Channelling the Nigel vibe

It started a decade ago with the kind of confused conversation that Nigels specialise in. Nigel Smith, landlord of the Fleece Inn at Bretforton in Worcestershire, met a stranger at an asparagus-related event who said “Nigel” to him.

“Yes, hello, that’s me,” said Nigel.

“No I’m Nigel,” said the second Nigel. They bonded over this shared lifelong affliction and a seed was sown that bore fruit in the first Nigel Night at the Fleece Inn in 2019, followed by a repeat performance in 2022 and again last Saturday.

There aren’t many of us about you see, hence the discombobulation when one Nigel blunders into another. In fact according to data from the Office for National Statistics we are “critically endangered” – in 2020, no Nigels were born and there were just five in 2023. This puts us on a par with the black rhino but at least no one is harvesting our fingernails and flogging them as aphrodisiacs (yet).

But what if we all got together, made a feast of the famine? Being an enterprising landlord, Nigel spotted an opportunity. “If you are running a pub in today’s environment, you’ve got to think outside the box,” he told me at the latest gathering.

The notional idea behind this year’s Nigel Night was to beat the world-record-breaking number of Nigels gathered in one place – 434 – that was set on Nigel Night in 2019 and in the process raise some money for the British Heart Foundation. There was a marquee with live music, Mad Nigel ale on draught, badges for the attendees (“Nigel” for Nigels, “Not Nigel” for partners and friends) and plenty of Nigel-themed T-shirts: “It’s a Nigel thing – you wouldn’t understand”, “Just a girl who loves Nigel” and, not beating about the bush, “NIGEL”.

I’m not sure what I had been expecting – something perhaps like a scaled-up support group. For when I was growing up the name was certainly tainted with naffness and we suffered as a result. Nigels were assumed to be posh, or worse – faux posh, effete, and/or dimwitted, dull middle-management material “with a future in British Steel” (as foretold in XTC’s excruciating 1979 anthem to Nigelness, Making Plans for Nigel. Everyone at the gathering agreed that we could have done without the song – written by a Colin incidentally. Cheek).

But as the numbers swelled to several hundred, Nigel Night took on the surreal air of a conceptual art happening, suffused with sunniness and goodwill. We are supposed to be a nation full of antagonism and gloom at present but if this Nigel-defined demographic is anything to go by, there is hope for us.

Peak Nigel was apparently in 1963 when more than 5,000 sets of parents saw fit to saddle their babies with a name that is said to derive from either Gaelic, meaning “passionate” (eh?), or the Latin for “dark”. In general most Nigels alive today were born five years or so either side of that date and this was reflected in the age of most of the attending Nigels, including this one.

We were council gardeners and entrepreneurs, florists and computer games programmers, and came from as far as New Orleans and as near as Bromsgrove. Nigel from Vancouver Island had lived his entire 51 years without meeting another Nigel until today and seemed to be reeling from the sudden surfeit. “It’s kind of neat,” he said, explaining that he was so-called because his Dutch parents had once met a likeable Nigel in Jamaica.

Thames Ditton Nigel, 67, wearing fabulous teddy boy clobber, said he received the Nigel treatment because “my mum said it’ll sound so nice if you’re knighted”. But as his Not Nigel pointed out: “You don’t get to be leader of a motorcycle gang if you’re called Nigel.” Which is why, when Nigel arrived at oh-so-cool art college, he pretended his name was Johnny.

For Nigel from Cheltenham, a youthful 42, the name was just part of a portfolio of characteristics that marked him out. “I’m short, ginger, left-handed, dyslexic, so the name just got lost in the mix,” he said stoically. Dudley Nigel admitted he’d been teased over his name as a kid but “I was the youngest of six lads so I grew up a bit hard, I can take it!”

I had expected there to be an elephant in the marquee wearing mustard-coloured corduroys and puffing on a fag. But Farage’s name came up less than (former Formula 1 champion) Mansell’s. One Nigel told me that “what Farage has done so far is impressive and he’s getting the main parties to rethink their strategies”. Another dismissed him as “the angry voice of the man in the pub”, adding: “That’s where he should stay.”

Whatever our political views almost everyone wished to park them for the day. Instead we sang along to Wild Rover (“And it’s no, nay, NIGEL…”) and luxuriated in the undeniably strange mood of goodwill that developed. And the Not Nigels deserve a big shout out for that. For behind almost every Nigel there will be someone who understands us and our unique predicament.

In the case of 56-year-old Nigel from Bristol, a shift supervisor at Bristol Airport, it is Lisa. “When I was introduced to him,” she said, “I thought, ‘I’ve never met a Nigel before. That’s a funny name.’ But you know what? We’ve been together 20 years now and I absolutely love the name. I’ve not met a really unkind Nigel.”

“You haven’t met that many,” Nigel pointed out in a very Nigel sort of way. But Lisa would not be deterred. “They all have a sort of tolerance,” she went on. Nigel was blushing now. “And a quietness.” That shut him up completely.

In the end the total number of Nigels present fell short of the 2019 record but we managed just over 380 – and failing valiantly is surely a Nigel thing. And so we melted back into the wilderness in a chorus of affability. “Night Nigel.” “Take care Nigel.” We’re a dwindling band but we’ll be back in 2028, amid the encircling gloom.