Social isolation dream #1

It’s the last day at college, and I wander round looking for my colleagues to go for an end of term drink with them. Strangely, they’ve all disappeared, but there’s a guy there who I’ve seen around before, passing through. He lives in the next block. I think he’s called Richard; he’s tall and friendly, with freckles and ginger hair. We head into town together. It gets busier and busier, and the street bifurcates. It’s so narrow and busy that we can’t walk side by side, and Richard leads the way. The thoroughfare divides again and the crowd grows denser. I try to follow Richard, but eventually I lose sight of him. He must be somewhere up ahead. On the right is a bar with some empty tables inside, cream painted wooden tables and chairs. I’m sure this is the place we were supposed to go. No sign of Richard but I’m sure he’ll find me.

I sit down and wait. A barman comes along to take my order and I explain that I’m waiting for my friend. I wait for a few minutes and then go outside to look for him. No sign. Back to my table and there are four students wanting to sit down. The whole place has become impossibly crowded, with people wedged into every available space. I reclaim my seat. The guy nearest to me seems annoyed with me, and has a foreign accent, vaguely central European. I gesture to him that there’s enough space for me as well as for him and his friends.  He appears placated, loses his accent, and starts to look a lot like Hugh Grant.

A smiling middle aged barmaid in a pretty country-music dress arrives to take the orders. I explain I’m not with the others, who all want Diet Cokes; someone says something about Durham University, and that they come here because the drinks are so cheap. I’ve been studying the menu, which consists mostly of very potent Belgian beers. I’m unsure about strengths and sizes. I ask for a large one of the principal brand on offer, shown as an illegible green logo at the top of the page. It’s the most expensive item available, and the barmaid gives me a congratulatory knowing look along the lines of “good for you; you do realise it will blow your head off, don’t you”. Well, I hope it will. I’m suddenly very thirsty.

I turn to my companion. “So you’re all from Durham University, are you? I used to have a friend there”.

Immediately it occurs to me that I’m 50 years older than him, and he’s never heard of my friend, notorious though he was, involved later in life in a very public scandal.

“He lived in a kind of castle”, I say. I visualise huge black walls. “Student accommodation”.

“Ah, yes, I know. Was he in charge of the fire regulations ?”

At this point Richard reappears, very concerned and apologetic that he had lost me, blaming himself. He’s somehow pushed past me and is squashed into a triangular corner where the walls are covered with images of theatre bills. He offers to buy me a drink by way of apology. “I’ve already ordered”, I tell him. 

I turn to my new  acquaintance. “Can I introduce you to Richard?”, I say, realising that I don’t know the Durham guy’s name. “Richard” doesn’t say anything but gives me a look which I’m very certain means “my name isn’t Richard”. Which I’ve kind of suspected.

Then I wake up. I’m still thirsty.

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.

The nineteenth ecstasy

When you can’t have something you want it all the more. When you can’t go somewhere you want to go there all the more. Well, you know how it is. So I’ve been journeying in my imagination.

I’d recently been watching a lot of Michael Portillo before “all this” started. He’s a man who does a lot of real journeying, seemingly without luggage, hassle, or crowds; he’s a well known enthusiast for multicolourturalism, at least in matters sartorial, a believer that acid green, phthalo blue and strip club pink can live together happily, in varied permutations, side by side, in the form of jackets, shirts and strides. Not a bad role model. Probably better than fluorescent mauve, pillarbox red, and dayglo custard. Anyway, now I’m imagining that tiresomely repetitive moment at the beginning of his Great Continental Railway Journeys when he announces “I’m embarking …” and I shout at the telly, “No, you’re not in Barking, you’re at St Pancras”.

And off we go on the Eurostar. Whining up the steep curve past the gasholder-clad apartments, the deep rumble of the bridge-tunnel across the ECML, speeding up, the vertical concrete cavern of Stratford International that would make a fitting location for a Baconian screaming pope, more acceleration, thrust back into one’s seat, container terminals, low cloud over Dagenham, pylons, the Medway Bridge, the upwards thrust from the flyover over Ashford International, very kinaesthetic this, the imaginary Eurostar experience, and then that long unique sound, that distinctive urgent frequency, deep under the sea for 21 minutes or so. Out the other side, sunnier, Calais-Fréthun, a sense of being high up, looking back towards the coast, white buildings, extra-bright, Gravelines or Dunkerque perhaps, think briefly of England, onwards past neat copses, isolated churches, armies of pylons looking simultaneously French and feline, on and on, decelerating close to CDG, the Sacré-Coeur on its summit, almost erotic in its fabulous foreignness, and then slowing right down, right down, surrounded by dark tenements and double decker trains, and into the Gare du Nord. Clonk.

Quickly through the dodgy crowds and out again, probing into the streets of the tenth arrondissement. Down to the Boulevard de Magenta, stretching ahead endlessly, unforgiving in the fierce late morning sun. It goes on for ever, so I’ll stroll just as far as the crossroads with the rue La Fayette. To the right, another long view, it goes for miles, dead straight to the Opéra and the centre of things. Exhausting just to look at. I think I’ll turn the other way. That’s dead straight too, but with some sort of end in sight. Across the big skew girder bridge spanning the tracks out of the Gare de l’Est; thoughts of Strasbourg, Basel, Germany – everything is so close once you’re across the Channel. On, crossing awkward junctions, urban density like it should be.

Suddenly the surrounding dark buildings give way and I’m at Stalingrad, the complex intersection commemorating the battle, beneath which the Canal St Martin segues invisibly with the Bassin de la Villette. At this point the tenth arrondissement becomes the nineteenth. At this precise moment mere imaginary travel, mere journeying in the head, vanishes and my whole body explodes into a painful ecstasy of longing, of yearning, of desire, of some unexpected kind of reality, of desperately needing to be there in the eternal city. Now, this instant.

Line 2 Metro trains rattle overhead along the wibbly-wobbly viaduct, in and out of Jaurès station. I cross over the busy road, the Blvd de la Villette, a kind of inner ring road popular with homicidal lorries, and I head up the slow hill of the Avenue Secrétan, a sense of being out of the central city now, newer buildings, very civilised, urbane, progressive. Past the stairwell leading down into Bolivar station. Someone – actually, Tim Moore in his 2001 “Continental Drifter” - once said that the Metro smells like a combination of popcorn and farts; today it doesn’t, it just smells ecstatically of Paris, of life. To the top, and into the Parc des Buttes Chaumont in all its surreal quarried loveliness. A perfect spot for a picnic. I make a mental note – for real life - just as soon as “all this” is all over.