How Hard Can It Be_ - Jeremy Clarkson [115]
It was a different story when I was at school. The housemaster was Buttocks, James Smith – a white boy from Trinidad – was Chicken George, the man who taught English was Rat, the clumsiest boy in school was Spanner, my history teacher was Piggy and I was Ness. I like to think this is because I was long and thin but I suspect it’s because I looked like a monster. There was one girl we called Butterface. This is because she was ravishingly beautiful in every single respect … but her face, which was that of an eroded gargoyle. Then there was a boy who, because he hadn’t started shaving at the age of fourteen, was referred to always in the third person as ‘she’.
There is absolutely no doubt in my mind that this simply wouldn’t be allowed any more. Calling a boy ‘she’ would be an infringement of his human rights and the school would undoubtedly be demoted to the Gola League. The headmaster might even be branded a paedophile and banned from the sports pitches.
We still see nicknames in the army and I’m delighted to say we still have nicknames in the Top Gear office, where there is Jewish Brian and German Brian – which is a bit annoying for the poor soul because he’s Danish. But he sounds German to us. Then there are two researchers who were once sent out to buy some clothes needed for a shoot. They are now called Dolce and Gabbana.
Elsewhere, though, nicknames are found only on blogs, and that’s not right at all. You cannot give yourself a nickname, because it will be Pretty Face or Massive Cock, and that’s completely wrong. You have a Christian name, which is bestowed on you by the baby Jesus, and you have a nickname bestowed on you by Old Nick, aka the Devil, aka Lucifer. It must therefore be unpleasant and insulting.
The best nicknames are born in a moment of excruciating embarrassment. That’s why one chap I sometimes work with is called Adam – after the apple he found on the neck of the, er, girl he took to bed one night in Hong Kong. Then you have the fighter jocks who fly F-16s in America. They are all known as cross-dressers because one of their number was once found in a hotel room in Las Vegas in items of women’s apparel.
I realize, of course, that nicknames are exclusively a male thing. This is because boys rejoice in the downfall of others. We like to watch our friends fall over and say the wrong thing at the wrong time. We love it when they come out of the loo having not shaken their old chap properly. The boy–boy bond is glued together with teasing, and nicknames are part of that. As a general rule, girls console one another when they fall over. They ring one another for uplifting chats. The girl–girl bond is glued together with something fluffy and pink and nice. That’s why a girl who accidentally farted in a lift is not known by her mates for the rest of time as Windy.
And that brings me nicely on to the thrust of this morning’s missive. How come we still all call Gordon Brown ‘Gordon Brown’? Why is he not called Cyclops? Or, bearing in mind that funny thing he does with his lower jaw while talking, Concorde? It’s the same story with Alistair Darling. How in the name of all that’s holy has he not been tagged Badger? John Prescott once admitted that he had a Jaguar at home and a Jaguar for work and that was it. He was known for the rest of his professional career as Two Jags. But I’m stumped to think of any other politician who has a nickname. Even Margaret Thatcher escaped. And Tarzan never really caught on, any more than the Beast of Bolsover did.
Boris Johnson is an obvious candidate. His hair looks like seaweed, his suit has gravy on it, he likes to speak in ancient Greek and there have been revelations of a personal nature too, all of which are fertile hunting grounds for a nickname. But we all call him Boris. Then there’s Charles Kennedy. He has ginger hair. He likes a dram. He’s Scottish. But we