A boy called Lenin

Lenin sat on his bed and cursed, yes that was his real name, Lenin Vladimir Illyich Jones. His mother and father had been staunch communists and had named their beloved son after the beloved leader. That might have been okay if he was to grow up in Communist Russia but growing up in the Newport South Wales in the 1970s - it was murder.

He was unsurprisingly the only Lenin in his school, and probably in the whole of south Wales. He’d heard of a few Vladimirs and one or two Leons that had also been named after Russian revolutionaries and of course there were a few Che’s and Fidels but he was the only Lenin.

For a while he’d tried to convince people it was spelt Lennon and he was named after a Beatle but they were having none of it.

He was teased remorselessly and called a list of names, Red, Grad, Stalin, Commie, Marx etc etc. People drew beards on his school photo and even the bullies seemed to know their political theory shouting all property is theft as they stole his bag and dinner money.

He’d thought about changing it by deed poll but to what? The idea of choosing your own name scared him. Could he be a John or Dave after being Lenin for 18 years? But he hated it and now he was cursing it because it seems University admissions officers hated it too.

Lenin was a bright lad, doing well in school, on course for good grades but whereas his friends were getting accepted into Uni provided they passed their A-Levels, Lenin was receiving rejection after rejection.

He cursed his hippy parents, ha ha ha call our son Lenin, and bugger the consequences. They’d told him they were sure the revolution was on its way and then he would be a hero. He told them if they ever told him off for taking drugs, they’d be hypocrites.

It was week three of his fresher’s year. After getting straight A’s in his exams the universities had come back to him. Now they were begging for him to choose their place, suddenly Lenin was popular. And in Uni having a strange name was not so unique. He already met a Mahatma and a Kubla. People were amused by it but there was not the teasing that he’d endured in school. He was sitting in the common room with some of his friends when a girl came in who made the conversation stop. She was as beautiful as she was tall and by crickey she was tall.

There were a few nudges and sniggers but then that stopped when she came in their direction.

‘Who is the man they call Lenin?’

Lenin’s friends pointed at him while he nervously put his hand up.

‘My name is Nadezhda and I am Russian.’

Man was she Russian alright, she was Russian all the way up and all the way back down again and that was a long way.

‘You can call me Nadia’ Lenin was pleased about that, he didn’t think he’d ever be able to pronounce his name and  he was just pleased he could call her anything.

‘I want to sleep with you.’ She was as bold as brass.

‘Um Okay.’ Lenin said as tentative as tin.

‘Good let’s go.’ She said.

Lenin sat up in bed smoking one of Nadia’s cigarettes, still not quite believing what had happened. The sex had been amazing and this cigarette was stronger than anything he’d smoked before.

‘You should be proud of a name like Lenin.’ she said. ‘He was a great man, you are a great man. Now go, I must write to my father to tell him I have slept with Lenin.’