Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Friday, May 25, 2007

...By Any Other Name

How often do we wander around, cursing our parents for not thinking fabulous enough?

I'm talking about your given name, this time around - and there's not one Gentleman That Can't Catch I know that didn't want to change their name when they were young. I even know some who have, and it got me to thinking the reason that we do kick against our name is that it's the first piece of identity we can claim as our own when we're young. And clearly if we're of a more 'glamorous' nature, we're going to be a little disappointed that mom and pop have called us 'Dave' when clearly we wanted to be named something that sounds like it could be in lights above 'Mariah Carey's Glitter'. I mean, your name tends to be the first thing you learn to write. Though I seem to recall this wasn't the case for me; my mother taught me to write 'Three more bottles of vodka please' at her behest so I could go down the corner shop for her. And when they asked why her handwriting was all to cock, I was to say 'Parkinsons'. And if someone mentioned 'social services' I was yell that a man had touched me and to run home as fast as I could. Which I still incorporate into my pulling technique to this very day.

The second thing I learned to write was 'Lee is excused from games because of an inner ear infection' so I didn't have to get dirty with the other boys - but ironically, this has changed since. And when I was asked why my mother's handwriting was like a madwoman's breakfast, I said that she's drinking three bottles of vodka a day and they would nod sagely and let me sit in the corner and play with the Lego. Ah, happy times.

So anyway. I was named after Lee Majors because dear ol' mom had a crush on the bionic hunk, the dirty mare. But from an early age I wanted to be called Robbie. Or failing that, prefix my name with 'Princess'. There were long discussions over the dinner table as to why this wasn't possible because I didn't have the necessary bits (a fairy castle, a pony and a vagina). I can't remember why on earth I wanted to be called Robbie - it's something else I can ask my hypnotherapist when I pop round. We're also regressing to find out whether I was really Dolly Parton's old tote bag too. Larks!

Thankfully I've settled into my name - in fact I'm glad of it. Mostly because I can spell it when I'm drunk, and that goes a long way with a police officer. And frankly, that's what life's about!

Have a good weekend, all!


Frank said...

I was obsessed by the name "Patrick" and my first gay little boy crush (looking back in hindsight, since I didn't actually realize that's what it was at the time, of course). I'm quite happy with my name now, though, and don't understand what I ever saw in the name "Patrick."

Jams said...

It does indeed go a long way with a police officer.

CyberPete said...

I have wanted many different names, including Kevin. I am *so* not a Kevin though.

Still I am thinking of getting a middlename just for the fun of it.

Gaymosexual said...

I sadly have no middle names, but when I was growing up I wanted them to be George Julian Dick.

I was SUCH a famous five snob. I am happy with my fabulous name 'Clint' but still like a dick in me now and again.

Betty D said...

When I was a little girl, I wanted different names. Plural. I lied to my friend and told them I had five middle names so I could be called by the name I chose, and it worked. I hated my real name, I was bullied at school and the name was such that it could be shortened into hideous nicknames like 'Fanny' (gah!).

But now, I can extend my hand, lower my voice into husky tones and say '...Francesca'. And it's one of the few things I can thank my parents for.

Qenny said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Qenny said...

I was amazed when I started school at the tender age of 4, and my classmates automatically took to calling me Kenny rather than Kenneth. Ever since, I've clung to that initial, intoxicating whiff of freedom from parental control. Even if the face of a flatmate from hell whose first words to me after I moved in were "I don't like the name Kenny, so I'm going to call you Kenneth." How vile is that?