A Jake Bailey by any other name
Spellings, names and many other versions of yourself
‘What’s in a name?” asked Juliet. Value for one. The Kardashian name is their most valuable asset, though not their biggest. When your name moves beyond what someone calls out to get your attention, it becomes a brand, a golden goose, and must be protected with copyrighting and trademarking and all sorts of vim and vigour.
Does a name shape a person’s identity? I’ve known a Champion, a Power, a Kaos (pronounced “Chaos”). Champion was frustratingly talented in a diverse range of fields, Power wasn’t hungry in the slightest, Kaos wasn’t in class much.
My partner’s surname is so intimidatingly Sri Lankan that it manages to startle most people into being unable to pronounce her first name- simply “Jemima”.
If it were to have “Puddle-Duck” attached to the end of it they would have no issue, but when faced with
a nine-letter sandwich in which there are three Ns, two Os, and two Es, “Jemima” becomes row of emphasis speedbumps which they crawl over like a boy racer in his lowered car, and scrape their bumper on every one.
My name is fairly simple. It’s actually Jakob (yes, a K), which I haven’t gone by for 10 years or more, but other than that quirk it couldn’t be much plainer. Jake Bailey. Three syllables. 10 letters.
I’ve never met another Jake Bailey in person, although I have, much to my great amusement, seen many a Jake Bailey tagged by smart alec mates in Facebook articles related to my cancer along with comments like “Get well soon bro”. Or maybe it’s one guy with a pack of unoriginal friends.
There was also a famous makeup artist by the name of Jake Bailey, who happened to sadly take his own life just weeks before my cancer diagnosis in 2015. The identical names and unfortunate timings has led to innumerable mix-ups from both directions, including: people thinking I died back in 2015 by taking my own life after my cancer diagnosis; fans of makeup artist Jake Bailey thinking that he has miraculously returned from the dead and messaging myself, overjoyed to see that he is (I am) still alive, leaving me the unenviable job of passing on the news for a second time; people posting many “RIP” messages and tagging myself in them; me being credited for some rather nice makeup looks that I don’t think I could do if I tried.
Best of all, Google is still displaying at last check (fancy way of saying “last time I Googled myself”) an information box filled with all pictures of me, and all information of the makeup artist, confirming to anyone who Googles my name that I died long ago.
On the off-chance anyone from Google reads this, please do get in touch, because two years of filling out feedback forms seems to have gone very much nowhere.
And there is now an NFL prospect by the same name, who seems poised to explode onto the scene and far supersede myself and the makeup artist in terms of fame and salary,
which will inevitably lead to yet more hilarious confusion. I really ought to touch up on my American Football knowledge for the inevitable day I am asked to come speak at an event, and we realise they’ve booked the wrong Jake Bailey.
So it’s fair to say I have long been aware of the existence of more than one Jake Bailey.
What I didn’t realise was that there was a Jake Bailey, who lives in the same city as me, is only a few years my junior, and looks rather like me at a glance — a series of coincidences which seems just uncanny! I found that out this week when the local paper ran a story that Jake Bailey Tilden went on an indecent rampage through the Gold Coast after taking anti-anxiety drugs.
Oh dear. That’s really unfortunate, for us both. “What’s Montague?” pondered Juliet, “It is nor hand, nor foot, Nor arm, nor face, or any other part Belonging to a man.” And certainly not that part.