When the rumour had spread in the playground That to utter a name three times was the trick For a spirit to teleport-in, unbound – Well, that left me with nits to pick.
I was the kid who wanted to know, Just what was the interval and decay ? How spaced the words could we let things go Till the algorithm would fail to display ?
Was a mirror needed ? For all, or just some ? And what would a mispronouncement produce ? I wanted experiments, testing the outcome – Like would bettle-gurz still invoke the Juice ?
It came down to the grip of a true name – For use their true name, and hold them in power. And thanks to my parents, I well knew the shame Of a boy with the mid-name of Passionflower.
So when the rumour had spread in the playground, The taunts commanded that I must appear. I pitied those spirits we likewise hounded – Yelling their names till the dead can hear.
But nevertheless, I so wanted to know, If my voice could reach to the great beyond ? I called three times, deliberate and slow, And waited to see on who would respond.
Despite my suspicions of phoniness, I tested the theory all the same – But wasn’t surprised by my loneliness – For all I called, still nobody came.
A still from the video The Most Inconvenient Name In the World by magnify, which gave me the idea.
Kae-Tlihn
Katelyns come in many shapes, Though speak with just one voice – For Caitlinns like to pulls such japes And offer endless choice – In just a pair of syllables, Their spellings can’t decide. They like to play us all for fools And force us to decide. But don’t they ever tire of all The errors of their name ? But at least whenever others call, They’re all pronounced the same.
Here’s little Johnny Jones, The sprog of Jack and Jane – They all live together In Lower Linnet Lane. He has a pet tabby That he christened Jezebel, And he thinks she has a better name than he has, Truth to tell. I mean, ‘John Jones’, That’s utter tautology – In only two syllables, Not even three !
He could have been a Sean – Had he been more Irish-born But it just wasn’t on – He was only ever fit to be a John.
Now if he were a rock star, What would he be called ? Well, his mother’s maiden name He thinks was Archibald. So Jezebel Archibald ? Or maybe Jesse Archie ? That doesn’t really work, It all sounds rather starchy. But he also has a pet fish He keeps in a jar – So how about Goldie Linnet ? That sounds like a star !
He could have been an Ivor, Like a Welsh-born striver, But that chance has gone – He was only ever in the frame for John.
But this gets him thinking, Now his lamp is rubbed – If he were born a Viking Then what would he be dubbed ? He would have been known as Johnny Jacksson there, Or maybe Johnny Janesson These days, to be fair. Or else John FitzJacob, That has a real ring – His grandad is a Roy, Which would make him out a king…!
He could have been a Ewan, Had Scottish been his doing – Now there’s a name to don ! But he only gets to dress-up in his John.
But what about in Russia In a Checkov play, for fun ? Ivan Ivanovich Ivanov, Searching for his gun. His parents call him Sport For his energy and judo – So in the Roman Empire, He’s Ioannes Ionius Ludo. All-in-all, much better Than his Johnny, that’s for sure ! Maybe ‘God is gracious’, But this name is just a bore.
He could have been a Hans Or a Joni, or a Vanya, Or Gianni, or a Jean – Infact anything is better than a John !
If I call you a bastard I don’t mean a bastard In terms of your parents – So don’t get so cross. There’s no-one says bastard As that kind of bastard For fifty-plus years – I just don’t give a toss. Who cares who’s your father ? Don’t get in a lather – I mean you’re an arsehole In need of my scorn. I called you a bastard Because you’re a bastard – A blighter, a beggar, However you’re born. So if you’ve no papa, You’re mum ain’t a slapper- Cos people are people, And no harm to me. I don’t call you bastard To call you unmastered – Cos I ain’t an unfeeling bastard, You see.
Singular Theys were always generic, The individual everyman, Of either gender, but numeric’ly one – Not hard to understand. But once we knew who it was, Then he or she was He or She – They didn’t stay a They, because, We now could specify, you see.
This calling Barry and Susan They Is fresh, and it still sounds strange, Though it’s prob’ly here to stay, And language always likes to change. We’ll get it, if you give us time, To navigate the new. Our speech evolves, it’s not a crime – Just ask the Singular You.
Lillah McCarthy as Jennifer Dubedat in the original production of The Doctor’s Dilemma
White Enchantress
The scene is London – the Edwardian stage – A new play opens by George Bernard Shaw – That finger-wagger of the gilded age, That rabble-rouser of the better sort – The Doctor’s Dilemma. Will it be a draw ? The public shrug as the critics snort – It isn’t a flop, but it isn’t a hit, So the world moves on for a better fit.
But lying unnoticed, there was a seed – One of his characters, posh as the rest, Was given a name she didn’t need – She could have been Cathy or Claire or Cass – But instead, her author had thought it best To name her after a rustic lass. And Cornish to boot, though she made no claim – I guess he simply liked the name.
And so that name was Jennifer – And she would come to dominate As just the handle we prefer – The whole thing now sounds so contrived, But it took a while to percolate, And for the play to be revived. Yet slowly lifting up the blinds, A pale phantom stalked our minds.
Now the audience in Nineteen-Oh-Six Had heard of Blondwyn, Fiona, and Neve. But those were for natives, who barely mix With these theatre types, who would never think That a child of theirs should ever receive Such a name, if they had no family link. And though Guinevere was hardly forgot, They found her name no Lancelot !
Now Jenny was known for centuries – For Jane or Joanna, and paved the way. And Celtic awareness increasingly pleased, With a dash of exotic, and of something new. So when Jennifer Jones hit the screens, I’d say That the time was ripe for its big breakthrough. It shot up the rankings, left Anns in its wake A working-class wide-girl, a name on the make.
But her reign was short, as she paid fame’s price – She peaked in the Eighties, as big as her hair, Then drifted from psyches, as parents thought twice. Forever a signpost to the Post-War age – For a hundred years after, we’ll find her there, Before she slips back to the dusty page, And she and Guinevere are equally dim. And to think, Bernard Shaw prob’ly chose her on a whim…
Historical name data isn’t nearly as detailed as I would wish, and I can only find the top hundred names listed at ten-year intervals on the UK Office for National Statistics website. It shows Jennifer first broke onto the list in 1934 (87th), shot upto 18th in 1944, slipped slightly to 23rd in 1954, down to 45th in 1964, then rallied to 34th in 1974, and rocketted to 11th in 1984, before starting its (final ?) descent in 1994 at 42nd. This page then has a year-by-year breakdown showing 87th in 2004 and 217th in 2014. The most recent dataset for 2022 shows…457th (though remember that all of these are for births – the Jennifers we encounter will face at least a couple of decades’ lag).
Do fishes school in shoals Or shoal in schools ? Who cares ? Who sets these rules ? And are they herrings or are mack’rels ? Sharks just see them all as sprat-kills, Be they hammerheads or bulls. And dolphins call them balls of bait When wolfing fins onto their plate With click-and-bubble tools. We ought to ask the swarming bunch, Except, it seems they’ve gone for lunch… The fools !
The names of dogs shall change and flex, With the rise and fall of Gus and Rex, As their names are called around the lido – Though these days, no-one calls Fido. Folks in the park are a diverse lot, And so are their dogs – but none is Spot. Some names, it seems, are truly over – Hello Lola, goodbye Rover.
So you’ve formed a band, hey ? A bunch of like-musicians have joined-forced with each other. Time to chase that fame And choose a name For all of your future fans to discover – One that sticks in the mind okay, Yet’s easy to say, And you won’t be ashamed to tell it your mother.
We’ve all of us kept lists as kids, Whenever we heard a future name In a turn-of-phrase or a parlour game. Well, now it’s time to make your bids, Set all those quirky titles free – They may just be your new identity, For all the times you joked with a whoop “Now that’s the name of my future group !”
Don’t call yourselves after one of your members, For therein lies an ego – I guarantee, of all career-enders, This is the bitterest blow. The public assume the namee is the main-man, Until the members think the same – And what was a band when you began Becomes a bunch of sidemen to the Name. And girls, this doesn’t just apply to the dudes – So insist you’re a we and an us in interviews.
Now, if it contains three words or four, It may be a mouthful, Pretentious bull, And more manifesto than proper noun – But it may be distinct and int’resting, With a definite ring like nothing around. If so, resist the urge to water it down. For ev’ry word you unpick from your thread Is a little less grand and a little more bland, As if to admit you couldn’t live-up to its stead. Till you’re just one syllable, Easily killable, By keeping-on cutting till there’s nothing to be said.
Yet make sure your moniker sounds like your music – Don’t play metal in the name of a jazz quartet. But whatever public-label you pick, You gotta make it stick By showing no regret. Whatever you choose, however you want, Inscribe it with pride in a well-drawn font. Before you can even play a note, your brand Is the first that the world will hear of your band.
It’s just as vital as your onstage-looks, As your lyrics and your hooks and your tattooed breasts. Imagine it competing with your rockstar brothers On your album covers and t-shirt chests, And your tabloid headlines of drunken arrests. Will the kids double-take when they see it From Vietnam to Budapest ? Inhabit your name – believe it and be it, It’s what make your music diff’rent from the rest.
Old London Bridge & Nonsuch House by Peter Jackson
Nonsense Avenue
Why can’t our road names Be honest and neat, As regular codenames To Gardens and Street ? A road name is two-fold, That ought to be checked To see me and you told Just what to expect- A Lane should be narrow, A Way should be broad. Alas, this clear arrow Is often ignored – Our naming mis-uses And gives itself airs, With Prospects and Muses And circular Squares.
Rhyming Couplets 