I am one of the many people cursed by my name. Don’t get me wrong, the words themselves are grand. Colm is a Gaelic form of the Latin columba, meaning “dove” and has, in my opinion, a nice round flow to it — bit of a spiritual angle, too. It is also an ideal name for a man with a column.
I also like Colm because it isn’t over-encumbered with syllables, like Attracta, for instance — a name that can go on and on for weeks in certain accents. And, unlike names such as Fachtna, it doesn’t get stuck in the throat for hours.
Tobin isn’t too bad either. Once you get past the possibility that it might refer to a bin containing toes, it has a nice Norman ring to it (deriving from the French name, Saint Aubyn). This would neatly explain my weakness for smelly cheese and my snooty ambivalence when Leinster are up against French teams in the rugby (OK, being from Munster doesn’t help either).
I know from personal experience how very difficult it can be to choose a name for your child. I’ve been that man, spending long months trawling through various publications with my wife — titles such as Baby Names For Dummies, The Small Book Of Brilliant Baby Names and Cúchulainn, Sneachta and 500 Other Celtic Tiger Names For Inevitably Successful Boys.
It isn’t easy. Family members weigh in on all sides with opinions like swinging anvils. “Don’t you dare name him Pádraig; I knew a Pádraig in school who put a cat in a microwave. Psychopaths the lot of them.” You also become acutely aware that the name you pick will either be a gift for life or a horrendous burden forever. We’ve all heard about the Dick Weiners or the Moe Lesters.
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So, you begin to try to cover all the angles. Can it be shortened to anything bullies could use against them? Do the initials spell out anything unfortunate, such as IMF? You even begin to safeguard possible future careers. Is the name strong and noble, a name that would befit a president or even a pope? Will your daughter really thank you when she comes to realise that she was named after one of the Kardashians?
So, I think my parents did just fine, given the alternatives.
Things took a turn for the worse around fourth class, though. It was around this time that I became interested in books and creative writing and a very supportive teacher attempted to spur me on further by telling me about this up-and-coming young Irish author called Colm Tóibín. Ha! A man with a name very similar to my own, apart from one letter and a pair of rogue fadas. In fact, it was the first time I came across anyone with the a name so similar to mine.
“With a name like Colm Tobin, why not become a writer too?” went the teacher’s logic, half-jokingly I presume. Somehow the idea stuck and has haunted me ever since.
The confusion began in the early Noughties when I was invited to speak at a symposium on art and the Irish language in Gweedore, Co Donegal. I should have smelt a rat. Although I was doing something that could be described as artistic at the time (making obnoxiously weird electronic music, as it happens), I didn’t speak any Irish. I could barely spell symposium. I was on the dole, for God’s sake.
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Somehow though, it never struck me that the invitation might have been sent to me in error and I set about accepting the invite — borrowing a suit, darning some socks, learning some Irish etc. And off I went on the bus.
Ah, I didn’t really. As much as I’d love to tell you that I arrived in Donegal and pretended to be Colm Tóibín for the weekend, it didn’t quite work out that way. The organisers realised their mistake after a few days, but kindly invited me to showcase some of my obnoxiously weird music and to meet the man himself. It was a one-minute meeting at the opening of a painting exhibition. Bar having the same name, there wasn’t a whole lot to say. I don’t think I’ve stopped cringing since.
In the intervening years, I’ve gained a certain following on Twitter, and these little incidents have begun to accumulate. I routinely get congratulated when Colm Tóibín picks up another literary prize, sometimes sincerely, most often extremely sarcastically. And I heard tell of at least one well-known TV personality (not naming names) who quoted me by mistake in a speech to a secondary school.
And it’s not over yet. Last week, I somehow became the published author, Colm Tobin, with the release of my first book, Surviving Ireland. It’s a very silly spoof survival guide to modern Ireland and, eh, would probably be considered a bit of a departure for Mr Tóibín.
I’ll report back.
@colmtobin