The auras that
names, especially first names, convey to us are, apart from their etymological
significations (often unknown and these days mostly irrelevant), presumably
related to the characteristics of people of that name who were prominent in our
childhood experience, to well known people with that name, and to subtle
psycholinguistic characteristics of the name itself - and which may be impossible to disentangle
from the characteristics of those to whom it is attached. Naturally those
meanings and associations can change with time and circumstance. Generational
effects arise, so that “Leonardo” triggers quite a different set of subjective
reflexes for fans of one of the versions of the film ‘Titanic’ than for those
more familiar with the Louvre’s priceless enigmatic smirk. The way names get
abbreviated, or not, also speaks volumes about the personality they belong to …
or the personality they help create.
Consider the difference between a Dave and a David, a Bob and a Rob, a
Margaret, a Maggie, and a Madge, a Ken and a Kenneth. Worlds apart. I once
overheard a chihuahua on the seafront at Frinton, Essex, being addressed by its
owner as Kenneth. A pooch with problems, I suspect.
Since names are such a rich source of
subjective observations and thus of potentially shared interpretations, and
because of the recognition of those qualities, they become a valuable
ingredient of fictional characterisations, humorously stereotyped ones
especially. Informationally, they are rich, everyday illustrations of Jerome Bruner’s
phrase “going beyond the information given”. They are also splendid instances
of tacit knowledge, that implicit background we engage when we understand
something profoundly, intuitively and expertly, first named as such by Michael
Polanyi in 1958, and more recently beloved of knowledge management enthusiasts.
I have never seen a report of anyone being
accused of “nameism”, a cruel infliction indeed, but parents do it to their
offspring all the time, “a boy named Sue” being one extreme form of this
insensitivity. Character-building or what? Calling your offspring Wayne or
Sharon isn’t doing them any favours. Are we ever likely to see a Prime Minister called Ashley,
Damien or Joel? Whether we base our
answer on trends in names or trends in the quality of prime ministers, one is
tempted to reply – with only slight cynicism - “increasingly likely”. I’ve had some
difficulty remembering that a recent prime minister who looked as though she
should be called Alison was, in fact, called Theresa. Admittedly I have great
difficulty remembering her at all. And then, smashing the mould, we have the
great outlier. If you take the cable car to the summit of Mount Srd, which lies
behind Dubrovnik, you might notice this:
Oh, to be big in Croatia. By the way, I’m so thankful and relieved that
Boris is over the worst of his coronavirus attack, and I wish him well for a full
and speedy recovery. I look forward to him leading the country through and out
of this current crisis; he’s the greatest leader we’ve had in many decades, the
one man who can unite the nation after all the divisions of Brexit and now this
dreadful disease. Boris will be Boris. While previous generations might have
associated Boris with something Russian – Pasternak, Godunov or Yeltsin perhaps
– at present there is only one Boris, the one and only, the charismatic, witty,
slightly bumbling, hair-ruffling … Boris. Can’t wait to have him back in charge.
We didn’t have Borises when I was growing up: we had David, Michael,
Peter, Stephen, Richard … but no Boris. Girls tended to be called Margaret, Elizabeth,
Christine or Susan. Anne or Jane was their default middle name, as was John for
boys. Fashions come and go, and sometimes they come round again. Thus we can
often hazard a reasonable guess at the likely age, to within a decade or so, of
someone by their name, and this is especially so with female names.
There’s far more to this business than
historical fashion, though. I can only comment on this from the perspective of
white middle-C20 middle-Englishness. People from my kind of background probably
recognise – with a few disagreements based on personal experience, gender, location,
and what used to be called class - names which sound old fashioned and sexless
(Arthur, Walter, Horace, Mabel, Edith, Edna), sexy (Marilyn, Mandy),
"sissy" (Cecil, Cyril, Nigel), prettily feminine and probably
respectably affluent (Emily, Lucy, Sophie, Wendy), pompous, effete and stupid
(Rupert), sophisticated (Deborah or Debbie, probably because of the suggestion
of “debutante”), self-effacing (Tim, Melvyn), the chavvy football names of
council estate chic (Darren, Wayne, Gary, Dean, Lee) and their female analogues
(Tracey, Sharon, Stacey, Lisa – that’s Lisa with an “ah”), and good, honest bloke
names – Dave, Bob, Barry, Brian – drivers of white vans and wearers of spotty
overalls. One might also be willing to accept the suggestion that people who
worship motor vehicles beyond the point of reasonableness are not infrequently
called Kevin, that professional snooker players (and not a few media-savvy
scientists) have to be called Steve, that you will never see a sign in a Soho
doorway declaring “Mavis – New Model” and that a card in a phone box offering
the services of someone higher up in the same profession calling herself Sadie
goes “beyond the information given”, that thyroidally hyperactive young vicars
of deprived inner London parishes are called Colin, and that clairvoyants –
when not in Red Cloud or Bear Mountain mode - answer to the names Doris or
Ruth. OK, accuse me of snobbery and elitism, but no one who really knows me has
ever called me Bob.
Over 20 years ago a study was published from Southampton which
investigated the names of women presenting at genitourinary clinics, on the
assumption that this would be an indirect indicator of promiscuous behaviour. The
study asked whether there was any truth in the notion that “Essex girl” names –
Tracey, Sandra and Sharon – really did represent women of easy morals. Not so,
for the authors found that the most frequently encountered name was Sarah,
followed by Emma and Kelly. In this instance the slur was refuted. And good for
Essex; it’s the only way (Frinton apart). But you get the idea: unkind
stereotypes efficiently concentrated and crystallised into a moniker, a
phenomenon wickedly exploited by humourists from Sir John Betjeman to Alan
Bennett to Barry Humphries. “G’day, Glynis. Glynis, that’s a lovely name”.
And ‘Python’, always a rich source of profound insights into the human
condition, a treasure trove of gems philosophical, psychological, social,
linguistic and much else, observations nurtured by childhoods in slightly disturbing
towns like Guildford and Weston-super-Mare and then ripened by public school
and Oxbridge. Recall that delightful exchange from the Monty Python “Marriage
Guidance” sketch, first broadcast in October 1969:
“And what is the name of your ravishing wife? Wait. Don’t tell me –
it’s something to do with moonlight – it goes with her eyes – it’s soft and
gentle, warm and yielding, deeply lyrical and yet tender and frightened like a
tiny white rabbit”.
“It’s Deirdre”.
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