And so the blessed babe will be a George! But what’s in a name? LEAF ARBUTHNOT deliberates.
Names are important. This much I know, having deed-polled mine when I was but a blushing eighteen year old, newly liberated from the legal fetters of my parents, free at last to name myself after biological matter.
Katie Hopkins is not the only one that dabbles in name-analysis – we’re all guilty. Everyone knows, for instance, that girls named after precious stones are damaged bullies. Guys called Giles are moral. Phillips and Tims don’t share their crisps. Harrys wear pink polo shirts. Pandoras are to be skirted around in Sainsbury’s. If you’re called Sara, rather than Sarah, you’ll likely be psychotic, having had to spit “without an h” at every innocent form-filler and wannabe Facebook stalker that you’ve met.
It’s only natural, as we meander through life undergoing a string of more or less traumatic encounters with other named individuals, that we should develop knee-jerk reactions to certain ‘danger-names’. One recalls those crows in America that had freak outs whenever they saw people that looked like Dick Cheney, because students – participating in an experiment – started attacking them regularly while wearing Dick Cheney masks.
So, the blessed child is to be called George. Glorious George. George the Great. Georgie Porgie. Cor – George. The name slots Baby Cam amongst illustrious companionship: he’ll be looking round whenever people mention Bush, Orwell, Pompidou, Clooney, my friend Kenny, Marvellous Medicine, Lucas, and more.
From my scant experience of Georges, I’d wager the future King will be polite, straight-laced, easy to embarrass, an all round top character and into chess, cricket, and pilates. A supplement reader, in short, with a penchant for night-time lawn-mowing.
And if he’s not happy with the name when he turns eighteen, dear George can change it by deed-poll; to Alexander or Louis, perhaps – or indeed to Branch. That could work.