Name-dropping gets a bad press. Name-droppers-as everyone knows-are insecure show-offs, ghastly bores hoping to mask their own grey non-entity by basking in others' glory. Name-droppers assume, we assume, that we will think them frightfully glamourous because they know so many frightfully glamourous people. But we're not impressed one iota. No way.
Despite which we all name-drop. There may be a few saints and hermits out there who don't, but I have yet to meet them. By no means unknown to the habit myself, as adorable friends regularly remind me, I have tried to analyse why I do it. Doubtless-as everyone knows-I am an insecure show-off and ghastly bore hoping to mask my own nonentity. And presumably it gives me pleasure or I would not bother. But I think it pleases my listeners, too: it greatly enhances the tittle-tattle of social intercourse. In fact, I have changed my mind about name-dropping: I now think it is a good thing.
Well, people say, dropping names in interesting stories is fine, but names should never be dropped for the sake of it. That misses the point. Dull tales become interesting tales when the protagonists are celebrities. Some years ago, late for an appointment, I flew down the stairs outside the Reform Club (place drop) and smashed into a shambling old chap on Pall Mall, shoving him off the pavement and almost under the wheels of a passing taxi. Throwing my arms around the bloke to hold him back, I found myself hugging Harold Macmillan. I had jolly nearly killed him.
Would that epic saga have been remotely interesting had the old cove been Norbert Nobody? Never. But had I been responsible for Super-Mac's demise, the incident, accompanied by my mug shot, would have graced the world's media for days.
Macmillan's celebrity makes the story-just about. But surely real name-dropping carries an implication that the luminary is a friend, or at the very least a social-rather than merely physical-contact? Surely real name-dropping, embarrassing name-dropping, not only enhances the story, it supposedly enhances the storyteller. That too misses the point. Close proximity with the famous is all that is required. The name-dropper provides the listener with prestige by proxy at one remove-but for most of us such surrogate relationships are, seemingly, worth having.
As every gossip columnist knows, people simply enjoy hearing about, reading about and gawping at famous people. They enjoy it so much that they are willing to pay for it. Name-droppers provide much the same service gratis.
Why should this be so? It can't be blamed on the media, although doubtless they exacerbate it. From time immemorial ordinary folk have been fascinated by famous folk, and in collecting their appurtenances. Think of the auction value of eminent people's signatures, clothing and gewgaws. And people have always-perhaps particularly-been fascinated by the famous (but hardly grateful) dead. Why else do they queue up to file past stuffed leaders and visit the shrines of the distinguished (deceased)?
Famous people are like designer labels. (Perhaps it is truer to say that designer labels are like famous people. Indeed the designers of designer labels usually become famous people nowadays, and very name-droppable, too). The names we choose to drop, like the labels we choose to sport, tell other people the kind of person we want to be. And like designer labels, name-dropping adds glamour and interest to otherwise humdrum realities.
Moreover some names-again like designer labels-are known only to those in the know. Like Lobb, Purdy or Fionda (shoes, guns, fashion), if I name-dropped Kroto, Bristow or Little (science, darts, cooking), I would immediately communicate, to the cognoscenti, that I knew my chemistry, arrows and onions. And that I knew the best. Bridge players-I have heard them-name-drop playing with illustrious bridge players; lepidopterists-I'll bet-name-drop butterfly hunting with illustrious lepidopterists.
Many years ago I was dining in Wilton's-restaurants can be name-dropped, too-when Charlie Chaplin-there I go again-came in with Oona. My reverence for his celebrity was far from unique. As the couple were shown to their table, everyone in the restaurant fell silent and rubber-necked, while pretending not to. The late Mr Marks, Wilton's celebrated restaurateur, broke the silence.
"Charlie Chaplin," he mumbled, loudly. "There's a man I admire..." The timbre of his voice made it clear that there was more to come. Were we to be treated to an aesthetic analysis of Modern Times or a paean of praise for The Great Dictator?
Not quite.
"He's in his eighties," declared Mr Marks, eyeing Oona, "and still doing it." It is not the most mesmerising tale you've ever heard, admittedly. But being about Chaplin, it holds some tiny interest. And maybe it tells you something about me. Doesn't it?
