Nominally Inappropriate

A certain acquaintance of mine bears a striking facial and bodily resemblance to the American author Bill Bryson. Consequently I tend to think of him as Bill, rather than Ken, which is his actual name. The other day I spotted him, out of his usual context and clearly out of his comfort zone, being dragged along the high street by his large, unruly hound. My reflex response was “oh, there’s Bill”. Quickly I corrected myself, but the fact is, he doesn’t look like a Ken at all.

So that got me thinking about the archetypal Ken. Who is the archetypal Ken, the prototype Ken to which all other Kens aspire? I considered Red Ken as an obvious candidate, along with Ken “no, no, no-oh, you don’t love me any more” Clarke, the Euro-Ken. Nope. Neither are thoroughly, intractably, unequivocally Ken. Undeterred, however, and mentally scanning the Kenscape from here to Kendom come, I soon arrived at a fictional contender, the wonderful and most definitely not boring Ken Barlow who has brought dramatic pleasure to us during several long lifetimes. Yes, he is the prototype Ken, the central Ken, the number one Ken, Ken-san ichiban desu ne? as they say in Weatherfield. For he looks like a Ken through and through, a Blackpool rock of a Ken; he is Ken-shaped, he is intrinsically, innately Ken. The others aren’t. Kenneth-shaped perhaps, but that’s different. 

Indeed. Once, long ago, on the seafront at Frinton-on-Sea, Essex, I witnessed a lady out walking her chihuahua (contrary to what you might be thinking, dogwalking is completely irrelevant to this theme) calling “Come here, Kenneth”. A chihuahua called Kenneth. Spot on. Not Ken, but Kenneth, like Horne or Kendall, Branagh or Williams. Frinton, I understand, is special. Ooh, Matron.

Some people have the perfect name. Trump. If he wasn’t called Trump you’d have to invent it. Boris is perfect, at least his name is, absolutely Boris-shaped, although the full version can easily get mixed up with Cherylene LaPier Sarkisian Bono (or permutations thereof) - apparently someone else entirely. Completely different hair for starters. Elvis, now he was perfectly named. So is Paul McCartney, although his first name is James. Do you think “John James George and Ringo” would have been as successful? Mm, not sure. Sometimes minor improvements have to be made: Keith. Yeah. “Keef”. That’s better. During the pre-Beatle era, in the interests of promoting singers with naff names to make them more believable as teenage heart-throbs and figures of fantasy, we had Billy Fury, Marty Wilde, Adam Faith, Vince Eager. And, er, Cliff. Well, all theories have to break down somewhere. I think there was one called Jimmy Riddle.

Pseudonyms don’t necessarily have to relate appearance to name. While sometimes aiming at glamour or some other effect they may simply be invoked to avoid unwanted associations or awkward pronunciation. Famously, we get Michael Caine, Marilyn Monroe and George Orwell, not to mention Diana Dors, whose real name was Diana Fluck. Allegedly, opening a fête one day in her native Swindon, she was introduced by a nervous vicar as Diana Clunt, thereby opening a whole new sub-category of Freudian slip. Well, that’s the church for you. Whatever her name, she looked the part. Confusion sets in when people don’t look like their names. Apart from the obvious saintly role model, I haven’t encountered many Theresas in my lifetime, so I don’t really know whether Theresa May is typical of the species or not. I tend to think of her as Alison, and therefore often forget who she is. 

Many factors affect how we feel about names and the people so labelled - famous or notorious individuals dominant in our society, the shape and sound of the name, the unexpected subjective resemblances that can sometimes be found between otherwise very different people, and between people and other entities. I used to know someone who resembled a hairdryer; he was a Graham. I’ve encountered many people with resemblances to animals. Lions, for instance. A leonine visage is supposedly diagnostic of a proneness to migraine. So why does the Lion King have to look like John Le Mesurier? Foxes, badgers, Dobermans (Dobermen?), pussycats, rats, I’ve known them all. On the subject of which, I once encountered a personnel officer who was a dead ringer for Vladimir Putin. By some not very convoluted process of association he was widely nicknamed Vlad the Impaler and was rumoured to bring raw meat for his lunch. I once had to go on a corporate team-bonding awayday with him, and we all had to stare into each other’s eyes for a whole minute, part of some sort of wacky exercise. Out of the box thinking, I expect, something highly original. I stared into his eyes as instructed. There was nothing there. Human resources, oh dear.

From time to time you find people, not necessarily of the same gender or ethnic group, who not only resemble each other facially, but also in terms of professions and aptitudes. This can throw you as well. So, for instance, you get Golda Meir and Lyndon Johnson, Lee Kwan Yew and Willi Brandt, Eichmann and Christie, Himmler and Beeching. And if my wife is to be believed, that Lib Dem chappie and Noddy – not the seasonal “so here it is” Noddy - but Big Ears’ best mate. Given the rarity of such similarities (and the rarity of, er, Noddies) this must be purely a matter of coincidence. Physiognomy is dead. Long live physiognomy.

I could go on, but we must leave such ruminations here, such profound explorations of why Ken Barlow is nominally appropriate but my High Street Ken is not.