Surprise is not my middle name. Danger is not my middle name. The middle name, as assigned at birth was Richard, which is my dad’s legal name, but he never really liked that name, and never uses it outside of legal documents. For his whole adult life he’s always gone by his middle name, Angus, largely in honour of his really cool Uncle Angus (deceased), who I’ve seen in pictures and who gives the impression of being someone cool, charismatic and remarkable. My dad gave my brother Tim the name Angus as a middle-name, and then when I came along he’d already used ‘Angus’, and gave me his other available name, Richard, to the satisfaction of neither of us. In fairness, if I’d been Benjamin *Angus* Goudie my initals would have been BAG, so maybe it’s for the best. Nobody in the family wound up with my mum’s middle-name, Jane, which feels sadly underutilised. When I see my paternal uncles, aunts and cousins, they always call my dad Richard, and I always feel an urge to rebuke them. Take that bleeding name out of your mouth, madam! I don’t think it can quite be counted as a deadname, but I don’t care for it. Naturally, when I changed my name by deed poll, I had my Richard removed. It felt an important gesture.

The replacement I came to is a far more pleasing one in every way. It’s Helga. I mulled and pondered a range of names, and even considered moving Ben to be my middle name with something more apposite out front. Helga Benjamin Swithen had a nice ring, though I still wanted to include my former surname somewhere along the way.

So why ‘Helga’? For a few reasons! Firstly, what a great name. No-one seems to quite agree with me on this, but I think it suits me wonderfully. There are a few Helgas in pop culture, but there isn’t one single Helga to set people’s expectations. It’s not like Kylie or Brunhilde. Secondly, I don’t know any Helgas in real life. One of the names I was nearly given as a child, which would have suited me pretty well, is Charlotte, but I know a ton of Charlottes in real life, and Charlies, Charltons, Charleses and Charpezzes. It would have been weird as if I’d changed my name to your name, dear listener.

Another factor is that it looks right. If you’re trialling a name for yourself, greet yourself in the mirror. ‘Hello, I’m Gwenjamin’ involves some facial shapes that did not delight me. ‘Hello I’m Helga’, though, it looks great. Every syllable of ‘Hello, I’m Helga’ is a smiling face. It’s all about the vowels. ‘Say Cheese’ makes people smile into the camera. ‘Say Hell’ would have a similarly cheery effect.

One other thing that was important: it needed to sound right in the midst of the whole name, Benjamilian Helga Goudie Swithen - and it needed to sound materteral. What’s ‘materteral’ mean? It’s like avuncular, but for aunts, not uncles. I’m all in favour of aunts - I think I’m a rarity in that I really like my aunts, and ‘Aunt Helga’ had a certain ring to it.

But I wasn’t just after a name that gratified me. I wanted something with meaning and precedent. After all, when my other names are Benjamilian, Goudie and Swithen, ‘Helga’ is the only one people will recognise as a familiar human name, so it had to be pegged to something worthwhile.

Enter St. Helga. She was a princess in Kievan Rus, which is what Ukraine and its empire were called a thousand years ago. She actually lived there in the Tenth Century. Let me sketch it in for you: the 10th Century is the Viking age. The Norse have just become the Normans, but they won’t conquer England for another hundred years. It’s one of the worst and least progressive centuries Europe ever had. Seriously, nothing was getting invented whatever, except over in China. Stars of the era include Leif Erikson, Erik the Red, and King Cnut. England is irrelevant our story, but that’s where you’d have found Lady Godiva and the extinction of bears in this period. And there are no more wild lions in Europe

Saint Helga is known for three things. First, she was a defender. I like the idea of defending - though I’ll admit her methods aren’t by any means compliant with the Geneva Convention. She was astonishingly ruthless in her ways, which I realise was doesn’t make her the best role-model, but it was her early days, before she was counted a Christian or a saint. I will say, saints who are also political or military leaders are a little weird. Admittedly, Moses, David and Muhammad were great generals, but holiness and violence make dodgy bedfellows. Nonetheless, I would always rather defend than attack.

Second, after Saint Helga came to faith, she strove to convert her whole country, and put years of effort into this endeavour. I would dearly like to help people come to faith. But the third point about Helga is she was a failure. A complete failure. Despite materialistic efforts, she never managed to convert even one person.

That’s the part that strikes a chord with me most. She tried to do something and did not succeed. I try to do lots of things, creative, religious, DIY, social... I have not been measurably successful, as the world measures success. I’m not a successful television writer and novelist. I have always absorbed more money than I generate, and the world has not exactly risen to delight in anything I do. St Helga was a failure, but her effort was not wasted. Her strivings to bring the Christian faith to her people failed, but they laid groundwork, and provided inspiration, for the next generation of missionaries, who were not failures. My films don’t find audiences, but I like to think they might have some inspiration on someone who does. My Lent project is not turning the heart of nations, but maybe it will help someone in the next generation to help others find their way. Alongside St Helga, I can fail with hope, rather than shame.

There is one other reason I chose Helga, but it wasn’t conscious. I only realised a few months down the line that I had accidentally encoded a Simpsons reference in my name. In the classic episode ‘Bart of Darkness’ - and classic in Simpsons terms means anywhere up to Season 7* - Bart breaks his leg and has to spend Summer indoors, bitter about missing pool-parties. In his maddened, embittered state he writes a play - he calls it a play, but it reads like prose - which begins like so:

Bart: Kippers for Breakfast, aunt Helga? Is it St. Swithin’s Day already?

Tis, replied aunt Helga!

Lisa: (going into peril) All right, I’m going already!

* Simpsons fans argue that Season 7 is the last great one, as established characters began to get ridiculous and out-of-character backstories after that, but my personal favourite episode Hurricane Neddie is in Season 8.