What's in a Name

Back in school in the late 60s, I had a mate who called his father George. Not Dad, not Father, not even the old man, except maybe to his mates. Just George. Casually, confidently – like they were business partners or co-founders of a mildly successful record label.

Which, in a way, they almost were. George ran the local scooter emporium – a shrine to Lambrettas, chrome trim, and that particular kind of freedom only available at 45 miles an hour with your parka flapping behind you. The place smelled of two-stroke, ambition, and oil-soaked rags that had seen more clutches than your average driving instructor.

But what really made George stand out – aside from the first-name business – was the way he looked. We all thought he was the spit of Bryan Ferry. Same quiff, same cheekbones, same air of detached cool. He had the sort of presence that made you wonder whether Roxy Music was his main gig, and flogging scooters was just the sideline. We still joke about it now – "George could’ve been massive, but the shop came first."

And the name thing? That was just part of the legend. The rest of us had Dads. You didn’t call them by their first name unless you wanted to find out how far a slipper could fly. Mum, Dad, Granny, Grandad – titles, not names. Family structure was like a naval chain of command – you didn’t break it unless you fancied a mutiny.

But George wasn’t that sort of man. He didn’t need to be called Dad to be one. He was just George – solid, competent, stylish as hell, and always in motion. There was no hint of aloofness, no deliberate iconoclasm. He just was. And if his son called him by name, it wasn’t cheek – it was normal. The hierarchy had been flattened, and nobody seemed to mind.

Because that’s how family naming works:

• Above you: titles – Mum, Dad, Granny. 
• Beside you: names – Lucy, Dave, your brother who nicked your sherbet dib-dabs. 
• Below you: names you choose – your kids, the cat, the imaginary friend who only comes out at bedtime.
• Aunts and uncles? Uncle Tony, Auntie Jean – a polite halfway house for people you’re not allowed to call Steve.

So when someone calls their father George, it resets the table. Says, This household doesn’t need brass buttons and salutes. George had nothing to prove. He didn’t issue orders – he passed you the right spanner and expected you to crack on.

Looking back, I think that was his real trick. Quiet authority. No fuss. Cool without trying. A man who could change a cylinder head and then, quite believably, disappear into a smoky club to record Love Is the Drug before tea.

George didn’t play at being Bryan Ferry. He just looked like him. The rest? We happily filled in.