Spam names

( Written 2^nd December 2006. Several friends were discussing the fatuous names that appear at the end of spam emails, and I was feeling very silly.)

Sue wrote:

> "Sam Wilkins" I can believe in

And so you should. One of the first of the gentleman farmers, he invented the Raddling Nancy, which replaced hand-raddlers within a couple of years. Thrown out of work, and with no opportunity for retraining, the raddlers mainly became itinerant beggars, eking out a poor living in the "raddler's ghettos" that quickly sprang up around major towns. If you're very lucky, you may find someone who still sings the old song "I am a raddling gypsy-oh", the first verse of which goes:

I am a raddling gypsy-oh
That you may oft have seen
Thrown off my land by Wilkins
And his God-damned machine
I've raddled since I were a lad
Thought I'd raddle till I was old
Now I pray you, stop and listen
Till my raddling tale's been told.

> but "Antinanco Burwell" and "Hermogenes Hull" show a
> sort of wonderful poetry, a kind of "you couldn't make it up" freshness
> that real people would just never think of.

I'm sorry? Antinanco Burwell (1554-1616?), professor of Alchemy at Oxford University, author of such erudite tomes as "Whatt Nott To Do With Elements, A Prakticall Guide For Ye Curious" and "Whenne Ye Roofe Came Off - Things I Ought To Have Put In Ye First Booke". He was responsible for building the Alchemists Hall that can be found off the Cowley Road, a replacement for the first Hall, which one of his experiments melted. His death has always been something of a mystery, as recorded in the college records at the time: "It being a little after eleven of the clock, a loud "pop" was heard from Master Burwell's rooms, also screams and a smell of daffodils. On entering the room, nought could be seen of Master Burwell, save his shoes, from which smoke arose. With the toes all curled up, too." Burwell's own notes of the final experiment are preserved in the Bodleian Library, from which the following is extracted - "An experiment to examine the properties of saltpetre and spirits of nitre. In this, I am assisted by those stout gentlemen, Merrick and McCulloch. The ingredients are mixed together, and I send Master Merrick to bring Mistress Fluffy, a cat, in order to determine whether noxious vapours have been emitted. Meantimes, Master McCulloch prevails upon me for a spark to ignite his tobacco. Having recently concluded my work with sulphur, I show him how to conjure flame from dry powder..." The notes end at that point.

Hermogenes Hull (1859 - 1923) is less widely known. Son of an Athenian barmaid and a Welsh whaler who spent his life pursuing the tiny Mediterranean whale (also author of autobiography, "It's Not A Bloody Dolphin!"), Hermogenes grew up as any normal lad did. Well, as any normal lad with a deranged father and a mother who was behind a bar until 4 a.m. every night did, anyway. On leaving school, though, Hermogenes determined to visit the land of his father, and opened the first Greek restaurant in Betwys-y-Coed. The opening night, on the 17th August 1879, featured kebabs, retsina and Hermogenes in full Greek costume (white skirt, white stockings, red slippers with bobbles on them), smashing plates with a will.

Barely escaping with his life, he spent several years working on the docks of Tiger Bay, seeking a post as Whaling Officer on the ships that sailed from that port and being laughed at. Yet Hermogenes nursed a dream... and in 1891, he returned to Greece and opened the first Welsh restaurant in Athens. The first night featured lavabread, cockles, the finest Gower claret and a male voice choir.

Barely escaping with his life, Hermogenes took refuge in Albania, opened a coaching inn and prospered. He is chiefly remembered these days from diaries of those who took the Grand Tour and were lucky enough to stay at the inn on one of his "special" nights, when he would serve dolphin sandwiches and dance to the music of the bouzouki, smashing plates on his miner's helmet.

> I'm rather fond of Arnulfo
> Hatcher at the moment - I see him as a sort of Art Nouveau dilettante
> footnote in the biographies of minor members of Aubrey Beasley's circle.

Oh, very close! In fact, Arnulfo Hatcher was the alias of Terence Drip, who hung out with the arty crowd in the early 60's. With his swarthy features and early adoption of the Zapata moustache, he easily passed for the obscure Spanish performance artist he claimed to be. (In fact, the nearest he got to any kind of art was three attendances at the life drawing classes at Lewisham Poly, after which he was ejected for dribbling on the model.)

A modest - some say perfunctory - knowledge of art, and a lucky encounter with a pissed-up David Bailey and Jean Shrimpton led to Hatcher/Drip being lionised by the experimental artists of pre-swinging London. David Hockney painted him, Bridget Jones washed the paint off him. Sarah Miles, in her memoir "Crouch End Mornings - A Diary Of Forgotten Wonders" simply refers to him as "the Spanish gentleman".

At a party in 1963, and challenged to define his influences by Peter Blake, Arnulfo claimed inspiration from "Er, art-o nueve-o". On being informed that this was Spanish for "the art of nine", Hatcher glimpsed his glittering future... "I see 'nine' in everything?..." he ventured. Blake stepped back, dazzled by his brilliance. Partygoers gasped. Mary Quant fainted dead away. And a young Japanese artist took notes... and, years later, persuaded John Lennon to say "Number nine" over and over again in tribute to the genius of Arnulfo Hatcher.

Jimi Hendrix recorded "If Six Were Nine" after seeing Hatchers' installation at the Hayward Gallery, "Six Naked Women With 9 Written On Them" executed in felt tip pen and dribble. Pink Floyd used Arnulfo's "scribbled nines" slideshow as a backdrop to their 1968 college tour. In 1972, an original Hatcher "Nine" painting in acrylic sold for £35,000. Today, it's conservatively valued at £2m.

Despite his early success, and later wealth, Arnulfo Hatcher has remained true to his performance artist origins. For the last twenty years, he's been engaged on his massive project, "Artist being waited on by naked women with nine written on them in paint, or biro if the artist forgets to go to Homebase".

Hope this is of some assistance, Sue!

Now, Sophie asked:

> Actually, since you know so much about these chaps, could you tell me
> anything about one Brigham Salinas, who sent me an e-mail about pain
> relievers this afternoon?

As a matter of fact, I can. Glad to hear the old chap is still around, to be honest. Carys, in a later post, suspected that he was a snake-oil salesman, and indeed, that was his profession for many years. However, fashions change, and the public tired of oiling snakes - just one more folk tradition that has gone by the way.

Seeking to take his once thriving, now terminal oil business to new markets, Brigham was transfixed when reading the diaries of Dr Livingstone, noting the almost daily entries along the lines of "Tripped over a snake...", "On arising, found a snake in my boot...", "Snake for dinner again..." and "My birthday. The chief of the Ngobo tribe arrives with a present. Only another bloody snake, does the idiot think I have some kind of fetish?" Salinas booked passage to Darkest Africa that very day, landing in Equatorial Guinea some three weeks later, and strode into the jungle with his cans of oil.

He had little success persuading the tribesmen he met that "An oiled snake is a happy snake!" As most of them pointed out, using crude gesticulations (some drew pictures), the average African cares little for the comfort and wellbeing of snakes. Broke, exhausted, and frustrated beyond reason, Brigham determined to amaze the natives of the next village he came to with a demonstration. Greeting one and all with "Gdanga nkosi tuck-tuck, hbili dong" ("I sell oil for snakes, good day to you") the phrase he'd had translated by a dockworker on his arrival, he walked into the centre of the clearing, followed by a fascinated group.

(Scholars may note that the literal translation of "Gdanga nkosi tuck-tuck, hbili dong" is actually "I am a daft Englishman, but bear with me because I will do something stupid real soon", proving that dock workers in Equatorial Guinea have a sense of humour, too.)

Grabbing the nearest snake, Brigham oiled it, and held it aloft as the tribesmen gasped. As well they might, having never in their lives seen a sunburned, raving European deliberately pick up one of the most venomous snakes in all Africa, then enrage it by pouring a can of recycled engine oil along its length. The snake, considering all the possibilities open to it, bit him smartly on the leg.

Tribal knowledge saved the day. As Brigham's teeth began to close in the terrible rictus of death, someone shoved a stout stick between them. They opened the wound and sucked the poison out, as Brigham writhed in awful agony. Then they bound the cut leg with the leaves of a nearby boabab tree... and as they did that, it seemed to Brigham that all pain left his body. He'd discovered a miracle pain suppressant!

I'm so pleased to hear that he's still flogging the old boabab plasters, liniment, pills and bath salts. For goodness' sake, don't buy any, though, because they have no effect. Sooner or later, he's bound to find out that the stick his teeth clamped around was cut from a bush that secretes a natural and powerful analgesic, now patented and synthesised by Pfizer.

Should you reply to his email, though, do give the old boy my best regards.