An Irishman's Diary

IN A report on the White House autocue mix-up, the London Timesreminded its readers that Brian Cowen was known to his friends and enemies alike as "BIFFO" – "an acronym of dubious provenance".

Presumably “dubious” was used in the loose, latter-day sense of “in questionable taste” rather than its main meaning of “vague” or “uncertain”. Unfortunately for the Taoiseach, the provenance of BIFFO is very well established by now, and resists any attempts at obscuring it. Despite the best efforts of Offaly tourism, the campaign to persuade us that the first three words really stand for “beautiful”, “intelligent”, and “fellow”, respectively, never got off the ground.

As applied to Brian Cowen, the nickname is by any standards unfair. Not even his enemies would accuse him of being ignorant. Nor would they call him the F-word that rhymes with “mucker”; at least not to his face.

But even among adults, the success of nicknames is determined by the rules of the schoolyard. Fairness does not come into it. The facts are that the Taoiseach is big, and he’s also from Offaly. That was enough for BIFFO to stick; and no doubt to be permanently attached to him by the Oxford Dictionary of Nicknames (of which more in due course).

In the meantime, I suppose, its provenance may still catch out the odd visiting dignitary. In fact, a foreign diplomat formerly based in Ireland told me once that just such a thing happened

during his term here. In briefings for a visit by one of his country’s higher-ranking officials, it had been mentioned in passing that Ireland’s then equivalent was known popularly as “BIFFO”. The briefing did not extend to an explanation of the term, however; or if it did, the meaning was lost in translation.

During subsequent engagements, thinking the informality would go down well with locals, the official in question repeatedly addressed Mr Cowen by his “popular name”. The Ems Telegram and the Franco-Prussian war resulted from less. But a polite clarification from Iveagh House apart, the breach of protocol did not cause a diplomatic incident.

The Offaly man is not the first Irish leader to have a nickname referring to his size. The aforementioned dictionary records the “Big Fellow” (Michael Collins) and the “Long Fellow” (Eamon de Valera), although these are admittedly staid by comparison. Still, having a rude moniker has not held back the current Taoiseach’s career, so far anyway. It may be that, even under schoolyard rules, some allowance is made for the fact that a nickname is generic or hereditary and that you have not contributed actively to earning it.

A nickname that (a) is funny, (b) is unique to the holder and (c) commemorates something he actually did, however minor, is probably a worse affliction. Spare a thought for a certain former leader of Britain’s Liberal Democrats. Many politicians have had flings with their secretaries down the years and got away with it. But not all of them had a name The Sun could alter slightly to create the headline: “Paddy Pantsdown”. As the man himself said in his diaries, it was “dreadful – but brilliant”; and it haunted his career ever afterwards.

Having an existing nickname adapted for your circumstances can be damaging too. A case in point is Neil Kinnock, whose description as “The Welsh Windbag” was all the harsher because it echoed the more flattering version (“The Welsh Wizard”) given to David Lloyd George. (Of course, the Welsh Wizard was only Lloyd George’s official nickname. His reputation for Paddy Pantsdown situations meant that he was also known in certain circles as “the Goat”).

Herbert Asquith was another British politician whose name lent itself to suggestive adaptation: his heavy drinking saw him rechristened “Squiffy”. And some surnames require no modification for purpose. The classic example is the 19th-century British prime minister who opposed Catholic Emancipation: Robert “Orange” Peel.

Partly because of the unusual emphasis placed on their middle names, some US presidents become popularly known only by their three-letter initials. In the cases of Roosevelt (FDR) and Kennedy (JFK), this was undoubtedly a compliment; but perhaps not for JFK’s successor. Lyndon Johnson became so mired in Vietnam that he didn’t run for a second term. And that he is still remembered by his initials probably has more to do with the success of those who marched against him, chanting: “Hey, hey, LBJ, How many kids did you kill today?”

Since then, oddly enough, no US president has qualified for initialised distinction. Instead we have had the likes of “Tricky Dicky” (Nixon), “Slick Willie” (Clinton) and, most recently, “Dubya”. With more than one president in the family, in fact, the Bushes even had to resort to using their sequential identifiers, George Snr and Jnr being known as “41” and “43”, respectively, around the house.

Then, of course, there was the much-nicknamed Ronald Reagan: known variously as “Dutch”, “The Great Communicator”, “The Teflon President”, “Old Hopalong”, and “The Gipper”. The last was probably his best known and its provenance is a study in nicknames. Reagan acquired it second-hand from his film role as George Gipp, star of the American college football team Notre Dame – the “Fightin’ Irish” – who on his deathbed asked team-mates to “win one for the Gipper”.

The current US president seems to have escaped a definitive nickname, so far. If he becomes known by his initials, he may yet have cause to be grateful for his politically sensitive middle name, “Hussein”, which will prevent him from being remembered as “BO”. But with a state visit here in the offing, Tourism Ireland will be promoting the case for “O’Bama”. And since the US president is big (in the vertical sense) and also from Offaly, even the cause of rebranding BIFFOs everywhere may not yet be lost.