Why the Famous Five Will Eventually Prevent Me From Being Stabbed in the Face

As a child, I was forced to endure a relentless stream of Enid Blyton novels from my parents. I’m sure it at least played a minor role in my eventual homo-ization.

Of course, most of the books I read were the painfully twee Famous Five series. If you’ve read these books, you’ll know there is a quasi-lesbian character named Georgina, who only answers to the name George.

One incident in one of the books has stuck in my mind to my adult life. In yet another kidnapping (they endured these as often as someone sneezed, it seems) George was forced to send a hostage message back to her friends. In a cunning move, she referred to herself as “Georgina” – so the others instantly knew something was wrong (either she had a knife to her neck, or was embarking on a sexual identity crisis). They saved the day, found the gold, got hammered and had an orgy while their dog looked away in shame (every book ended that way, you see).

That method of referring to your name incorrectly at a time of danger has stuck with me. Adam is now forced to listen to my persistent requests that if I’m ever forced to make a phone call at gun point (IT COULD HAPPEN) he’ll know something is wrong because I’ll refer to myself using my middle name.

Not sure what he’d do if I had to activate this protection – hopefully, come and save me; although more likely he’ll scratch his head thinking I’m taking the piss and go to the gym. Occasionally I test him and loudly mention my middle name fourteen times on a phone call, and he just thinks I’m drunk and am obsessed with some new metal singer to the point where I can’t stop repeating his name.

It’s kind of like a safety word, but for real life. I’m not entirely sure when I’d need to use my middle-name-safety mechanism, but you can’t be too safe. Christmas sales are about to hit full swing and that shit gets ugly.

This verbal safety net has always seemed incredibly sensible to me, although whenever I attempt to explain it to anyone I come off sounding like a hand-wringing paranoid twat (which I possibly am). One day, with any luck, I’ll be held hostage at gunpoint and be vindicated completely, you doubters.

Tagged as: Adam, Pain, Paranoia