Don’t name that baby – Part 2

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”.

Be very careful how you name that baby. Happy Easter. Stay at home and stay safe.

Don’t name that baby - Part 1

Some of my contemporaries are starting to acquire grandchildren, a whole bunch of  responsibilities by proxy, one might say. One of these responsibilities could be, involuntarily though proudly, providing a name for the new sproglet. I’m sure we’d all like to think that our own name – unless it’s something really stupid - carries on down the generations.

Naming a newborn can be surprisingly fraught. One has to exert creativity rapidly and very carefully, a sometimes pleasant activity for a proud new parent, but sometimes a trying one, with unpredictable consequences. Large numbers of possibilities have to be scanned at speed, whittled down, some rejected because of unwanted connotations (that maths teacher or mass murderer – not necessarily one and the same person), others because of unfortunate acronyms – risible or obscene - that might arise from the initials, others for any number of reasons. Heading into this minefield the parent had better get it right, because the infant is going to be stuck with it for a very long time. Calling someone Stacey or Tyler (that’s Tyler with an “ah”), Piers or Penelope, is perhaps every bit as influential to their life trajectory as the chromosomal material one has recently donated to them.

The associations which can be made with personal names, first names especially, form a whole field for subjective, stylistic study and a rich ore of implicit information. Essentially we’re talking about name stereotypes, something I’d like to explore here, despite it being a domain bristling with opportunities for offending those who love to be offended. If you are one of those, look away now.

An easy one to start with. Terence Alan Milligan. Remember him? Would he have been so successful if he’d stuck with Terence, or Terry, or Alan, than the seemingly perfect Spike?

Evidently some people possess names which fit their personality characteristics well (or vice versa), while other folk appear to have been inappropriately named. There are hyper-masculine names, ultra-feminine names, sexually ambiguous names, names suitable for young children or the elderly, names one associates with occupations, upper class names, chav names. To a large extent, though not completely so, popular agreement can be expected as to which is which.

Let’s imagine a conversation in the maternity unit. The infant may not be of the gender mum and dad had imagined it was going to be and prepared for (admittedly less likely to happen in this ultrasonic era), nor “look like” the name they had in mind. Meanwhile relatives and registrars want to know what it is going to be called. The birth may have been medically traumatic, much sleep may have been lost, and here are the harassed parents, pressured by those around them to make a choice. Each partner may have very different views, but no matter, a decision has to be made in hours or days at most, arguments won and lost, and agreement reached. This is a demand for creativity with serious constraints. Suddenly the bewildered couple find ourselves ruling out otherwise perfectly acceptable names because they are popularly associated with an embarrassingly uncool singer, a notorious child molester, a ludicrous tart or loathsome slob in a TV soap, or are familially associated with some appalling old aunt or uncle. An unaccustomed need arises to think laterally in many directions all at once, spotting potentially hazardous nicknames, rhymes, malicious mispronunciations, and the like. While one might be prepared to risk Fake Tania, Dustbin Lydia and Get Sonia Nerves, it’s probably as well to avoid specific combinations like Annette Kirton, Jenny Taylor, Rachel E. Harris or Eileen Dover. I’ve actually known two of these – real people.

One is being asked to select a first name that is already shared by other people with defined personalities, a name that is felt to be appropriate and desirable for the puling neonate – who so far doesn’t have a personality other than a blurred resemblance to the face (or backside, or hole punch onomatopoeically named Clop) of Sir Winston Churchill. Well, you might call it Winston, but you’re probably not going to go for Clop. The requirement therefore is to match highly subjective name associations with desirable and desired personality traits, while avoiding any potential for future awkwardness and embarrassment. At most a few days are available to find the right name for the young sprog, a name that has to stay being right for a whole lifetime; it’s an unrehearsed venture into futurology.

If we’re the parents, these days we’re probably not going to go for an obscure saint or a member of the royal family, although we might cop out – as was usually the case in earlier times - by borrowing the name of a close family member. Otherwise we might – if we’re especially unkind - insist on a name celebratory of the location where conception is thought to have taken place (“ah, coochie-coo little Travelodge, isn’t she cute”; “so what exactly is wrong with Newport Pagnell?”), of our favourite brand of car, of the members of our preferred football team, or of some other random whimsicality, like Chlamydia (“we liked the sound of it, to be honest wiv yer, it’s sort of classical innit, Chlamydi-ah”). We might look in a “baby book” or on a website, seeking inspiration. If we hadn’t realised it before, we do now - names are not just names.

Some names are spot on for their owners, others way off the mark, but it will be years before we, or they, find out – too late. Names themselves have suggestive qualities, mostly based on their vowel sounds: an Eric ought to be thin, a Barbara blonde and plump. At least first names are sort of voluntary, with surnames, unfortunately, we are stuck with them unless we take drastic action, even if they happen to be Lillicrappe, Eisenschitz, Sidebottom, Bastard or De’Ath. Would you want Shipman, Sutcliffe or Savile as a surname? I once had the misfortune to be sent to a Dr Sidebottom for a minor medical procedure. Since I was too insignificant a mortal to be seen by the great man himself, I was attended to by one of his Underbottoms. Somehow it just wasn’t the same. In the case of occupations it has been proposed that the term “aptronyms” be used for highly apt names - none perhaps more apposite than the poet Wordsworth, or even Dr Tuthaker, an odontologist from South Bend, Indiana. Although I remember once encountering a corporate chauffeur called Mr Bentley - Mr Škoda presumably having flunked the interview.

People can be made or broken by their names, and despite there being no factual basis to the popular myth that young Adolf (long before the aforementioned Spike worked so valiantly to accomplish his downfall) changed his name because one cannot chant "Heil Schicklgruber !" without having fits of giggles, show business is replete with stars who have had to acquire more suggestive names than the ones they were born into, in order to be credible, convincing, to convey the appropriate image, to be thought of as sexually desirable, and – above all – to be memorable. Budding British popstars of the immediately pre-Beatle era were glorified with stage names suggestive of qualities it was thought their female fans might want to identify with or drool over: Faith, Fury, Gentle, Eager.

And, er, Richard. The choice of pseudonyms ought to reveal something about the intersubjectively held expectations of personal name associations, but it is far from clear that this works reliably, or why it does, or when. Why would a man called Harry want to change his name to Cliff? What is the difference in the persona suggested? What advantage is perceived in a switch from Norma to Marilyn, from Maurice to Michael, from Reg to Elton? Elvis of course had the perfect über-fabulous name and had no need to change.

More next time. Meanwhile, don’t name that baby.

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.