We all have one. It is who we are. Our names say much about our backgrounds, our self-image, our aspirations and the pretension of our parents. To most people, our name is pretty important, even if we don't realise it. Our names are our public face and determine the way society sees and reacts to us. Just take a moment to consider the different images that names conjure in your mind – William, George, Jack, Tyler, Wayne, Emily, Charlotte, Sharon, Alopecia? We have a range of contrasting preconceived notions of a child depending on whether he is a James, a Jamie or a Jimmy. You know instinctively that you are talking to a chav if they are called Liam, Kyle, Tiffany or Chardonnay. You know without needing to ask, that they own a pitbull terrier called Tyson.
Throughout my childhood, right up until my mid twenties I was known as Dave. I didn't choose to be known as Dave, any more than I chose to be christened David. I didn't object to it, indeed I was quite happy with it. The only time I was ever called David was when I was in trouble with my Mother. Once I reached my teens Dave seemed more cool. My adolescent hero was Dave Mustaine, frontman of seminal thrash metal band Megadeth. Dave was the archetypal angry rock 'n' roll rebel. The one who got the girls, the one with the good hair and sexy guitars. The one people wanted to emulate. His long suffering sidekick David Ellefson may have been equally wild away from the public eye but his public persona was always that of the quiet, steady one who stayed in the background. The one who didn't give many interviews and didn't have sexy hair. Dave was the exciting one, David the ever so slightly dull one. In short, it was much better to be Dave than David.
Unfortunately I was born in a year when every parent up and down the land decided that David was a good name to bestow upon their sons. I couldn't begin to count the number of my peers who were called Dave, and to be honest it bugged me. I never considered going by any other name, but I did experiment with changing the spelling of my surname and by inventing wild rock 'n' roll middle names. For some reason it didn't occur to me that I could distinguish myself from the herd by simply calling myself David. Part of the problem was that I was painfully shy right up until my twenties. I wanted to stand out from the crowd, but I was too afraid. Friends and family would instinctively call me Dave rather than David – perhaps because it trips off the tongue easier for most people. I never bothered to correct them, mainly because it came as a welcome relief from the horrendous nicknames I suffered from the bullies at school. Yes I suffered a lot of bullying at school. Explains a lot doesn't it?
I can clearly remember the day I decided that I would become David. The day when I would become a leader rather than a sheep, and demand the respect I am due. I was at a Conservative Party meeting about fourteen years ago, being introduced to a senior regional official when the local chairman asked me if I preferred Dave, David or Davey. Without hesitation I said David. It was so obvious and natural. It sounded more professional, more serious, more educated and more in keeping with the image I wanted to project. Who ever heard of a Prime Minister called Dave? I made the decision that the only people who would be allowed to continue calling me Dave were my closest family and a tiny circle of close friends, who had always known me by that name. It would become a mark of the intimacy I felt with those people. That is the way it has been ever since.
Not much to get angry about so far, is there? Apart from the bullying. Well in fact there is, because there is a certain element in society who seem incapable of calling people by their proper names. If I introduce myself as David then I expect to be called David and not Dave or worse Davey. Just as someone who introduces themselves as James does not expect to be called Michael or Steve. So why do people do it? It's discourteous and rude, and just plain lazy. They are effectively saying, “I can't be bothered to remember or use your proper name” and is therefore a measure of their lack of respect. They might as well call you thingy or wossisname. It displays the ignorance and utter lack of breeding of the speaker.
I worked for a financial institution for almost five years. A nightmare world of artificial pressure, self-aggrandisement, backstabbing and lack of ambition. A world where the dull and incompetent massage their tiny egos with a pretence of professionalism and importance. Let us be clear, there is nothing more worthless and less important in society than a group of bankers.
However, it is the one profession where people are guaranteed to use your correct name. A commitment to “professionalism” and political correctness means no one would dare call you by anything other than the name you introduce yourself by. It's also compulsory to use a persons surname when mentioning a colleague. So you always refer to Jack Jones rather than simply Jack. This rule applies regardless of how unique or unusual a persons name might be. So you would say Rumpilstiltskin Smith, to differentiate that person from all the other Rumpilstiltskins in the office. Maybe it's because the PC brigade live in terror of being sued for lack of professionalism. Maybe it's simply because they are all a bunch of bankers.
Contrast this with my next job, with a regional transport provider. A former nationalised industry where the trade unions still rule supreme and attitudes have not moved on since the seventies. A workplace founded on antagonism between “the workers” and management, where casual racism, sexism and homophobia are an accepted fact of life. Professionalism, tolerance and common courtesy are considered political correctness gone mad.
It's also an industry where staff seem pathologically incapable of using someone's correct name. There are no Williams, Michaels, James' or Davids here. No matter what you were named at birth, you can expect to have it it shortened and a Y added at the end. So we have a plethora of Billys, Mickeys, Tommys, Jimmys and Daveys. It is unrelentingly proletarian and it makes me squirm.
For the first few weeks I was plagued with people calling me Davey. Now let me be utterly clear on this point. I loathe being called Davey with a passion. The only thing worse is being called Davey Boy. It is thoroughly working class to be known as Davey. It is a name which sums up everything in life which I disdain – lack of education, lack of ambition and lack of class.
I began by correcting my colleagues. “Actually, it's David” I would say. “Ooh la de dah” would be the inevitable reply. I would explain that I preferred to be known as David, plain and simple and that I would not respond to anyone calling me Davey. Therefore I would appreciate it if they respected my wishes. “Wotsamatter with Davey?” would be the puzzled reply, to which I would have to give the honest answer that I found it both common and beneath my dignity. I am very big on truth and honesty.
This kind of answer does not compute with your average railway worker. “Are you a f#@king poof?” is fairly typical of the responses I received. Now I believe in rubbing along with my colleagues and treating people with equal respect and I expect the same in response. I certainly do not expect people to deliberately ignore my wishes. Naturally things came to a head. There were about half a dozen of us in the Supervisors office one afternoon when I corrected someone for calling me Davey. Naturally this resulted in much hilarity and comments along the lines already described. I must have been having a difficult day because I decided to abandon all pretence at professionalism and opted to speak to the blue collar Neanderthals in their own language. “Listen,” I said “I will only say this once. If any of you ignorant f#@kwits calls me Davey again, I will rip your bollocks out through your throat and shove them back up your a#@ehole. Ok?” Well you could have heard the jaws crashing onto the floor. I must explain that I would normally find profanity in the workplace to be abhorrent, but naked aggression is the only language some people understand. One or two people have still not managed to stop calling me Dave, but no one calls me Davey any more.
No comments:
Post a Comment