’t. There is someone with even bigger balls.”
Castro forced his milk obsession onto the populace, championing the development of high‑quality yogurt, cheese, and ice cream. In the 1960s, he imported machinery from Holland and Sweden, culminating in the creation of Coppelia’s—one of the world’s largest ice‑cream parlors—boasting four indoor salons, four outdoor cafés, and an outdoor bar, operating from 10:45 a.m. to 1:45 a.m. and capable of serving up to 16,000 litres of ice cream to 35,000 patrons daily.
His dairy experiments birthed the legendary bull Rosafe and the cow Ubre Blanca (“White Udders”), which produced a staggering 110 litres of milk in a single day in 1982—though this was chemically induced, and the animal died young. Castro commissioned poems and songs in her honor, awarded her a full military funeral, and later displayed her remains at the Museum of the Revolution. In 1987, he voiced ambitions to engineer a miniature cow suitable for apartment living, ensuring a personal milk supply for every Cuban.
5 Mobutu Sese Seko: Opulence
Zaire’s flamboyant ruler Mobutu Sese Seko squandered billions while his citizens languished in poverty. Exploiting the nation’s rich copper, cobalt, and diamond reserves, Mobutu embezzled roughly £6.3 billion—equivalent to the country’s entire national debt. Backed by a CIA‑supported coup and deemed a bulwark against communism, the United States turned a blind eye to his plunder.
Mobutu’s wealth manifested in a glittering overseas portfolio: a chateau in Belgium, villas in Brussels, Venice, Paris, and Abidjan, and a Spanish castle. He stocked a personal wine cellar with over 2,500 vintage bottles at his Villa del Mare on the Côte d’Azur. His children were shuttled to school by helicopter, and he built an international airport capable of handling Concorde flights for extravagant shopping sprees that could cost up to $1 million per week. A 1994 shopping trip to Hong Kong earned him a reputation for lavish tipping and prompted police protection to shield his entourage from interruptions.
Mobutu’s crowning achievement of excess was the transformation of his hometown Gbadolite into an “African Versailles.” He erected multiple palaces filled with counterfeit Louis XIV furniture, even commissioning a Chinese‑style palace in the 1990s. The once‑modest village of 1,500 mud‑hut residents evolved into a Las Vegas‑like enclave with hotels, banks, and casinos supporting a population of 35,000. The New York Times in 1988 described the scene: “At a marble‑tiled terrace, voices rose from banquet tables set against illuminated fountains. Liveried waiters served roast quail on Limoges china and poured Loire Valley wines, properly chilled against the equatorial heat. ‘Bon appétit,’ said the 58‑year‑old president.” After Mobutu’s downfall, Gbadolite was looted and now lies in ruin.
4 Mao Tse‑tung: Calligraphy
Chinese revolutionary Mao Zedong was a devoted calligrapher, wielding the brush as both artistic tool and political weapon. While the Cultural Revolution sought to eradicate “old” traditions, Mao repurposed calligraphy, drawing on Tang‑dynasty styles but infusing them with revolutionary slogans. This period saw an unprecedented flourishing of modern Chinese calligraphy, with Mao’s own work becoming emblematic of the era.
Mao’s love of the art dovetailed with his poetic sensibilities. As a student he exchanged verses with peers, and during the early 20th‑century upheavals, official documents were handwritten rather than typed. Propaganda images often depicted him brandishing a brush, underscoring his scholarly image. His distinctive script graced the masthead of the People’s Daily, the signage of Beijing Railway Station, and even humble mosquito nets at Fujian Normal University.
Red Guard campaigns that destroyed traditional calligraphy paradoxically elevated Mao’s own works, which appeared on their armbands. Scholar Chang Tsong‑zŭng noted Mao’s strategic use of the literati persona to legitimize his rule. In 1999, a Chinese calligraphy magazine ranked Mao seventh among the most important 20th‑century calligraphers. His style continues to appear on consumer goods—from cigarettes to automobiles—and a TrueType font of his script was released in 2007. Ironically, Mao’s grandson Mao Xinyu has been mocked online for his notoriously poor handwriting.
3 Ferdinand Marcos: The Number Seven
Philippine dictator Ferdinand Marcos was notoriously superstitious, with the number seven serving as his talisman. When plotting the 1972 seizure of power, Marcos and his confidant Juan Ponce Enrile debated dates, insisting each option either ended in seven or was divisible by seven. The eventual proclamation of martial law—Proclamation No. 1081—was claimed to be signed on September 21, 1972, a date Marcos promoted as auspicious.
Marcos’s numerological fixation persisted. In 2005, the National Assembly debated Bill No. 7, proposing a 57‑day campaign leading to a February 7 election. Cabinet member Leonardo Perez openly admitted, “We are superstitious.” The obsession even colored historical narratives: Time magazine reported that Marcos deliberately misrepresented the martial‑law start date to align with his lucky number, urging citizens to accept the myth.
In 2014, former senator Rene A. V. Saguisag wrote a scathing email demanding correction of the false date. He lamented, “Marcosian numerology persists. He was fond of seven and its multiples, so he fabricated the myth that September 21, 1972, marked the onset of martial law. In reality, democracy was still alive that day, and Senator Benigno S. Aquino Jr. delivered his final privilege speech in the Senate. The myth allowed Marcos to control history on his terms.”
2 Kirsan Ilyumzhinov: Aliens And Chess
Kirsan Ilyumzhinov, elected president of the Russian republic of Kalmykia in 1993, quickly dissolved parliament, rewrote the constitution, and extended his tenure. His tenure sparked a showdown with the Kremlin, as he threatened to turn Kalmykia into an independent tax haven—prompting Putin to ban direct regional elections. Yet after a mysterious hour‑long meeting, Putin renominated Ilyumzhinov, suggesting the dictator’s eccentric hobbies may have swayed the outcome.
Ilyumzhinov’s passions were twofold: chess and extraterrestrials. He consulted the blind Bulgarian seer Babushka Vanga, who foretold his rise to FIDE presidency in 1995. He later organized the 1998 Chess Olympiad in Elista, but by 2006 his leadership attracted criticism. During a championship clash between Veselin Topalov and Vladimir Kramnik, Topalov accused Kramnik of cheating after three bathroom breaks in 13 minutes. Ilyumzhinov dismissed the referees, assuming their duties himself. Garry Kasparov later complained that Ilyumzhinov governed FIDE with the same authoritarian grip he exercised over his impoverished republic, scaring off sponsors.
The other fascination was even more outlandish. Ilyumzhinov claimed he was abducted in 1997 by alien beings wearing yellow spacesuits, who whisked him to a distant star before he demanded a return trip to conduct Youth Government Week. During the journey, he proclaimed, “My theory is that chess comes from space. The 64 squares, the black and white pattern, the universal rules—whether in Japan, China, Qatar, Mongolia, or Africa—suggest an extraterrestrial origin.” Russian parliamentarian Andre Lebedev warned that Ilyumzhinov’s revelations might jeopardize state secrets, urging that such an extraordinary event be reported to the Kremlin.
1 Adolf Hitler: Karl May
Adolf Hitler, notorious for his genocidal regime, also possessed a voracious appetite for literature—amassing a personal library of roughly 16,000 volumes, 1,200 of which were rescued from the Berchtesgaden salt mines and later deposited in the Library of Congress. Among the works he perused, Shakespeare’s Hamlet and Julius Caesar, along with Don Quixote, Robinson Crusoe, Gulliver’s Travels, and even the American abolitionist classic Uncle Tom’s Cabin, found a place on his shelves.
Yet it was the German‑written westerns of Karl May that truly captivated the Führer. He first encountered May’s tales as a child, devouring “The Ride Across the Desert” with such enthusiasm that his grades reportedly suffered. Although May never set foot in the New World, his stories of frontier bravery resonated across Europe, and Hitler became an ardent fan. He would read these novels under his blankets with a flashlight, or by moonlight aided by a magnifying glass.
Hitler extolled May’s works as a catalyst for German historical consciousness, insisting that officers carry copies of May’s “Indianerbucher” to learn nobility and prepare for combat against the Russians—whom he likened to Native American guerrillas hiding behind trees and bridges. Even amid wartime paper shortages in 1944, Hitler ordered the printing of 300,000 copies of May’s books for distribution among troops, believing that the tales of the cowboy hero Old Shatterhand would inspire German soldiers to triumph over the “savages” of the Eastern Front.