On Sunday evening in Abidjan, the president of Cote d’Ivoire, Alassane Ouattara, was at the, er, Alassane Ouattara stadium, to watch his country win the Africa Cup of Nations. Well done, them. As for him, well, might I suggest it’s not a good look to have something named after your good self while you’re still alive? If you’ve insisted upon it, then that’s undeniably bad, but even if you’ve merely allowed it to happen, I’m afraid that’s no good either.
It wouldn’t be quite so bad if it was named after a living legend of Ivorian football, say Didier Drogba or Yaya Touré. Perhaps the two of them could have shared it. But if a politician’s got anything about them, this must be the hill they die on: thou shalt not name anything after me until after I’m dead and gone and only then if you think I really deserve it.
For an example of how this kind of thing should be done, look no further than 3,259 miles directly north of Abidjan to Stourbridge. There you will find a park created by a Black Country industrialist called Ernest Stevens in memory of the love of his life, his wife, Mary, who died at the age of 55. Never mind stadiums and airports and whatnot: what a beautiful thing it is for a park to bear your name. And there’s no park more perfect than Mary Stevens Park, with its playground, bandstand, little lake, war memorial and promenade. A park that even on a muddy, monochrome winter’s morning looks quietly magnificent, its leafless trees beautifully skeletal against the grey sky.
Inscribed upon a large stone in the tea garden is a message that the park is to be “a place of rest for the weary, of happiness for the children, and of beauty for everyone”. Perfection. So, OK, I give in. Name a park after me if you must. Nowt fancy necessary – any old patch of grass will do.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
