The best Dream Homes of 2021: revisiting the world’s most incredible homes
Every week, Real Estate Editor Tom Bowden takes us on a hilarious tour of the world’s most amazing homes. Get ready to go down one weird rabbit hole as he revisits 15 of his favourites.
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Hi there! Tom Bowden here.
Each week I write a section called Dream Homes in the Real Estate Magazine where I take the Mickey out of some of the world’s most incredible properties. I’ve written more than 120 of these this year and here I’ve pulled together what I think are the best 15.
I hope they provide a bit of escape from the current Covid-19 dominated news cycle.
That’s all they were ever intended to be, an escape.
Enjoy.
Florida, US
We’ve all got that one friend that takes an interest way too far.
Take basketballer Shaquille O’Neal for example. Something tells me the dude’s got a thing for Superman. There’s literally a logo for the Man of Steel in every single pic here. His house is full of them.
In the pic above you can see it emblazoned on the wall of his mirrored garage. And while we’re talking about that garage, I don’t think it’s a great idea to have a mirrored garage. You’d always feel like you’re about to back into a car that isn’t there. But I can see why he’s done it. Looking at that pic it looks like he’s got about a dozen cars, when in reality there’s only a few there. That’s smart. It makes me think maybe the bloke’s not 216cm at all. Maybe that’s just mirrors too. Could be some Peter Dinklage-sized bloke pulling some David Copperfield-type trickery on us. It really makes you question your place in the world and re-evaluate your entire concept of reality …
Where was I? Oh yeah, Superman. The basketball court above? You’ll see a Superman logo there too.
The cinema? Well that’s lined with Superman movie posters, and the fella’s even got one of the films going on the big screen.
The bathroom’s got the big “S” frosted into the glass door, and if you look closely you’ll see Shaq’s even got his own urinal. Given he’s allegedly 216cm tall, it’s probably far too high for most of us blokes to use. Unless we have a steppy stool …
And then there’s the bedroom and that enormous circular bed.
The bedspread? You guessed it! Massive Superman logo. There’s probably a line there somewhere about being faster than a speeding bullet, but I’m too much of a gentleman to go for it.
Price not disclosed
Los Angeles, US
If I can impart to you one piece of advice that I’ve found handy in my 10 years working for The Advertiser, it’s that it’s important to read things carefully. I was about to rant that the previous owner of this house should be publicly shamed for her ridiculous invention – an invention that sounds cool on paper, but when applied to a real life situation, is far less cool and almost a little icky. I’m talking hypercolour T-shirts. I don’t know when they were invented, and frankly I can’t be bothered looking it up (if you want to know, you can Google it – why should I do all the heavy lifting here?), but I remember them being big in the ’90s. For those of you not familiar with hypercolour clothing, it’s made of fabric that’s had a chemical process applied to it that makes it change colour in the presence of heat. The ads for it showed a girl hugging a dude from behind. She then walks off while her handprints remain visible on his chest. Pretty rad, right? I thought it would be. Alas I was mistaken, for while I spent my formative years longing for the embrace of the fairer species, all I got was a shirt that revealed to the world by a colour variation around the armpits that physical activity wasn’t for me.
But this article doesn’t call for this rant because rather than being crowned the Queen of Hypercolour, the former owner of this ridiculously extravagant LA property, Rhonda Fleming, is in fact known as the Queen of Technicolour, the film process that allows us to enjoy cinema’s vivid tones. Being a fiery redhead with fair skin and green eye, it’s like Fleming was lab-created for the screen (except she wasn’t – nobody’s suggesting she was …) and featured in such classics as Gunfight at the O.K. Corral, Spellbound, and A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
So yeah, read things carefully. Nice place, though …
Price not disclosed
Beverly Hills, US
If this property looks familiar, it’s because it’s owned by model Chrissy Teigen and her singer husband John Legend. Now, as one of my colleagues pointed out the other day when she fired up her Instagram account, Ms Teigen’s not really shy about what photos of her property she puts out on social media. In fact, she’s not really shy about anything she puts on social media …
So if you’re a follower of hers, chances are you’ve seen these areas before, because, as they say, if you’ve got it, flaunt it. I’m talking about the house here … So, of all the spaces on offer out of the 100 or so photos supplied to me by the agent (seeing as due to COVID-19, I can no longer visit these places in person. Am I really still keeping up the charade that I used to attend these overseas homes each week? I suppose I am …) why did I choose these ones?
Well, I’m a huge fan of John Legend, particularly the album he did with The Roots, Wake Up! The dude’s an amazing singer, a fantastic songwriter, a funny lad and a damn good-looking rooster. So, peeling back the veil to give you an insight into the creative process that goes into making up this page, I’d be mad not to include a photo with the grand piano, given that’s kind of his schtick. Legend’s wardrobe? Well, I’m a huge fan of designer shoes and haute couture, despite the fact I can’t afford a thread of it. So that goes in – Teigen’s gets a miss, mostly because I can’t see myself wearing any of it …
And the swimming pool shot? Well, it’s an unwritten rule of real estate that if you’ve got a pool shot, you use it. Unless there’s a dead bird or rodent in it. Then you leave it out. Always leave it out …
Price not disclosed
Sandy Bay, Tasmania
I’m not really much of a waterbaby. Some people are, but me – not so much. For those unfamiliar with the term “waterbaby”, it’s one who feels comfortable in the water and is drawn to spending time in it. I’m not talking about actual babies that are made of water. I don’t think they are a real thing. Mostly because I can’t understand how they would come to be or how they would keep their baby form if they were indeed just water. Unless they were frozen. Then they’d hold their shape. But they wouldn’t really be called water babies, would they? They’d be called ice babies. Or, if you want to be gangster about it – Ice, Ice Babies. I’ll look into it, but I really don’t think they are a thing …
Anyway, here’s a house I found in Tasmania. I really like this place, but I’m not moving there, mostly because the coast doesn’t really do it for me. I love Tasmania, but as I’ve mentioned before in these stories, I’m not a huge fan of sand. In one edition I posed that if we can build the stellar concrete achievement that is the Big Koala, surely we can concrete the entire ocean. I stand by my hatred of sand so I’m boycotting this place because, being called Sandy Bay, I dare say it’ll have a bit of it. So here’s a fantastic place for someone else to buy. I’m going to sit this one out.
Actually, having said that, I’ve just noticed an elevated deck area that would be a prime place to smash some golf balls out into the water. The kids could go and collect them. It’s perfect! Actually, wait. No. They’ll only track sand all through the place once they’re done with the hunt. I’m still out.
Price not disclosed
Malibu, US
I always liked Pierce Brosnan as James Bond. Sure, he wasn’t the best Bond in the franchise, but he did a noble job of driving the protagonist’s resurgence after a six-year hiatus. Nobody had seen 007 on screen since Timothy Dalton last saved the world in 1989’s Licence to Kill, so to say there was a lot of pressure on the Irish actor’s shoulders is a bit of an understatement.
And he did a great job. 1995’s Goldeneye, his first outing, was fantastic. He was strong, charming and convincing in the role. Probably not quite to the same extent as Sean Connery was in his prime, but he did well. Brosnan had some fantastic leading ladies too. Admittedly female leads that won’t go down in history with quite the same affection as those Connery played opposite, but some impressive characters nonetheless.
The theme songs from his films weren’t bad either, although, performed by artists like Garbage and Sheryl Crow, they’re unlikely to be respected as classic Bond tracks in the same way Connery’s accompanying themes by Nancy Sinatra, Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey are.
That said, Brosnan steered the ship through some decent storylines, albeit Tomorrow Never Dies, The World Is Not Enough and Die Another Day seem ridiculously far fetched in terms of plot and realistic action sequences when compared to the Connery films of Dr No, From Russia With Love, Goldfinger, Thunderball, You Only Live Twice and Diamonds Are Forever Connery launched the franchise with.
Anyway, this is Pierce Brosnan’s Malibu home. It’s good, but not quite as good as Sean Connery’s old place we featured here a while ago …
$128.3 million
Arizona, US
“This property is bulletproof.”
See, immediately that sets off alarm bells for me …
Sure, home security is important to me. When I lay my head down at night I want to know my wife and children are safe. And having a home that’s bulletproof certainly buys a lot of peace of mind. But it begs the question “why does it need to be bulletproof?” Immediately I assume it must be in a bad neighbourhood. Why would it need to be bulletproof unless there was the very real threat that someone might shoot at it? It’s like those houses you see that join a golf course that have a big net up to stop stray balls from smashing their windows. On the edge of a golf course – perfectly reasonable. But put up one of those massive nets up out the front of your house when your place isn’t anywhere near a golf course and you’re just another lunatic in jocks yelling at the sky. There’s no need for it. There’s no need for any of it.
So why the bulletproof windows? I’ve got a theory about that. See, this Scottsdale home is owned by action star Steven Seagal. You know that ponytailed bloke who always plays the same one-dimensional character either hellbent on protecting someone at all costs or desperate to get revenge on someone else?
I’ve seen a few of his movies in my time and the bloke’s got a thing for damage. If it can be kicked, brother’ll kick it. If it can be punched, he’s gonna punch it. If it can be nunchucked, smashed or blown up, Seagal will do it. He can’t not. It’s in his nature.
So why the extra fortitude? I think the real reason this house has bulletproof windows is not so much to protect him from external threats. It’s to protect us from him.
Price not disclosed
California, US
Quick question for you – who’s got glasses and doesn’t give a single hoot about who owns this property?
This guy:
That’s me. Tom Bowden. The fella that writes this nonsense each week.
Usually I’ve got something interesting to tell you about the folk that own these places, but to be honest, I can’t even pretend to be interested in this one. You see, it’s owned by the so-called star of one of those Real Housewives shows. You know the ones. Where catty rich women parade their wealth and make all their female viewers feel like they somehow don’t measure up. The shows that find strong, independent, community-minded women dedicating their lives to making the world a better place, and then film the ridiculous antics their vapid, bimbo next-door neighbours instead. In case you haven’t gathered, I’m not a fan …
But I do like this house. This stunning Pasadena place was built in 1928, has four bedrooms, nine bathrooms, a solid bronze front door and oozes luxury. It’s nice. Oh, and if you do want to find out more about the owner, Google “Erika Jayne”. And then keep what you learn to yourself. Really, don’t email me …
Price not disclosed
Kangaroo Valley, NSW
Just when I think I’ve discovered my dream Australian home, I find myself torn. This Kangaroo Valley home ticks a lot of boxes. It’s rural. It’s on plenty of land. It’s got a gorgeous rocky valley backdrop.
There’s plenty of timber. It’s got big open rooms and a stunning old-meets-new chef’s kitchen that I could really see myself microwaving last night’s takeaway in. And those rafters are amazing. I’ve got two kids who are budding acrobats and a three-year-old who will climb as soon as you turn your back that I know would absolutely go nuts in this house. Like in a big, bad way. They’d be like ninjas, perched high in the shadows waiting for their moment to drop and inflict their silent pain on an unsuspecting passer-by.
In this narrative, that unsuspecting passer-by is me. In life, it’s still me. But those rafters are also a problem. See, this place is pretty remote. The clue is those rolling bushland hills and the fact that they’re covered in trees and not neighbours. Where there are trees and not neighbours there’s wildlife. And that invariably means spiders. Now, if I was a spider and had the choice of living outside, crawling about in the dirt and rain and hiding from apex predators under some craggy bark on the side of a tree, or knocking about in the exposed beams of a luxury wilderness retreat, which do you think I’d pick? It’s an easy choice, isn’t it? That’s where this place hits some serious snags. Because it’s not just going to be spiders, is it. Dingos probably frequent this land, and I know enough about dogs to know they love nothing more than curling up in front of a slow combustion heater. So there’ll be dingos in there too. Kangaroos, they must feel the cold. Thylacine’s probably still out there and he’ll want to treat himself. Snakes love pools so that’ll turn into a cesspit of slithery blighters, and don’t get me started on the bunyips, crocodiles, cassowaries, eagles, sharks, and box jellyfish that are probably calling this place home. I can’t imagine they all get along either, so it’s a hard no from me. Good luck to whoever’s trying to sell this gorgeous wilderness menagerie. Full credit to them for managing to get all the wildlife out for the photos …
Price not disclosed
New York, US
For my older readers, the phrase “Don’t Eat The Daisies” might trigger a memory. It was a book written by American author Jean Kerr which was later turned into a hit movie starring Doris Day and David Niven. That novel was written at this very house, with the storyline closely reflecting Kerr’s family life (she had six kids!) and marriage to New York Times theatre critic husband Walter.
So for some of you, that’s the memory this phrase will conjure up – either the book or the movie. But for the rest of us “Don’t Eat The Daisies” is simply an instruction. A warning. A cautionary tale, if you will. A rather needless one at that. The logical assumption of such a statement would be that eating daisies is bad for you, or that their consumption might be detrimental to your health, even if only in the short term.
But the truth is that, in most cases, it’s actually perfectly safe to eat daisies. The young flower heads or buds can be added to salads, soups or sandwiches; or the flower heads used to decorate savoury dishes. The leaves can also be eaten raw despite their slightly bitter aftertaste, but go better mixed in salads or cooked. The bud can also be preserved in vinegar and later used as a substitute for capers. The daisy is both an anti-inflammatory and a vulnerary herb – the latter meaning it improves circulation. Daisy tea is famed for its health giving and restorative properties, and a study of wild edibles used during the war in Bosnia and Herzegovina from 1992 to 95 showed daisies contain 34mg of vitamin C per 100g. So you can eat the daisies – just not the ones at the Kerr’s house.
That’s where their dog Booger does his morning wee.
Price not disclosed
Beverly Hills, US
I’ve got friends who go nuts over mid-century modern architecture. Like, they lose their mind over it, they love it so much. It’s becoming a real problem.
Mention it to one of them and he’ll start dancing with joy. Like in the middle of the cafe, just busting out the sprinkler, the worm and the running man, because dance is apparently the purest form of human expression and it’s the only way he can convey how much he loves mid-century modern architecture.
Another friend is a bit of a metal head and expresses joy through headbanging. I don’t really get it because she looks so angry when she does it, but she says she’s happy and simply expressing her delight. Anyway, we were at a performance and I mentioned that the sort of timber used in the venue was similar to that which you’d see in mid-century modern architecture. That set her off and she stood up and started doing that windmill thing with her hair and uttering these deep guttural screams.
Completely ruined the school concert.
Another mate – we were having a conversation and mid-century modern architecture came up and suddenly his eyes lit up and he started singing like he was in a Disney movie, tore off his outer garments to reveal a purple leotard and just started spinning with his arms out like that chick in the Sound of Music. That was a few months ago now. It’s our understanding that he’s still spinning out there somewhere in the Adelaide Hills, but no one’s heard from him. If you’re reading this, Daniel, please contact your wife. She just wants to know you’re OK.
So you can see why I’m kind of hesitant to mention that this Beverly Hills property was owned by one of Los Angeles’ most renowned mid-century modern architects Robert Skinner …
Price not disclosed
Long Island, New York State, US
I don’t really write about homes much in these pages. Which, I’m the first to admit, is weird, because these pages feature some of the most incredible properties from around the world. That said, I’m also the first to admit that I’m a bit of a weird dude. See, I have what all my teachers, and myriad unrequited high school love interests, would describe as a “fairly active imagination”, and tend to just type what I’m thinking.
Some people like it. Some, I’m sure would probably rather I stick to the facts. But these pages were always meant to be about escapism, and somewhere along the way I guess I decided that should start with me …
So usually right about now I’d be waffling on about how I could see myself riding a horse shirtless across the lawn. I’d write about listening to Springsteen while reminiscing about my own glory days, and later kicking back on the bank of the river and watching the world go by with a glass of Lagavulin scotch in one hand and a book by John Steinbeck in the other.
But that sort of nonsense doesn’t seem right because, to be totally honest, this property is simply too important to me. You see, this relatively humble property was in fact owned by John Steinbeck, with his private writing hut on the property the very place he penned his classic Travels With Charley. And as far as I’m concerned, to crack jokes in a write-up about an author who has inspired me beyond measure and who made me want to be a writer is like insisting on a photo with the mall Santa even though you’re a 36-year old man and physically larger than he is; safely returning a European Carp to the water as a reward for a valiant struggle; or audibly farting during a school string ensemble performance. A sensible person wouldn’t have done it.
Price not disclosed
Dural, NSW
If lockdown taught us anything, it’s how nice it is to spend time at home. It’s that you can get by with surprisingly little and learn to enjoy what you have. It’s to cut everyone out of your life, retreat into yourself and develop a deep distrust of the outside world while the rest of the planet plants some herbs and makes their own sourdough. Sorry, got a bit personal there … The truth is lockdowns have been incredibly hard for a lot of people.
While society has this fascination with adaptive environments within the home and co-operative work spaces where people can work undisturbed by the rest of the family, the reality is most people’s houses aren’t set up for this. Many found themselves working from the kitchen table or the bed, doing what they could to ignore the fact that often their children were tantrumming in the same room. We were lucky here in SA, we only got relatively short lockdowns, but in Victoria and New South Wales their isolation periods have been prolonged. It must have sucked to have been in their shoes. Well, most of them.
Not the bloke who owns this Dural home. Being told he wasn’t allowed to leave the house – dude must have felt he’d won the lottery! Let’s have a look at what this poor soul had to endure, shall we? This five-acre estate (which won four Master Builders Association awards) has two homes, a championship-sized tennis court, a pool, a bar, a billiard room, a gym, a kids’ playroom, several studies, several sitting rooms, garaging for eight, a rumpus room and a pool house. Sounds hellish. Has anyone thought to check on him?
Price not disclosed
New Jersey, US
I absolutely love seeing bits of people’s personality and lives shine through in their homes. Particularly celebrities. It’s really fascinating. Take this property, for instance. It’s owned by legendary actor Joe Pesci. Brilliant actor. Heck of a filmography behind him. And you can see elements of that coming through in the decor of his home. That grand staircase – it’s not unlike something you might have seen in Casino. The dock out the front? Reminiscent of the 1997 film Gone Fishing he made with Danny Glover. But it’s the things you don’t see that make this Jersey Shore home special.
Take the security system for example. One of the most effective intruder-repellent systems out. Let me talk you through it. Let’s start in the basement. The stairs are covered in a sticky tar, rendering a burglar or bandit unable to move. If you do somehow get past the bottom step, the next one has a series of nails for you to spike yourself on.
The handrail is covered in oil, making an unwanted visitor lose their grip and fall back on a collection of set mouse traps. As you lay there dazed on the ground an iron will fall from the ceiling, knocking you out cold and searing your flesh. Assuming you don’t try and approach from the basement, the front doorknob is wired to the mains power, so that’ll likely kill you outright.
If you were to miraculously survive that, opening the front door activates a blowtorch that’ll cook you like a Christmas ham. Should you think to yourself: “Stuff this for a laugh, Imma try the upstairs window”, well, think again. That one’s got a loaded crossbow pointed at it, the ladder leaning up against the side of the house has been structurally compromised and the ground below is covered in thumb tacks. If you were to manage to get past all of that, there’s always the tarantula to deal with.
Pesci was in Home Alone for those of you confused as hell right about now …
Price not disclosed
Palm Springs, California, US
I’ve written about some incredible people in these Dream Homes pages over the years. People who have changed the course of history and left their world a better place simply for them having existed in it for a while. Writers. Thinkers. Creators. Artists. Dreamers. Musicians. Physicians. Law makers. Whistleblowers. Revolutionaries.
I can now add Thighmaster spokeswoman to that list.
As well I should.
You see, the world needs Thighmaster spokespeople just as much as it needs any of those other professions I mentioned earlier. Men, women, boys, girls. We need to get the message out. If we don’t, how will future generations know what in the sweet heck that thing in hard rubbish is? Is it a bike lock? Do you throw it? It’s covered in foam, so does it go in the pool? Is it made of magic, and can I use it in a barter or dowry?
How will people know if we don’t have at least one spokesperson getting the good word out there?
And back in the day, that woman was blonde bombshell, Playboy star and possible MENSA member Suzanne Somers. The actress first found fame on American sitcom Three’s Company, before deciding “you know what, blow it, I’m going to flog some Thighmasters on the telly and see where that gets me.”
Well, it’s got her and her husband Alan Hamel this cracking Palm Springs desert compound. And by cracking, I don’t mean it is in a literal state of decay. Although it could well be. That pesky Covid means I don’t get to inspect these properties in person like I used to. No. In this context I mean cracking in the good way.
As in the way Richie Benaud would have said “Cracking delivery that!”, had he been my better half’s midwife …
Price not disclosed
Elizabeth Bay, NSW
It’s billed as Australia’s most glamorous home, and reportedly comes with an $80 million price tag. I’m not sure how one arrives at $80 million, if I’m honest, as, from what I can see, there are a lot of things missing.
For $80 million I’m going to want to see a mermaid in that pool. A legit, bona fide, real as you and me mermaid. They don’t exist? Make me one! You’ve got the money, so you’ve got access to the resources. I don’t care really which orientation you make it, whether it’s top woman, bottom fish or vice versa. Make me one and put it in it.
The picture above needs a fountain. One with a mermaid in it. And the one above that needs a great big aquarium that takes up an entire wall. With fluoro lighting, neon corals, darting clownfish, a nice big turtle – and a mermaid. I guess what I’m trying to say is I really want to see a mermaid. I’ve never seen one and I’d just really like to before I shuffle off this mortal coil. And if you’re expecting me to fork out $80 million for your damn house and it doesn’t come with at least one mermaid, well I’ll just have to take my money elsewhere.
$80 million
Colorado, US
Imagine having the nickname the Great White Shark. That’s what the owner of this cool ranch – golfer Greg Norman – is known as, and this place is just as incredible as his wondrous nickname. I never got a nickname that good growing up. Best I got was Tom, which was kind of my name, anyway. I was born a Thomas. Actually that’s not technically accurate. I was born an 8lb 10.5 oz human child. My parents just named me Thomas …
I like it when people get animal-based nicknames. Like that rugby player Nick Cummins, who is known as The Honey Badger, revered golfer Jack Nicklaus – AKA The Golden Bear – or legendary American footballer Tom Brady, who is known as the GOAT. All caps for some reason. Must be a special kind of goat. Maybe one of the ones you see that climb up vertical dam walls like the Spidermen of the animal kingdom.
There was a rumour going around a while back that there’s a particular species of male goat that, when competing for a female mate, will butt heads with another male so hard that the weaker one’s hoofs fall off. The female shacks up with the hoofed one, leaving the other one to wish he’d just been happy single. That rumour turned out to be surprisingly false.
Anyway, I wish I had a cool nickname. I reckon if I got an animal-based moniker, I’d be the Naked Mole Rat. Here’s what they look like:
Weird, aren’t they?
Price not disclosed
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