We interrupt the normal service of grave political comment in this space to ask: What really is the importance of names in deciding one's future?
The question comes from watching Joseph Fiennes in Shakespeare in Love on television recently. That damned name, Fiennes: what is so special about it and about the tribe who bear it? After all, there is Ralph Fiennes, of The English Patient; there is Magnus Fiennes, the musician; there is Ranulph Fiennes, the ex-SAS man and explorer; there is Martha Fiennes, the director of the film Onegin; and of course, there is Joseph, who prompted this mad angst. Needless to say, all these Fiennes are pronounced Fines, a mispronunciation which is a true sign of high birth in England.
The Den
But do the English Fiennes have any less fortunate cousins? Is there a Wayne Fiennes, football hooligan extraordinaire, who is to be found every Saturday smashing heads outside The Den at Millwall and who concludes every sentence with no-wharmean? Has he a brother Kevin, or rather, assee a bruvver Kev, no-wharmean?
Is there is no Sharon Fiennes, aged 23, the mother of seven children, in some tower block in London? She too, no doubt, belongs to the nowharmean linguistic subgroup. Her delightful offspring are of various racial origins, with an uncertain number of fathers (owing to drink having been taken on most of the nights in question, nowharmean; maybe even the odd threesome or two, eeer, wotchadoin, o-aw-righthen, nowharmean). Possible fathers might exceed the dozen, though no one really knows, least of all Sharon, and of course none of these fine lads is paying a single penny in maintenance, no-wharmean.
And can there really be no Elvis Fiennes, 22, who makes a living selling crack and stealing white kids' mobile phones in Hammersmith, but is branching out now with a couple of bitches turning tricks for him down Paddington way? And are there no Irish Fiennes, aside, of course from that aberrant sect, Shin Fiennes?
Is there not a Manchester United-worshipping Craig Fiennes in Tallaght with a ring through his nose, tattoos all over him and a pitbull on a chain? Or a James Connolly Fiennes, an INLA drugs dealer in Dundalk who clips off the fingers of the opposition using industrial shears? Or a Rocco Fiennes, with a few African girls in Fitzwilliam Square, and a boatload of cocaine coming in from Peru any day now?
Arbour Hill
And is there a Seamus Fiennes, doing time in the sex offenders' unit at Arbour Hill after being in caught in flagrante delicto in Dublin Zoo having his way with a stoutly but nonetheless vainly resisting boar hippo? Is there a Pius Pearse Emmet McSweeney Fiennes who yearns for the Troubles to start again so he can bump off a few off-duty peelers, die on hunger strike and get a gable-end all to himself, and who knows, maybe his very own cumann? ("We are gathered here today to rededicate ourselves to the struggle for which young Pius gave his young. . .")
Is there is a Whiteside Oliver Cromwell Mawhinney Fiennes, LOL 666, who in appearance is remarkably similar in every way to his cousin Craig in Tallaght, most especially in his tattoos, and his pitbull and football enthusiasms, except he has one further ambition: he has a great desire to blow the bejasus out of them there Fiennians on the Garvaghy Road, that being his culture, so it is.
To all such speculations about aberrant Fiennes we can say a definitive No. For, generally speaking, the name Fiennes excludes improper possibilities, characters and characteristics. Fiennes are all sensitive, artistic, brave, creative, handsome, musical and probably superb in bed: it is merely one of the siennes of the deplorably weak tiemmes that we live in that somebody hasn't done the whole bloody lot of them in.
Serving lass
Yet how is this nomenclatural integrity possible? Surely, however much an ancient Norman family such as the Fiennes may guard their privileges, and mind their offspring, inevitably, even in the most vigilant family, a son or two will be tempted by the loins of a serving lass, so bringing the name into a lower class. Yet not so: there are no Fiennes in working-class housing estates anywhere; nor are there Montgomerys, Tollemaches, de Montmorencys, Plantagenets, just the common old Murphys, Myerses, Kielys, Bradys, Browns and Nolans, unlettered tattooed proletarian louts all, who steal glue and sniff cars.
And all that a mere passing aside before coming to the main item of the day: the Debussy concert at the National Concert Hall, which was cancelled after the September 11th attacks, has been relocated to next Sunday afternoon at 3.15.
Moya O'Grady, she of the tribe of illustrious ones too numerous to count, and the mother of many, leads large sections of her clan in a celebration of the music of the truly great French impressionist composer whose musical genius changed the world's love of music. Three sonatas, and La danse Sacrée et Profane for harp and strings.
Debussy's mother was probably kin of Ralph and Ranulph: Fienne girl you are.
KEVIN MYERS