Primal Sneeze

In the town where I was born, bred and buttered, you were nobody unless you had a nickname. Lack of a nickname meant you didn’t stand out from the crowd in any way. Nicknames derived from your job, your hobby, your appearance, your family background, something totally stupid you did at some stage, an infirmity. Nothing was sacred.

When Pat Smullen lost the hearing in one ear he became known as Look Left. You work out which ear.
Larry the Leg was so called because he had a wooden one. He never seemed to mind. The name, not the leg.

Others hated theirs. Peter was a short stocky soldier with a big beer belly. Being called The Flab was bad enough but when he discovered it meant Fat Little Army Bollix he flipped altogether.

Pat Kavanagh was a big man too. Full of drink, he fell asleep buck naked on a beach in Spain one time and got seriously sunburned on the back. Bra in The Bra Kavanagh stood for Big Red Arse.

Seán Hayes was a martyr for the whiskey and had a bright red nose as a result. Over the years this turned blue and then darker. He ignored his doctor’s warnings until folks began referring to him as The Purple Hayes.

In a time when parents didn’t call their children after celebrities or brands of perfume there was an abundance of Pats, Micks, Joes and so on. There could even be five or six Pat Murphys in the same town. Our problem was the number of Joes.

We had Joe the Egg who kept hens. His son was Joey the Yolk. There was Joe the Dog who hated cats. His cousin Domino Joe, undoubtedly the best dots player around.

There was Tony Two Lines who loved to sing with a few pints on board but always trailed off quickly. Mick Million Papers would insist on consulting everyone else’s racing pages before picking his horse.

Some families even had nicknames. The Bibles because they named their kids Noah, Moses and Eve. None of us had much time for the Power-Smyths and their greater-than-thou attitude. Hence The Sour-Shits.

Some inanimate objects had nicknames too. The Toss-Bank Bike named after the source of the money that paid for it. The Roadstone Ranch was built after a farmer sold land to a quarrying company. A company whose employees were known as Roadstone Cowboys after the song of a different name, if you know what I mean. A quiet side road used by the local ladies for their morning walks was Big Arse Boulevard.

This seemed to be dying out as the village succumbed to the influx of Dubs who brought their own brand of nicknames with them. To get a Dub’s nickname just add an O to their name. Go on. Try it. Johno. Liamo. See. It’s easy. Try some harder ones. Petero doesn’t work, but Pedro does. If you get stuck with the first name, try the surname. Kavo for Kavanagh. Try some more. Have fun. Or die of boredom.

Then yesterday I noticed a small resurgence. Vladimir, a Russian working in the local shop, is being called Vlad the Retailer. Now that’s class! It has to be one of the best of all time, unless you have better.

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