Will Michael go the way of Percival and Lancelot?

I’ve always rather liked my name, but becoming a father, and therefore being alerted to the names of today’s children, I cannot help but notice how unpopular it has become. Among the throng of Sams, Joes, Bens and even Gandalfs there is scarcely a Michael to be seen. Indeed I do not know of a single Michael younger than me (and I’m 40 in just nine months’ time). For Michaels everywhere, not just a chapter in our tale is closing, but our story is drawing to an end. Like The Last of the Mohicans, a few of us may be left still in years hence bearing the ancient mark of our kind, but it won’t be long before all that is left are distant echoes.

The prominence of a clutch of current Michaels (Grade, Howard, Portillo, Barrymore) gives an illusory impression both of our numbers and our vigour. For whatever reason (and, looking at those names, some may suggest themselves), there is no appetite to christen any of the next generation with the name once enjoyed by Faraday, Heseltine and Parkinson.

Growing up, I always thought my father’s name was rather quaintly evocative of the past. He is an Ernest, son of another Ernest, and that name was once a Victorian standard which survived well into the 20th century (through the comedian Ernie Wise and the Conservative Cabinet minister Ernest Marples). But even as I was growing up, it was becoming increasingly rare and I know of no one under 60 who still rejoices in the name which will probably survive only in the work of Oscar Wilde.

There are other names which also, like the Tyrannosaurus rex, once recently dominated but which now seem positively Jurassic. Norman stands out. Just 20 years ago the Tebbits and Fowlers (not to mention the great Norman Wisdom) stood testimony to the popularity of the name. But now — nothing, save the faint sense of another, distant time. The Norman era is ancient history.

And so it seems to be proving for the Age of Michaels. Michael Grade’s CV, as outlined in yesterday’s Times, had more than a whiff of exotica about it. Originally Winogradski, he was, we reported, “born into a family of impresarios”. How many of us can boast that distinction? How many of us even know a single impresario, never mind being related to a whole family of them? But exotic as that connection is, soon the most outré aspect of the Grade CV may be the ITV chairman’s first name.

In so far as I’ve dwelt on my name, over the years I’ve always been rather cheered by its connections. A straightforward biblical choice, popular in Ireland, favoured by lots of Jewish mothers, broadly classless and easily spelt (though you’d be surprised how many people mix up the A and E).

But I realise that the name, which most people now associate with Cabinet ministers from John Major’s Government, and independent television’s gallery of fading light-entertainment stars, seems more than just a little passé. Speaking as someone who still has a soft spot, in defiance of the majority, for members of the Major administration and ITV’s historic entertainment output, I am doubly saddened that Britain is now not just tough on Michaels but also tough on the causes of Michaels.

I am more than happy to jog along, in whatever years that are left to me, with a name of increasing rarity. I am conscious that in years to come my moniker may provoke a stifled laugh much as Percival or Lancelot will have done, a monument to my parents’ apparent lack of foresight in not giving me a suitably future-oriented name. But I will, I hope, never have cause to complain about their choice. Because I am well aware of what the alternative would have been.

My mother had originally hoped to give me, as a Christian name, the maiden name of my great grandmother. And while it is a Scottish surname of great distinction, which has also served as a handsome first name for some great men, I fear it might not have been quite so handy a title as Michael.

It is only by chance that I escaped being christened Melvin. And fond as I am of ITV’s galaxy of stars, you can take some things too far.

Drowning in decadence

My wife and I were invited to a wonderful party on Saturday, but our anticipation was tinged with fear. The dress code was “agent provocateur” and our host was clearly hoping for louche and rakish display. When I’m asked to dress thus, I’m more inclined to go for the Harry Lime look than the Chippendales.

Most of the guests were far less inhibited, and we found ourselves sandwiched between some breathtaking ladies in amazing lace and wire constructions and a fortysomething (male) stockbroker in disco gear. He was wonderful company and told me that he had recently celebrated his civil partnership with a ceremony in the City. He’d rung up the band of the Blues and Royals to ask if they might play. At first, he got rather a derisive snort from the officer in charge: “Civil partnership in the City? I’m afraid we don’t do business functions sir; this is the Army.”

My acquaintance explained that it wasn’t that sort of partnership. He was simply tying the knot with his boyfriend. “Oh my dear chap,” said the officer, “we’d be delighted.”

Of good and evil

Thanks to those who wrote in response to my laboured attempt to find allegories in The Lord of The Rings. Many of you said that Tolkien hated allegory and was far too sophisticated to indulge in a device so crude as to invite comparisons between Mordor and Nazi Germany. But I still cling to the view that the titanic struggle between good and evil that he depicts cannot but have been influenced by the conflicts he lived through — and also by the faith he clung to. While my reading may be reductive, Tolkien’s achievement is still, I think, a commentary on the trials of our last, dark century.

Michael Gove is Conservative MP for Surrey Heath