Name Dropping - Taking A Shot

As the son of a middle ranking Naval Officer it might be assumed that such humble beginnings meant that there would be few opportunities for name dropping or even exploiting its more useful relative - nepotism. To make matters worse, Dad was a Plumber (aka an Engineer Officer) and so, generally regarded by the elite, such as Gunnery Officers, as a second class citizen. That said, even the disenfranchised name droppers were sometimes presented with fleeting opportunities to exploit names in a parental address book.

My first brush with playing the connection card occurred when, as a senior teenager[1], I developed an unexplained rash; bearing in mind developments of this tale, it must be assumed that the production of a satisfactory diagnosis had defeated the NHS. So it was that Dad dug out his address book to hunt down an old medical mate who worked as a skin specialist in Harley Street.

Some weeks later, it came to pass that a top-of-the-range receptionist who undoubtedly had been polished at a Swiss Finishing School, ushered this, then, spotty teenager into the Doctor’s Harley Street office for, what I had discovered to be, a fifteen minute consultation. The great man invited me to sit in a high back-chair while he sat in a lusciously comfortable heavily padded swivel chair; separated by a grand desk of flight deck proportions, we began to converse. We talked inconsequentially, mostly about rowing and cricket. The enjoyable crack stuttered to a halt when, after fourteen minutes he looked at his watch, walked around the desk to eye the rash, quickly wrote a prescription and said: “That will be five guineas, please pay the receptionist on your way out”. So, ended fifteen minutes of nepotic fame but the seeds of doubt about the value of nepotism ought to have been sown but subsequent events indicate that I am a slow learner.

Not long after the brush with the luxury end of the medical market, bored with my lot in the Return Premiums Department of the Commercial Union located in the bowels of the City, Nicholson decided to have a pop at joining the Merchant Navy (MN). Armed with O Level Navigation and Seamanship, it might have been assumed the MN would welcome me with open arms; such an assumption was enhanced by the realisation that my sister was working as the PA to the owner of a shipping company – the Silver Line. However, as with the Harley Street experience, the interview chat proved to be most enjoyable but not blessed with a satisfactory outcome. Despite still being a teenager, the interviewer opined that I was too old to be a MN Cadet. Of course, the age issue may have just been a cover story to allay my feelings of inadequacy; this was a kindly thought bearing in mind that I had contemporaneously apparently failed interviews with both Legal & General and Truman Hanbury & Buxton, so a sense of inadequacy featured in my mind (I say ‘apparently’ since job offers from either are still awaited after 63 years).    

Failing interviews became a way of life in those early years. In the second term at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst (RMAS) an interview for entry to the Queen’s Royal Irish Hussars (QRIH) went horribly wrong when the Regimental Colonel, lying supine on a sofa with a Gin and Tonic in hand, proffered this killer question:

“Well Nicholson, how many polo horses do you intend taking to Germany?”

From the discomfort of a high back chair, his question elicited the following response:

“As a matter of fact sir, I don’t ride”

A response that brought the event to a frosty conclusion, presumably on the grounds that the impertinent young Nicholson had merely engaged in a time wasting interview adventure.

The not riding happened to be untrue. In fact I had taken up riding as a means of avoiding Breakfast Roll Call (BRC) at the RMAS – a parade that, merely by attendance, always ran the risk of being awarded extra drills for an ‘idle end’ or dirty boots and a single extra could lead to multiple extras ultimately including Restrictions of Privileges or strickers[2].  However, after six weeks of crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn, learning the rising trot in accordance with the precepts of the relevant Manual, saddling up and scrubbing down grumpy horses that would bite, kick or scratch in resisting any such measures, I decided that BRC might be a more civilised option. I could never understand why horses had to be ridden at first light, why there were no stable staff to deal with the grubby process of saddling up and scrubbing down, why caps had to be worn and why sitting bolt upright was mandatory[3].

Too high in the Order of Merit (!) to join the Royal Tank Regiment, having a crack at joining the Royal Army Service Corps (RASC) seemed an attractive third choice. That decision made sense since the RASC had ships, highlighting the potential value of O Level Navigation and Seamanship. Further, I had shown commitment to the cause by participating in a sailing week-end under the tutelage of a RASC Major called Bernie[4]. Within an hour of submitting the application, the Skull (the shaven-headed Company Sergeant Major) ordered Nicholson to report to the College Commander. The discourse with that interview went:

College Commander[5]: “You’re not driving effing trucks, boy. You are going to join the Gunners”   Nicholson: “But I don’t do maths, Sir” College Commander: “Bugger maths”

Cadets tended not to argue with fiery World War 2 Commando heroes so his diktat elicited no word of protest from the interviewee. Within two days an interview with the Regimental Colonel confirmed Nicholson’s status as an embryonic Gunner officer. However, being totally unaware of the quota system for cap-badge acceptance, this fast moving process led him to believe that the Gunners knew a good man when they saw one. On joining the Regiment the truth emerged – the Gunners had 36 vacancies, had filled 31 of them and his acceptance raised the quota filling to 32.

Until entering the wider world of the Gunners, Nicholson had no idea that Nicholsons seemed to dominate the upper echelons of the Regiment - the recently retired Master Gunner of St James’s Palace, Cameron Nicholson being but one example (referred to by some as ‘camiknicks’). The subsequent curse of the name began to emerge when, as a wart or puppy[6], the Commanding Officer (CO) introduced me to visiting senior officers. Such glancing blows with Brigadiers and Generals usually unfolded thus:    

CO: "General, this is Mike Nicholson" Dignitary: "Any relation to Cameron Nicholson?" Me: "No sir" Dignitary: "Any relation to RAG Nicholson?"   Me: "No sir"

At that point, the dignitary generally moved swiftly on although sometime this supplementary question arose:

Dignitary: ‘What did your father do”. Me: “He served in the Royal Navy”

That follow-up question merely postponed the swiftly moving on process.

Many years later, as a Battery Commander while being tested or trained (not sure which) in the urban village in Germany, a Colonel in the Argyll & Sutherland Highlanders had cause to visit us. I knew the name and immediately recognised him as my boss when attached to the battalion in Dungannon and serving as his Intelligence Officer (undoubtedly an oxymoron). Smugly armed with this golden opportunity to exploit a name dropping open window, the following conversation developed:

Me: "Hello Colonel it’s good to see again" Colonel: "Have we met before?"   Me: "I was your IO in Dungannon" Colonel: "No you weren’t – we’ve never met before"

Rank Has Its Privileges (RHIP) and would have been pointless to argue with the senior officer notwithstanding my photograph album contains confirmatory evidence of my attachment and the fact that he had a rare double-barrelled name. Sometimes it’s sensible to accept the general principle that ‘tactics are the opinion of the senior officer present’.

Not long after the above confrontation with the Colonel, I found myself on a train en route to Salisbury sitting opposite a former Subaltern from my first regiment. As an effete, slender man who attracted the soubriquet Tom Thumb, there could be no doubt that I had the right man. This engagement followed:

Me: "Hello it’s Mike Piffle isn’t it?" Him (following a wince): "No"                                                               

I persisted, but the wincing continued until eventually he said: “My name is Fotherington-Piffle”. There the possibility of a reunion evaporated. It may be surmised that having transferred to the cavalry, he had decided to make a clean break from his connection with the bloody Gunners.       

In his later years as a Widower my father had struck up a relationship with a ‘county’ lady from a nearby village. During a conversation at my first meeting with her, it emerged that she knew my Divisional Commander (a cavalry Major General) – a ‘lovely man’ says she - and asked me to pass on her good wishes to the great man. Soon after that meeting, as luck would have it, the General visited the regiment which, I unwisely thought, offered the possibility for a seriously useful name drop. So, on meeting the General I grasped the opportunity to say with overt smugness:

Me: "You and I have a mutual friend"    General: "Oh who’s that?"  Me: "Dorothy McShame" General – combining his response with moving on: "Never heard of her"

After a lifetime of name dropping failures it might be assumed that I should eschew its pursuit. Such an intuitive conclusion received a further fillip when attending a function in our village hall attended by Princess Anne. On her arrival the Chairman of the Parish Council oiled his way across the floor and introduced himself to her before saying: “We have met before”. The expression on her face betrayed a mixture of anger and bemusement. Suffice to say she moved on in very short order. 

Even in old age it would seem that I have failed to learn the lesson of the pitfalls of name dropping. Only last month, a Doctor friend claimed to know the hospital consultant dealing with my medical condition and asked me to pass on his regards. I duly did so only to be told by the latter that he did not know the doctor.

Methinks it’s time for me to give up on name dropping, after all nobody can help me now! 

[1]. Senior in age terms rather than being a Prefect which always remained firmly out of reach,

[2] In truth, there were very few privileges. In today’s world of rights, entitlements, heroes and crises many are not familiar with the concept of privileges, particularly if they have to be earned. 

[3] It transpired that a cap was needed in case the group met the General on his early morning ride. Doffing the cap being de rigueur as a mark of respect.

[4] Bernie had a failsafe approach to navigation. Sailing down Southampton Water the boat zigzagged from buoy to buoy and a crewman shouted out the name of each buoy which Bernie checked on the chart to confirm the boat’s location. As a navigation system, this worked well although it took a full day to reach the Isle of Wight.  

[5] This legend had a propensity for fatherhood and was once asked how many children he had, to which he replied: “Dunno, haven’t been home since lunchtime”.

[6] Common parlance for a Subaltern.