YOUR image is often defined by the best-known person with your surname. See Obama and you think Barack; Cruise and you think Tom; Miliband and you think, er, let me think . . . oh yeah, David.
Now, to his delight, a certain island councillor has found out his surname is not as rare as he once thought it was.
While the name Manford has been known in island local-government circles for many years, now another young buck has come up to take forward the name of the clan.
Donald of that ilk is the councillor on Barra, of course. As chairman of the transportation committee, the Manford patronymic is synonymous with all ferry, road and aviation matters. So busy is the crofter-fisher with all these transport affairs he has little time to keep up with who’s who in the world of stand-up comedy or TV entertainment, for example.
So there was Donald, a couple of months ago, wandering down the high street of a Scottish town when he noticed a newspaper billboard.
“Manford in sex text shame,” it roared.
A shiver coursed through the beard of the man from Northbay. Quickly thrusting his hand into his pocket, he checked his phone. What was all this about? He had only recently worked out how to make phone calls with his new-fangled Orange thingummybob, never mind send texts.
Crofters’ hands are far too big, anyway, for tiny keypads to punch out ROTFL when he is talking about some of the speeches by certain Lewis councillors. And he could never be bothered when they send back messages saying he is a SOAB. Donald doesn’t have a clue what that means. And neither do I.
Had he been so unwell he’d texted his colleague, Annie Macdonald, and forgotten? If so, what had he texted? Oh no.
What was in his sent queue? No, nothing much. Just more stuff raging about Scottish Natural Heritage’s ludicrous planned no-fishing zone round Barra. Couldn’t see anything dodgy there. No, hadn’t even misspelt that bit about cockles and mussels.
As the nervous tremors rose, he had to phone a colleague. But who? Must have been Philip McLean; after all, there aren’t many members who are switched on enough to know what happens in the real world outside the White House. The shock melted away as Donald learned the yarn was actually about comedian Jason Manford, of The One Show.
Donald had no idea what was going on as he had never come across the nimble-fingered comic.
“You know, The One Show is one show I don’t watch,” he said, while admitting he still shivers when he ponders what the locals thought when they saw that headline on Barra.
Now that Jason has taken the rap, Donald can venture out of doors again. Anyway, others from the island are now becoming superstars in the media. After just two episodes, Island Parish (Fridays on BBC2) is making real TV stars of the priests down there.
Seeing Father Calum McLellan, who helpfully warned Sophie, the Countess of Wessex, at the opening of the Eriskay causeway that there were newspaper people all the way from the Isle of Lewis around and she should have nothing to do with any of them, was a joy to watch as he nipped out for a fly fag.
He was absolutely right to warn her about that Donnie Macinnes fellow, though.
In another distant holiday destination, there has been mounting tension and outrage. No, not just Andy Murray’s trouncing yesterday in Australia by Novak Djokovic.
There is continuing unrest in Egypt, an unlikely but popular holiday hotspot for Outer Hebrideans recently. Hosni Mubarak’s reign is finally crashing to an end.
Just why places like Cairo are proving so popular to some islanders is still a mystery to me. A couple from Stornoway were there a few months ago and they enjoyed it tremendously – as far as countries with crippled economies run by tinpot dictators go.
The husband, let’s just call him Malcolm, did tell me there were one or two cringeworthy moments during their break. His wife’s fault, you see. Nothing to do with him, he insists. Best not name her, then.
On the Friday, they heard an almighty racket outside the hotel. It was a bit like the vuvuzelas at the World Cup, he told me.
It went on and on. Mrs Malcolm was not happy. Considering how much they forked out for their hol, she wanted peace and quiet.
She caused a stooshie, ordering the manager to get the rowdy lot outside to pipe down.
“Pipe down? What does madam mean?” asked the manager. “That is the call to prayer to all believers.”
Oops. Trying to explain the mistake to an irate manager with an increasingly-bristling beard that no such summons was necessary at the Free Church in Kenneth Street wasn’t easy for Malcolm. Ushering his missus away, he tried to explain that the church bells atop the High Church were the nearest things Stornoway had to a call to prayer.
“No sir, we have no minarets where I come from. Just bells, No, not balls. Bells. You know, ding-dong. No, not Leslie Phillips. Is he a minister? It’s Willie Black’s church on Matheson Road. You know? Every Sunday morning. Ding-dong.”
It didn’t help. For the rest of the holiday, Mr and Mrs Malcolm were eyed as suspiciously as the rest of us look at the Free Church (Continuing).
And Mrs Malcolm did little better with asking for directions one lunchtime.
She had meant to ask where was the delicatessen. But the writing in the English-to-Arabic phrasebook was tiny. She got it a bit wrong. She just about caused an international incident when she tried to make herself heard over the traffic by shouting not where is the delicatessen but: “Where is the democracy?”
That was a very good question. But maybe the diplomatic corps are not quite ready for Mrs Malcolm just yet.
