I was bred and born at a time when traditional names ruled in the heart of Norfolk. None of this flouncing down celebrity tracks littered with outrageous attempts to see who can rate daftest when it comes to being cruel to innocent children.

With 10 of them to furnish  two comfortable tags apiece, my parents did remarkably well to avoid the odd Blossom, Rainbow, Little Pixie, Ration Book Buddy, Accumulator Al or Nit Nurse Delight. We showed our gratitude by all accepting homely nicknames, some of which remain in cheerful circulation to this day.

We had our proper Christian names for use on formal occasions, like answering the classroom register call or being invited to stand and deliver a recitation or solo song at the Sunday school anniversary. The bulk of family and social deliberations carried a far more casual edge.

Freddy Fish was the sobriquet I kept under my cap on arriving at grammar school in 1955 – but a surname with obvious nautical connotations turned out to be the Swaffham equivalent of walking the plank.

I  collected a few choice reminders during my recent return to the town and pay homage to my old seat of learning as part of 80th birthday celebrations.

The years rolled away as an old classroom acquaintance recalled how the French master boomed out “Capitaine!” to draw attention to someone who didn’t  know a soupcon from a cedilla. My embarrassment soon became acute.

Our chemistry teacher picked up the theme and dubbed me “Cabin Boy”, a position befitting a pupil who didn’t known his acid from his alkaline. I fared no better in the woodwork room where the legendary Harry Carter amused himself and frightened the others by shouting out “Scupper!” whenever my chisel slipped and a dovetail fanned into disaster.

Yes, I suffered at the hands of my masters, even though a famous magazine had been named after me. Perhaps if I’d been Keith Hotspur, with big brother Harry in the Upper Sixth, they’d have shown more respect. Keith Magnet might have attracted less frivolity from those within my compass. Keith Wizard could have turned all detractors inside out.

My fellow pupils were more sympathetic, not least  when it came to picking sides for impromptu Test Matches on the paddock . ”Let’s have our Skipper batting last and fielding in front of the biology lab. Ho-ho-ho!”. Old joke but a fresh sense of belonging each time I wasn’t left to act as wastepaper basket at the other end. Come to think of it, that must have been around the time when “Rubbish Skip” jibes started.

Teasing turned more sophisticated as years rolled by. “Would you really be prepared to go down with your ship?” rubbed shoulders with “I bet you skip the small print.” I took it all in my stride I even joined in when a careers adviser interrupted my fifth-form meanderings to ask for my name. I replied, “Skipper, sir. And.no. I don’t want to join the Navy!”

Then came cruel twists to send me sobbing to my pillow. No wonder I remain so suspicious about the power of television.

There was a chimp called Skipper in, I think, a cultural American import called Beverley Hillbillies. There was a blasted bush kangaroo christened Skippy in one of those memorable Australian offerings where animals look far more at home in front of the cameras than the humans.

Skippy had his own catchy theme song which haunted me in the Norfolk outback for too long. I often thought of ending it all in the nearest billabong.

Several times during the 1980s I had to deny being related to the micro-moth of Dersingham Bog. Not easy when you’re on the smallish side and determined to cause a flutter about “progress” in Norfolk.

Someone thoughtfully sent me a cutting from a reputable nature magazine dealing with moth-like butterflies called Skippers. Open grasslands are their strongholds. There’s a large Skipper, a small Skipper, the Essex Skipper – and everyone’s favourite on the wing in June, the Dingy Skipper.

Drab, dull-coloured, dirty-looking … hardly a patch on that lovable little bouncing creature from the bush or a mischievous chimp with an eye on ratings both sides of the Atlantic.

At least I found a grain of solace in a couple of cards in the pile sent for my milestone birthday. Friends of a similar vintage had the good grace to address, them to Freddy Fish, now floundering gently in Crabland waters a long way from boyhood  village pastures.

Perhaps if I set sail when the weather warms up, some bright spark will dub me Dinghy Skipper...