PROTECT NAMING RIGHTS

IS SCOMO AMONG THE SOLE SURVIVORS OF A GREAT AUSSIE TRADITION? HERE’S WHY WE MUST NOT FORGET THE MOPS, LINTS, WRIGGLES AND MUMBOS

One of Informer’s favourite Agatha Christie characters is Captain Arthur Hastings, dense but staunch ally of the great detective Hercule Poirot. Hastings’ nickname is Battler. Battler Hastings. 1066 and all that. Get it?

Every time I hear it, I giggle. It’s a brilliant nickname and I should know, because no one loves a good nickname more than Informer.

Mine, or at least that of Informer’s alterego, is Jake. My father is also Jake, as are my brothers and sundry cousins, uncles and nephews. Yet as much as I like it, Jake is a tad ordinary when compared to the absolute crackers in the nickname pantheon.

Consider Vlad the Impaler, Buffalo Bill, Calamity Jane, Ivan the Terrible, even Sting, to name but a few.

I love the ingenuity of nicknames. I went to school with a bloke named Clint whose claim to fame was being the first of us to grow pubes. After four miraculously appeared overnight, he couldn’t wait to show us and, from that moment of fluffy revelation, Clint became Lint.

The school gardener was Spike, so named for the implement he used to pick up litter. One of my mates became Kermit because he turned bright green just before throwing up in maths. Another was Flash because his name was Gordon. Wriggles spent most of high school bedevilled by worms. Magnet had a way with the girls.

Speaking of girls, I don’t remember any at school having nicknames. Perhaps it’s mainly a bloke thing. That being said, my grandmother was called Mops, although as years pass it seems less a term of affection than one reflecting the domestic drudgery endured by so many women of her era.

Sometimes nicknames arise from ignominy, which is OK if it’s not you. The most notorious example surely belongs to former Hollywood star Montgomery Clift, whose sexual confusion and physical shortcomings saw him nicknamed Princess Tiny Meat.

British comedian Greg Davies does a wonderful bit about the nicknames of his youth. One boy was nicknamed Gandhi because he was gay, named Andy and his chums simply combined the two. Another became Mumbo because, wait for it, his mum had BO.

Sport inspires evocative nicknames — Air Jordan, Plugger Lockett, Magic Johnson, Boom Mancini, Rocket Laver, Muscles Rosewall, the Great White Shark, the Thorpedo, the Fed Express, Madam Butterfly, Flo Jo, the Lithgow Flash, Little Mo.

While Australian men’s cricket struggles to restore its reputation across several fronts, it remains a beacon for nicknames. Think of The Don, Punter, Pugsley, Babs, Tubs, Pup, Phantom, Tugga, Pigeon, Slasher, Bacchus, Dutch, Tiger, Skull and scores more. Extra kudos to whoever came up with Sounda for 1980s leg spinner Peter Sleep.

Still, I wonder if nicknames are doomed in today’s ultra-sensitive, finger-wagging society. My children have lots of friends, but not one has a nickname. In fact, am I wrong in thinking the only nickname to enjoy any cut-through in Australia in recent times is Scomo? What an indictment. Sadly, the spurning of wit in favour of wowserism is now the name of the game. And at a time when people can’t wait to register offence at almost everything, that spells trouble for what, in essence, is only a game of the name.