Spongebob Squarepants. Cuddly figure of cute, innocent joy? Or perhaps, for the drained parent among you, a square-shaped and puss-coloured ball of crap whose repetitive catchphrases are really beginning to get on your tits. However, irrespective of your opinion on the cheesy kitchen sponge with the helium balloon high voice, would you classify him as this: a vicious and unwanted nickname which, if you’re unlucky enough to be known by, could net you £142,000? Yep, me neither.
Mrs. Licia Faithful, formerly of AXA PPP Healthcare, has been awarded the gargantuan sum from an employment tribunal in Ashford, Kent; citing extreme emotional stress, the 31 year old of Brazilian descent claimed depression and post-traumatic stress as a direct consequence of her ordeal.
Now, I don’t know about you guys, but that’s not an awful nickname to have. There are some truly cruel ones out there, most gluing themselves to you like a stick of insulting chewing gum well into the rigours of adulthood. I went to school with a kid who had the unfortunate coincidence of having a first name sounding eerily like ‘minge’; no surprises for guessing what he had to put up with. Which, to some of you and especially me when I was 13, seemed the height of hilarity; he might have thought differently however after several years of being referred to as a synonym for vagina. (If he ever gets to read this, let’s hope I don’t have to contribute a portion of the 142 grand he’ll inevitably receive!) What are the ingredients of a decent nickname, you may ask? There are two to be precise, in my opinion: it has to be at least ever so slightly cruel, and also make you laugh; preferably, it should be a play on their name too, a la Mr. Minge mentioned above.
Some names really do cross the hazy line into downright wrong, but I can only recall one which, coincidentally, I heard of recently. The guy I was speaking to was a friend of a friend (also very hazy, may I add), and was regaling me with a tale of his grandfather’s childhood pet. The lovable scamp of a puppy was (get this), called ‘Nigger’. To further reinforce the fact this was post war north London, a West Indian family on the same street would quite happily pet the dog, contentedly calling the mutt by its morally questionable first name. Alas, this was a different time and place, but it supplies a clear indication of how culture and environment play the pivotal role in deciding whether or not something is termed as ‘appropriate’. Now, back to little old me dear readers.
I was referred to, VERY UNTRUTHFULLY (okay, I may have been on the chubby side aged 10 or so), as ‘Rikishi’. For those of you not versed in the fine art of turn of the millennium wrestling superstars, here’s the big guy in question:
I would like to stress, for the record, that I have never sported such horrific peroxide cornrow
I suppose my point is this: no matter how frustrating it may be, as a young and popularity obsessed pre-teen, you gradually gain the balls to say: f*$& you, as the Cee-Lo tune goes. Or, in my case, run your arse around the block a few times and ask your mother politely to stop buying chicken & mushroom flavoured pot noodles.
Or, ultimately, my point may be this: WHERE THE F*$& IS MY 142 GRAND!?
Peace out possums. x
No comments:
Post a Comment