The English, it has always seemed to me, have a certain genius for names. A
glance through the British edition of Who's Who throws up a roll call that
sounds disarmingly like the characters in a P. G. Wodehouse novel: Lord Fraser
of Tullybelton, Captain Allwyne Arthur Compton Farquaharson of Invercauld,
Professor Valentine Mayneord, Sir Helenus Milmo, Lord Keith of Kinkel. Many
British appellations are of truly heroic proportions, like that of the World War I
admiral named Sir Reginald Aylmer Ranfulry Plunkett-Ernel-Erle-Drax.
The best ones go in for a kind of gloriously silly redundancy toward the end, as
with Sir Humphrey Dodington Benedict Sherston Sherston-Baker and the truly
unbeatable Leone Sextus Denys Oswolf Fraduati Tollemache-Tollemache-de
Orellana-Plantagenet-Tollemache-Tollemache, a British army major who died in
World War I. The leading explorer in Britain today is Sir Ranulph Twisleton-
Wykeham-Fiennes. Somewhere in Britain to this day there is an old family
rejoicing in the name MacGillesheatheanaich.
In the realms of nomenclature clearly we are dealing here with giants.
Often, presumably for reasons of private amusement, the British pronounce their
names in ways that bear almost no resemblance to their spelling. Leveson-Gower
is "looson gore," Marjoribanks is "marchbanks," Hiscox is "hizzko," Howick is
"hoyk," Ruthven is "rivven," Zuill is "yull," "Menzies is mingiss." They find
particular pleasure in taking old Norman names and mashing them around until
they become something altogether unique, so that Beaulieu becomes "bewley,"
Beauchamp turns into "beecham," Prideaux into "pridducks," Devereux to
"devrooks," Cambois to "cammiss,"
Hautbois to "hobbiss," Belvoir somehow becomes "beaver," and Beaudesert
turns, unfathomably, into "belzer."
They can perform this trick with even the simplest names, turning Sinclair into
"sinkler," Blackley into "blakely," Blount into "blunt," Bethune into "beeton,"
Cockburn into "coburn," Coke into "cook." Lord Home becomes "lord hume,"
the novelist Anthony Powell becomes "pole," P. G. Wodehouse becomes
"woodhouse," the poet William Cowper becomes "cooper."Caius College, Cambridge, is "keys," while Magdalen College, Oxford, and
Magdalene College, Cambridge, are both pronounced "mawdlin."
I could go on and on. In fact, I think I will. Viscount Althorp pronounces his
name "awltrop," while the rather more sensible people of Althorp, the
Northamptonshire village next to the viscount's ancestral home, say "all-thorp."
The Scottish town of Auchinleck is pronounced "ock-in-leck," but the local
baron, Lord Boswell of Auchinleck, pronounces it "affleck." There are two
Barons Dalziel. One pronounces it "dalzeel," the other "dee-ell." The family
name Ridealgh can be pronounced "ridalj" or "riddialsh."
Some members of the Pepys family pronounce it "peeps" as the great diarist
Samuel Pepys did, but others say "peppiss" and still others say "pips." The
family name Hesmondhalgh can be "hezmondhaw," "hezmondhalsh," or
"hezmondhawltch." The surname generally said to have the most pronunciations
is Featherstone-haugh, which can be pronounced in any of five ways: "feather-
stun-haw," "feerston-shaw," "feston-haw," "feeson-hay," or (for those in a hurry)
"fan-shaw." But in fact there are two other names with five pronunciations:
Coughtrey, which can be "kotry," "kaw-try," "kowtry," "kootry," and "kofftry,"
and Wriotheseley, which can be "rottsly," "rittsly," "rizzli," "rithly," or
"wriotheslee."
The problem is so extensive, and the possibility of gaffes so omnipresent, that
the BBC employs an entire pronunciation unit, a small group of dedicated
orthoepists (professional pronouncers) who spend their working lives getting to
grips with these illogical pronunciations so that broadcasters don't have to do it
on the air.
In short, there is scarcely an area of name giving in which the British don't show
a kind of wayward genius. Take street names.
Just in the City of London, an area of one square mile, you can find Pope's Head
Alley, Mincing Lane, Garlick Hill, Crutched Friars, Threadneedle Street,
Bleeding Heart Yard, Seething Lane. In the same compact area you can find
churches named St. Giles Cripplegate, St. Sepulchre Without Newgate, All
Hallows Barking, and the practically unbeatable St. Andrews-by-the-Wardrobe.
But those are just their everyday names: Oftentimes the full, official titles are
even more breathtaking, as with The Lord Mayor's Parish Church of St. StephenWalbrook and St. Swithin Londonstone, St. Benet Sheerhogg and St. Mary
Bothall with St. Laurence Pountney, which is, for all that, just one church.
Equally arresting are British pub names. Other people are content to dub their
drinking establishment with pedestrian names like Harry's Bar and the
Greenwood Lounge. But a Briton, when he wants to sup ale, must find his way
to the Dog and Duck, the Goose and Firkin, the Flying Spoon, or the Spotted
Dog. The names of Britain's 70,000 or so pubs cover a broad range, running
from the inspired to the improbable, from the deft to the daft.
Almost any name will do so long as it is at least faintly absurd, unconnected with
the name of the owner, and entirely lacking in any suggestion of drinking,
conversing, and enjoying oneself. At a minimum the name should puzzle
foreigners—this is a basic requirement of most British institutions—and ideally
it should excite long and inconclusive debate, defy all logical explanation, and
evoke images that border on the surreal. Among the pubs that meet, and indeed
exceed, these exacting standards are the Frog and Nightgown, the Bull and
Spectacles, the Flying Monk, and the Crab and Gumboil.
However unlikely a pub's name may sound, there is usually some explanation
rooted in the depths of history. British inns were first given names in Roman
times, 2, 000 years ago, but the present quirky system dates mostly from the
Middle Ages, when it was deemed necessary to provide travelers, most of them
illiterate, with some sort of instantly recognizable symbol.
The simplest approach, and often the most prudent, was to adopt a royal or
aristocratic coat of arms. Thus a pub called the White Hart indicates ancient
loyalty to Richard II (whose decree it was, incidentally, that all inns should carry
signs), while an Eagle and Child denotes allegiance to the Earls of Derby and a
Royal Oak commemorates Charles II, who was forced to hide in an oak tree after
being defeated by Cromwell during the English Civil War. (If you look carefully
at the pub sign, you can usually see the monarch hiding somewhere in the
branches.) The one obvious shortcoming of such a system was that names had to
be hastily changed every time a monarch was toppled. Occasionally luck would
favor the publicans, as when Richard III (symbolized by a white boar) was
succeeded by the Earl of Oxford (blue boar) and amends could be simply
effected with a pot of paint. But pubkeepers quickly realized that a more cost-
effective approach was to stick to generic names, which explains why there areso many pubs called the Queen's Head (about 300), King's Head ( 400), and
Crown (the national champion at more than i,000).