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WHAT’S in a nickname? Although often used simply to distinguish between people, it is also for amusement, endearment, or even defamation.

When writing about Anglo Saxon times, chroniclers used nicknames to identify kings and rulers. Indeed, calling kings the first, the second, the third and so on didn’t really start until the 1300s.

Three 9th century Carolingian Emperors ruling separate parts of what is now modern France, were chronicled as Charles the Bald, Charles the Fat, and Charles the Simple. Charles the Fat and his brother Louis the German, were sons of Louis the Pious. And depending on the chronicler, Louis the Pious was also known as Louis the Fair and Louis the Debonair.

Sometimes nicknames can be misleading. Edward the Martyr, who was murdered by nobles near Corfe Castle in 978, is accurate enough.

But his younger brother Ethelred fared more poorly.

Chroniclers called him Ethelred the Unready. “Unready”, to us, implies incompetence, but the word in fact comes from the Old English word meaning “ill-advised”.

Ethelred came to the throne aged 10 and, although not such an unusual an age in those days to be crowned, he did have advisors. One was the Bishop of Winchester and another, Ethelred’s mum.

It was when Ethelred obstreperously sent his mum packing and brought in his own counsellors that, gratifyingly for under-valued mums everywhere, things began to go wrong.

The subsequent Viking attacks led to a huge English defeat. Young Ethelred was the victim of poor advice, but the mistranslation implying his military ineptitude has stuck.

Back in my home town decades ago, we made copious use of nicknames.

On account of his Saturday night job at the takeaway van, one Steve was known as Steve Hotdog.

Another, because of his constant scrounging of cigarettes to meet his 20-a-day habit, as Steve Ashtray. A third, who drove a chugging, broken down old car, was Steve Banger.

Two Daves were known respectively as Dave Long Hair – my best friend’s crush in her late teens – and Dave Dogend, who smoked right down to the burning butt end of his cigarettes. And there was also Phil Wooden Leg.

Phil Wooden Leg had lost the lower part of his leg in a car accident. The few thousand pounds he received in compensation were used mainly for getting in the drinks at the pub and parties. He was understandably popular.

His prosthetic leg wasn’t actually wooden. Not like those given to maimed soldiers two generations earlier. But its uselessness meant it may as well have been. Made from a hard plastic, strapped crudely to his knee joint, it afforded little manoeuvre. In the pub he generally took it off, placed it beside him, and rested the remaining limb on a stool.

On account of the waist-length strands of his fair hair, he was also named Phil Spaghetti.

His third epithet was Phil the Revolutionary because he liked to lead a cheery, last orders rendition of the song Something in the Air, by Thunderclap Newman.

Moving up through time and space, three local pub habitués I got to know when I lived in Hampstead were Tight Brian, Big Brian and Flying Brian.

The first always vanished to the Men’s when it was his turn for a round, the second was over six foot. The third mystified me for a while. I harboured romantic notions he was some sort of flighty dreamer, or perhaps a version of the 12th century saint Christina the Levitator.

The truth was more prosaic. The soubriquet came from his being quarrelsome enough to be frequently sent flying through the pub doors.

In his case, the nickname was misleading. Yet others I have known have been absolutely literal.

A neighbour called The Saucepan Woman always went shopping with a large pan on her head.

Another, a gentle, artistic man with a pale red beard to his waist and hair to match, both softly wayward enough to hint at baby shampoo, was Hairy Richard.

Then there is the self-published, local novelist writing under the nom de plume Jonathan Le Grey. His soubriquet Laughing Peter reflects an attitude to life much like the Clown’s in Twelfth Night. A Shakespeare clown does not have a red nose but is usually just a simple man proffering wisdom. The Twelfth Night clown advocates living in the moment. What is love? he sings, ’tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter. In our local, the crowds of women consistently gathered around Laughing Peter are perhaps testament to the success of the light-hearted approach. And indeed, even the most pressing personal issues seem solved by the charm of his mirth.

The only possible injustices of a nickname are it either defines someone by a single characteristic or else pre-determines a view on them. Perhaps not too bad when Lionheart, Conqueror, or even Confessor. But Ashtray, Dogend, and Unready have no such lure.