“I can’t believe it” says Mary Magdalene-Edwards, whose son, Edward Magdalene-Edwards, has finally stopped writing letters to Elizabeth II in which he righteously demands she hand over the crown. Eddy Maggie-Eddy (or Eggy Maddie-Eddy, as he’s often accidentally called) has bitten the proverbial bullet and gotten a job as a dustman for Flapham County Council, where he’ll be rudely awakening Phil Daniels wannabees every Wednesday morning for the foreseeable future.
Mary and Edward Magdalene-Edwards’ not-at-all tragic story is all too common. Despite there being a total eleven English kings named Edward, it turns out – to the absolute shock, horror and disappointment of parents everywhere – that copying a popular monarch’s name does not even give your son a remote shot at being The King. The stats are even more damning than the anecdotes; our data analytics department ran the numbers and found that out of a good few billion men called Edward living in the UK, a grim total of zero hold the post of head-of-state.
A pain to pronounce: maxing out on the syllables
Delaney Robertson, son of Robert and conscientious father of Edward B. Delaney Fleckman-Robertson, wondered if he’d given his son too many syllables – “I soon realised that even the royalist-fetishizers from the BBC won’t tolerate having to pronounce such a long and winding name, I should have just called him Ed Delaney, but the wife insisted we make him a walking talking living breathing tongue twister…”. Curse you, Miss Fleckman! Indeed, imagine this; what if Edward B. Delaney Fleckman-Robertson’s future husband-or-wife wanted to double barrel and pass on their first name as a middle name. Say Edward B. Delaney Fleckman-Robertson fell into uncontrollable love with a man-or-woman called Ashley Campersham-Sykes; they’d inevitably have to call their son “Edward B. Delaney Ashley Campersham-Fleckman-Robertson-Sykes” – that’s definitely too long for a royal name. Alas, little Edward (now a sultry 38 years of age) has torn down the posters of Queen Elizabeth II from his wall, and replaced them with pictures of naked women-and-men (and Hugo Chavez).
No subtlety: going the whole hog
Bloody hell, how the frick did he fit an entire pig in his oven? I wondered as I sat in the open-plan kitchen-diner of Richard “Dick” Royal, who went to less subtle lengths; naming his two sons Edgar The Peaceable Royal and Alfred The Great Royal respectively. “This didn’t work” he said, having realised shortly after Alfred’s 100th birthday – “he didn’t even receive a letter from the queen, let alone an offering of the crown” – Dick died later that day, the coroner remarking that “ruddy nora, if his son’s just turned 100 I dread to think how old this guy was”.
Too stupid a name overall
“Oh my giddy aunt”, remarked the Auntie of Edward Bibbertyboggle, “he’s passed his S.A.T’s and gotten into a grammar school and he’s called Edward, what more can be done?”. We contacted the Royal Family for more information, and, to our surprise, we were met with a swift response from none other than the soon-to-be-dead Duke of Edinburgh, Prince Phillip himself. His short statement, delivered to Fake Journal HQ via autonomous cantaloupe melon (of course) read:
To whom it may concern,
We are aware of this case. We had indeed considered granting royal status and thronal lineage to young Edward. He’s a very impressive young man.
But that name… Bibbertyboggle… Sounds made up.
Can’t do it.
With love, Duke of Eddy (soon to be dead).
Come on now. He’s like, 100, for Pete’s sake.
It’s not all doom and gloom
Although giving your children traditional royal names might not be quite as savvy as you think, there’s no reason for a cockeyed optimist to see this as a transferable logic. There are three completely unavailable roles on the discontinued children’s sit-com cartoon Ed, Edd and Eddy. If you name your son Richard (don’t), there’s a completely unavailable role on the discontinued talk-show Richard and Judy. And, if you call your kid Henry, there’s every chance he might grow up to become a really decent hoover.
But, in all seriousness, the actual bottom line?…
If you’re in fact not a cockeyed optimist (a.k.a massive idiot) then yes, believe it or not, there’s a bottom line. That is: making your son or daughter sound like the utmost of poshest gits won’t actually propel them to the apex of posh-gittery. You’re better off sending them to Eton-or-Harrow (cheap) and encouraging them to do PPE at Oxford-or-Cambridge (easy). This was the route taken by the gittiest (but not the poshest) of posh gits; the innocuously named David Cameron, a great-great-great-great-great grandson of King William IV, who was (sort of) King for a few years, before scarpering back into his private life of being immensely rich and occasionally showing his stupid, largely unwelcome (and indeed, large) face on TV to comment on current affairs.
Sort of life you’d want for your kid, eh?