Rab McNeil

I WAS mortified the first time, many years ago, that I saw myself billed in a newspaper article as “Rab” McNeil.

What did they think I was? Scum? Since then, Rabs have reclaimed the name from Nesbitt but still have an uphill struggle getting it accepted in polite society.

The problem is that it’s Scottish, and everything Scottish is perceived as rubbish. Well-meaning English people think they’re doing you a favour by rechristening you “Rob”. But it doesn’t sit right.

Rubbish Scottish people rub in the Rab to keep you in your place, to let you know that they kent your faither (actually, a Bob in my case).

Still, at least I’m not a Karen. What it is to have a perfectly normal, pleasantsounding name, only for it to become a term of derision overnight.

It seems now to apply to an entitled or demanding white woman, middle-aged or older, and ever wanting to speak to the manager. As there are many women called Karen – and all those I’ve ever met have been very nice – this development must be deeply discombobulating. Unsurprisingly, they have started to fight back.

While apparently the ascription can’t be racist as it’s only directed at white people, the ever-vigilant Woke – who first took it up from black patois – are now complaining in their criticism selfcriticism sessions (see Red Guards, passim) that it’s sexist (see The Guardian, ad nauseam).

Also, like Rab, it’s seen as working class, prompting Marxist-Leninists with an interest in nomenclature to disown it. As for the sexism, a rival meme for angry, aggressive white teenagers is also doing the rounds: Kyle. Once it was a fine, manly name, redolent of misty sea inlets in the Highlands, now it’s a term of derision.

These are internet phenomena, but newspaper letter-writers from previous generations have pointed out how their handles have hampered them: Brian (Life of; everyday; ordinary); Henry (vacuum cleaner; ever the straight man or victim in comedies); and even Gordon (dancers; gophers; gins; Broons).

With any luck, in the meantime, the modern memes will peter out (apologies to all Peters there).

As for me, I’ve given up. Having been Robert (the name put on school essays and official forms), Robbie, Rab, Rabbie (to bairns), Rob, Bob, Bobby, and even Bertie (more of an Albert thing normally, but beloved of friends who are PG Wodehouse fans; private use only; always seen myself as more of a poor man’s Emsworth).

I’ve long maintained that everybody should be encouraged, upon reaching the age of 18, to change if they wish, the name given them by their parents, who in many cases went mental with monikers.

In one tough newsroom I used to work in, a colleague and me never properly asserted ourselves and just kept our heads down. But, privately, we referred to ourselves as Brad Bullet and Jake Thunderbolt, and made up cowboy dialogue for imaginary showdowns in which we put all the bosses and loudmouthed colleagues in their place.

In the meantime, I can generally judge people by which form or derivative of Robert they want me to be.

Blowhard: “Hey, you there with the big nose and hangdog expression, what’s your name?”

Rabertie: “I don’t know, Professor Chowderhead. What do you want it to be?”

Dialogue of the duff

HAVE you heard the latest about gossip? The Pope has said it’s “a plague more awful than Covid”.

The Pontiff is arguably over-egging the pudding there but, still, he has a point. I wonder how office people are getting on at home without chinwags by the water cooler?

There’s always email, but that’s not a place for whispers or giggly indiscretions. We’ve all known these stirrers who forward a message containing a mildly derogatory reference. You might, relatively innocently, say: “I do like Henry a lot, but his taste in trousers is appalling.” The stirrer then forwards this to Henry, who strikes you off his Christmas card list (and throws out all his trousers).

My view? Stay out of it all. The frisson that gossip gives can pop round the back and bite you on the bum. I guess there’s community as well as workplace gossip. Communities have largely gone down the Suwannee, as workplaces are doing, but my last suburban street was quite a sociable place.

Residents there frequently laughed about how I, the professional journalist, was always the last person to know what was going on.

That’s me: if you’ve a loop about your person, I’ll be out of it. Best place to be. Don’t get involved. Plough your own furrow. And fend off the lonely lack of the latest goss with strong, emotionally stimulating drink.

Soon, you’ll be talking away merrily to yourself – about yourself. At least it’s better than indulging in schadenfreude, taking pleasure in other folk’s misfortunes. Your own are much more interesting.