Roger Rabbits with Jim Bunny

Sticks and stones will break the bones, but names will never hurt.

Yeah right! Tell that to Arnold Woodcock.

His name brought him a lifetime of hurt. He was mocked mercilessly from the moment little boys discovered the word ‘cock’ didn’t only pertain to tilting your head, preparing a gun to fire it, or a ‘man chook’.

Because cock also equals willy, right? Titter, titter, titter!

This was all prompted by a column on endangered names that I stumbled on.  Perhaps I need to get a hobby. However...

Some of the names in the article have been retired from use, they’re extinct. And understandably.

Names like Bread, Spinster, Chips, Rummage, Pussett, Temples, Wellbelove, Hatman, Rasputin and Bytheseashore. You wouldn’t answer to them at roll call would you?

And how would you explain Bytheseashore if you lived 100 kilometres from the nearest beach? Or Rasputin if you weren’t a Russian black monk and mystic? How could you be Mrs Spinster? If a Brown married a Bread they couldn’t hyphenate the kids’ names? It would sound more like a cut lunch than a family.

Arnold

Closer to home, Arnold Woodcock was a mate of my friend’s father.

And he shamelessly ridiculed Arnold Woodcock. Called him ‘Timber Tool’ and ‘Pinus Penis’ and ‘Splinter Dick’ all the time. Hugely funny. We were of an age when you lapped up a bit of smut. A grown-up joking about boys’ bits was hilarious. Woodcock hated it … he would have conniptions. He hated it as much as we nine or 10 year olds laughed and loved it.

Anyhow later in life, Arnold had had enough. He decided, henceforth, his name would be pronounced ‘Wood-co’ because he was proud of his family name, he wanted to protect it.

Friend’s Dad scoffed – if Arnold was so proud of his surname why would he “bastardise it”?  And he reasoned a rooster is a cock not a ‘co’, it’s cock-a-doodle doo, not co-a-doodle-do, and a mistake is a cock-up not a co-up. So, in his mind, Arnold would remain Woodcock, not Wood-co.

Years later when Mr Bates shuffled off, Arnold Woodcock was there to carry the casket into the church. Either he had forgiven Mr Bates or he was there to make sure he was dead and buried. Either way he could be ‘Wood-co’ without the constant needling of his friend.

The Ozzies

The Ozzies may be crap at rugby and cry a lot when they lose or get caught out cheating at cricket – but they do good nicknames. Try these.

Noodle – someone who thinks any job takes just two minutes.

Perth – always three hours behind.

Wheelbarrow – only works when pushed.  

Fog – someone who won’t lift anything.

Cordless – charges all night but only works for two hours.

I once worked with an Aussie cameraman – he only ever answered to ‘Compass’. Why Compass? He had two University degrees, so more degrees than a compass. Figures. He was the same Ocker who only worked travel time in stubbies, the 375ml bottle of beer. “Awwww – that’s a three stubby run mate.”

The Aussie cricketer Mark Waugh was called ‘Afghan’ – he lived in the shadow of a more famous brother called Steve, so got named for the 1979 Soviet invasion of Afghanistan dubbed the “forgotten war”.

Most of the nicknames I encountered through life have been fairly pedestrian. Buddha was a big bloke, Snoz had an unfeasibly large proboscis, Canvas pants would pee involuntarily when she got excited, Norks had man boobs, Pus had the surname Boyle, and the ‘Conductor’ had been married three times, so he had been up the aisle more times than a bus conductor. There was Nugget with the swarthy complexion, Teapot who always stood akimbo, Sherbet who was annoyingly bubbly and positive, and Toss McDonald who disgorged the contents of his stomach on the last bus home one Saturday night.

Dying art

The art of nick-naming is a bit like the surnames Mcwhorter, Fang and the Strife – it, they, are dying out. And that’s attributed to the fact given names are much more varied these days. Baby boomers went to school with a plethora of Peters, Barrys, Brians, Patricias, Sharons, Susans and Judys. Now they’re all Sky, Kowhai, Rimu, River and Paris, North West, Dream, Saint and Chicago. Suddenly Peter, Barry and Roger don’t seem so bad.

Anyhow messing with names can be a dangerous business. We are reminded name-calling and nick-names can be hurtful and damaging. It means we are messing with someone’s identity and even a playful taunt can hurt. I hope Arnold wasn’t emotionally scarred. And I hope he found a woman happy to take his name. Perhaps his marriage was conditional on her not having to take his name.