I’ve never much liked my name, so I’m quite enjoying the new way it’s delivered over here. When I say ‘Je m’appelle Jeremy‘, I have to pronounce the name part differently to how I’d say it in England because otherwise people genuinely don’t understand. Even in Starbucks where they deliberately talk back to you in English in order to embarrass you (bloody globalisation!)
It’s now with a soft ‘J’, the accent has moved to the second syllable and you have the option of replacing the ‘rrrrrr‘ sound with some rolling phlegm if you’re feeling confident. I’m telling you, it’s freeing and subversive pronouncing the title you’ve been saddled with your whole life in a new and unexpected way. You don’t believe me do you? You think I’m being a ponce. Well fuck you, I’m going to get Joey Barton to kick your head in.
During the unenlightened 80’s, my brother the playground cigarette merchant and dinner money thief, had a French exchange student come to stay in Cornwall. On his first day in the country mon frère – nicknamed Maula – informed le petit garcon Olivier (like Martinez or Giroud) he would no longer answer to the effeminate sounding moniker but would instead revert to the starchier protestant interpretation of said name, Oliver (like Reed or Cromwell). I’m not sure if Olivier had the best time in Cornland or not, but rather magnanimously he allowed my bro to be called Matthew when he visited France. Or maybe he just didn’t want to be sat on.
Matt is driving my stuff over in a week or so and it’ll be the first time he’s been in France since school. He really is a big fucker these days, but I’m confident he’s not going to start renaming anyone when he gets here this time.