My nephew, Jake, had a problem. As a thoughtful and considerate uncle, it was only natural that I should help. His football team were assigning nicknames – apparently, such things no longer occur spontaneously – and he got lumbered with ‘Beefy’. This is not a reference to his physical dimensions (he’s as lean as a whippet) but, rather, to his surname: Cowburn. We both rued an opportunity lost. Using the logic adopted by his teammates could easily have resulted in an awesome nickname, like ‘T-Bone’, ‘Lord Bovine’ or ‘The Burger King’. Even ‘Beef Pattie Newton’ has a certain charm. Given the names inflicted on some of the other players though, my nephew got off lightly. Suffice to say that one of the larger kids got saddled with the irretrievably unflattering, The Wall with Eyes.
My nephew, Jake, had a problem. As a thoughtful and considerate uncle, it was only natural that I should help. His football team were assigning nicknames – apparently, such things no longer occur spontaneously – and he got lumbered with ‘Beefy’. This is not a reference to his physical dimensions (he’s as lean as a whippet) but, rather, to his surname: Cowburn. We both rued an opportunity lost. Using the logic adopted by his teammates could easily have resulted in an awesome nickname, like ‘T-Bone’, ‘Lord Bovine’ or ‘The Burger King’. Even ‘Beef Pattie Newton’ has a certain charm. Given the names inflicted on some of the other players though, my nephew got off lightly. Suffice to say that one of the larger kids got saddled with the irretrievably unflattering, The Wall with Eyes.
Instantly, I knew what I had to do. As his uncle, I needed to immediately conjure up a new nickname for Jake – one imbued with just the right balance of mystery and danger. One as unlike ‘Beefy’ as was humanly possibly without resorting to Klingon. ‘From this moment,’ I solemnly declared, ‘You shall be known as Nighthawk.’ It sounded and felt right. My nephew was happy. All was well. That is, until he decided to reciprocate. ‘From this moment on, you shall be known as Not-So-Slim Shady.’ I could only recoil in horror. Or, possibly, challenge the cheeky beggar to a rap battle.
It’s true that no good deed should go unpunished. So whilst Nighthawk will now be the envy of his peers, particularly The Wall with Eyes, I am left to wrestle with the indignity that is being the Unreal Slim Shady. That’s not to say that my nephew doesn’t have a point. It’s a proven scientific fact that my rhyming skills are highly advanced and that, for a brief time, I considered becoming a full time rapper. But, truth be told, whilst there are some obvious benefits to being a rapper, there are some substantial downsides too. Whilst a career in rap is a virtual license to wear a tracksuit at all times, you run the risk of being gunned down in a drive by. Or having another rapper make fun of you in a song, thus necessitating some kind of musical retaliation. It seems like a lot of trouble.
That said, rappers have the best names. These aren’t assigned at birth but created by the artists themselves. Grandmaster Flash was born Joseph Saddler, Kurtis Blow was Kurt Walker and the inestimable Snoop Doggy Dogg is Calvin Cordozar Broadus Jr. to his Mum. Taking a new name is an act of self-creation; one in which the artist fabricates a mythology whilst simultaneously ‘keeping it real’. It’s one of many contradictions that are an inherent part of the hip-hop universe of which I am now a part. This is to be contrasted with the world of singers who, more often than not, accept the name they’re given. Suffice to say, Celine Dion has and will always be, Celine Dion rather than, say, MC Lungbuster.
As Not-So-Slim Shady, I have to acknowledge that my new nomenclature is merely a rip-off of somebody else’s alter ego. The Real Slim Shady is better known as the rapper, Eminem. In turn, the name ‘Eminem’ was derived from his actual name, ‘Marshall Mathers’. As ‘Marshall Mathers’ is to ‘Eminem’, by rights, I really ought to be S and M (albeit spelled as ‘Esinem’). For a range of reasons that require little in the way of imagination, this should be strenuously avoided at all costs.
Since being bequeathed my name, I have made some changes. Already I have requested new business cards. I have updated my ‘LinkedIn’ profile to include freestyle rapping as one of my skills. Next week, I’ll include break-dancing too, as soon as I’ve re-mastered the art of the backspin. I no longer shake hands. Instead, I greet people using a series of elaborate hip-hop gestures. In fact, being christened Not-So-Slim Shady has been liberating. For years I have wanted to bust out an avalanche of rhyme but the ideal moment never presented itself. The right moment to pump up the jams never does when your name is Stuart. But for Not-So-Slim Shady, every conversation is just another chance to pummel my opponent with a cavalcade of syllables as I dazzle people with my flow. But aside from bringing the rhyme and wearing tracksuits, there’s one thing that rappers prize above all else: revenge.
On Sunday, Nighthawk will take to the field with his football team. Doubtless, The Wall with Eyes will be there. But it’s no ordinary match. Jake / Nighthawk will be playing his one hundredth game. At first, I thought about sabotaging the banner; perhaps deliberately misspelling his name. My nephew Jake would be disappointed to have to run through a banner that read, ‘WELL DONE JACK’. But that would be petty. I have another idea.
Luckily, I still have my old drum machine – Dr Rhythm – and tracksuit pants. When the half-time siren sounds, I will race out to the centre of the ground and start bringing the rhyme. It will be a kind of tribute to my nephew with plenty of profanities thrown in to keep the umpires on their toes. It seems the least I can do after being given a new lease on life as Not-So-Slim Shady. Well done Jack, Jake, Nighthawk. Enjoy the rhyme-fest. Kickin’ it.