Quasimodo, Bunty, Biffy, Pongo, Lofty, Titch, Wingnut, Chalky White.
Brits are pretty good at nicknames, most of them cutting, some downright cruel.
Not much point in telling you what mine was because I inherited it from my older brother who, in the school refectory, asked for a ‘desert spoon’ instead of ‘dessert spoon’ – he thought it was funny – so when I pitched up all fresh-faced and innocent, I was Des II.
Better than some nicknames I encountered but then also pretty nondescript. Picture this poor lad in his pristine uniform living in the shadow of a genius – and quirkily amusing – elder sibling.
Then came my younger brother to whom I imparted the wisdom of flying under the radar and guess what? Yup, Des III.
I have my reasons for asking you to confess to your nickname, or those of your youthful peers, whether cruel or otherwise. You can leave these in the comments section here right now unless you want to continue reading my ramblings, in which case there’s another opportunity at the end.
Why I use nicknames in my novels
Apart from Caligula (Little Boots), and maybe Cicero (‘chickpea’, as in an ancestor having a nose like a chickpea, a nickname that stuck), you don’t often come across nicknames among ancient Romans.
Brutus, Cassius, Augustus, Maximus et al. Good names for pets though.
However, as an aside, I can’t shake Sid James’s Mark Antony calling Kenneth Williams’s Caesar ‘Julie’ in Carry On Cleo. Probably before your time, but it’s a classic.
Reluctant as I am to humanise all those badass Romans who don’t have a good reputation in my novels, I’d rather focus my love of a good nickname on their downtrodden victims. Greeks, Celts, Gauls, Britons. When your back’s to the wall, you need a hero, and heroes deserve a good nickname.
Case #1
He’s a disadvantaged kid who doesn’t even know his real name. No memory of parents and not even sure he is Greek even though that’s where he’s pitched up. He’s the cabin boy on the good ship Hera and thinks every Roman in a fancy cuirass and plumed helmet is the man who killed his captain’s father. He’s an ugly little runt with bad teeth, scurrying around in dark places finding out stuff that will help the captain’s cause.
So he’s Ratboy. Fairly obvious I know, but at least it’s a name!
Everybody loves him and he is in awe of the boss’s girlfriend. He’s the real hero of this story, Sea of Flames. I had such fun writing every scene in which Ratboy is involved (pretty much the whole book).
Case #2
Wind back a few years, Rome’s latest civil war (and there were many) is reaching a climax with the Battle of Philippi (42BC). Old soldier Titus Villius Macer has scars all over to remind him of campaigns with the Fifth Alaudae. Now it’s time to retire to his farm in Sicily, scooping up a sideline as a part-time spy as he parts from his legion.
All is not well at home. He thought he had two children, now growing up fast. But there’s a new addition to the family and he’s furious, as grumpy old centurions often are. He jumps to conclusions and soon wishes he hadn’t, because it wasn’t his lady’s fault she became pregnant. Times were brutal back then. Still are of course, maybe worse these days, but Titus realises his mistake and will take a whole book to make amends.
The child? A sweet little boy, born out of the horror of abuse. Titus had stormed around trying to rub him out of mind and made a mess of things. A right old blot on his wax copybook. So they call him ‘Smudge’.
Peculiar, you may think for ancient times, but when I started writing this in Vipers of Rome (available for pre-order here) I met an old cat called Smudge wandering around from house to house pretending he was homeless and no one loved him. Everyone knows his name because he does indeed have owners, and his reputation for standing his ground even against the fiercest dogs sets him apart as a feline bruiser. That’s what my Smudge will become if I take up the publisher’s suggestion of follow-up stories featuring Titus, Smudge and chums.
Case #3
But inventing nicknames can be a dangerous game. My novel Libertas, scheduled for publication by Sapere Books later this year, is the story of a Spanish youth of Phoenician extraction whose name is Melqart. As a child, his family called him Agapito (‘little loved one’) which was shortened to ‘Pito’, and stuck.
Bear in mind I wrote this book in Spain while learning the language. Don’t tell anyone, but I later discovered that ‘pito’ is slang for a gentleman’s appendage. The little prick did well though, growing up to become an inventive and courageous opponent of Roman suppression of his community.
There are more nicknames to come. I will tell you more about these in future posts here, and who knows, maybe others will pitch in with their stories about nicknames, love them or hate them…
Leave your suggestions in comments.
An unusual topic, Alistair. But okay, I’ll play along.
My school nickname was Finny Fish. I like to think it was more to do with my maiden name (Finnemore), than any slight on my looks.
OK Alistair, see if you can relate. I had 2 nicknames, 1 for Primary & 1 for Secondary. First was Crystal Tips as there was a children's cartoon called Crystal Tips & Alistair! Second was Bongo as there was a magician called Ali Bongo. Not hugely creative, but I enjoyed Bongo and still occasionally use it to this day.