Being manacled to my desk, nine to five, I haven’t been able to pick up a copy of the Independent’s new mini-paper, i. I do already have a big problem with it though. That name. In the age of Google, calling something by a single letter is just a pain in the bum. How are you meant to search for it? And how are you meant to refer to it? It disappears into a sentence and then jumps out when you least expect it, to ruin your syntax. It’s already made respected fake-British actress Gillian Anderson sound like a split-personality village idiot:
“The Independent cares about the things I care about, and so does i.”
It reminds me a little of a band that came and went rather swiftly a few years ago, who chose to call themselves “Various”. I’m sure that was very post-modern and ooh-clever for about five minutes, but seriously, how did they expect anyone to find them on Google or Amazon or iTunes? The simple matter of allowing people to communicate your name has to be taken seriously. I still don’t know if the band Live are pronounced “Live” or “Live”. It amazes me that !!! still exist.
(And yes, I realise I’m probably not the best person to be criticising others about names. Naming your blog after an obscure line of dialogue from a trashy film isn’t exactly a brilliant plan for world domination either.)
I have a more serious complaint about “i” though – one regarding my mental health. This morning my brain took a peculiar route from i to Independent to Indy to Indiana Jones to Dr Henry Jones Jnr to Dr Henry Jones Snr … and now the only thing I can hear in my head is Sean Connery saying “Junior!” over and over.
So there you go. Quirkily-monikered newspapers cause surreal earworms. Fact.