My namesake was known for her strength and defiance - but what's it really like to be called Boudicca?

When I was born 34 years ago, weighing a mighty 10 lbs 12 ozs with a shock of ginger hair, any doubts my parents had about my name were resolved. Augusta, Xanthe, Roxanne and Letitia were all on the list. Boudicca was victorious.  

A telephone call to the BBC’s pronunciation unit established the correct spelling, and so it was that my mother’s request that my father choose a name that would annoy Grandma came to be.

Standing at the battle of Watling Street in AD 60 (or 61) as the Romans delivered a final and decisive blow to her rebellion, Queen Boudicca of the Iceni may have realised the gig was up and taken poison. However, faced with the daily battle of having to explain her name to strangers, I reckon she might have taken a similar course of action.

There are the mansplainers, the plain ignorant who stumble jarringly over each syllable, but also, thank goodness, the curious and admiring. My grandma, for the record, loved the name.

That there are lessons to be learnt from strong historical female figures such as Boudicca there is little doubt; I have certainly learnt patience and forbearance. A new book called What Would Boudicca Do?, published this week, seeks to inspire today’s women by the example of history’s most remarkable ones; from my own namesake to Mary Wollstonecraft and Mae West, Frida Kahlo and Masako Katsura.

Since 1902, Thomas Thornycroft’s bronze statue, Boadicea and Her Daughters, has stood on Westminster Bridge, depicting her horses rearing up to challenge the power of Parliament - a reminder of the will of the people.  

She is a symbol of strength and defiance I’ve been yoked to my whole life. On my first birthday, and many childhood ones following, I wore a silver brooch of Queen Boudicca on her apocryphal chariot; a gift from my great-grandmother who had half-expected me to be called Anne after her. 

Growing up I was naturally fascinated by the scraps of Boudicca's story. I mined Horrible Histories and Tony Robinson and Toyah Willcox's Boudicca, broadcast in 1988. Was she buried under a platform at Kings Cross Station? Did she ride a chariot with spikes on the wheels? Was the Boadicea spelling simply a monk’s typo in a Tacitus script? 

Making a strong case for the nurture argument, I was forced to ape her strong-willed behaviour; no red-head called Boudicca at a Stockport comprehensive school could survive otherwise. I also read classical studies at university, so much had my namesake shaped my academic interests.

In spite of my regal name, I’m not actually posh: Mum was told by a fellow parent at the school gates that my designation was much too grand for the likes of my family (my older brother is not quite as unusual now Maxwell), as if imagination and education are only for the rich and privileged. Experience has taught me that real life posh people tend to be called Tom, Dick or Harry.  

Still, I’ve frequently been told I’m more down to Earth and nicer than people expected me to be. And for every graduate job application my name undoubtedly sent straight to the waste bin, it has also, through no effort on my part, made me memorable. The consequence of which can be an unwarranted sense of diva-dom.

Shortly after Facebook launched, I had a message from a Boudicca asking me to join her group, for Boudiccas. My ego shattered as if struck by a Celtic long-sword.

Grudgingly I joined, but I was ‘busy’ the day they all met up outside her statue for a photograph. I regret not going now,  I'd probably would have had fun; we could have shared woeful stories of embarrassing nicknames. I admit having an unusual name gives you the arrogance that comes with a strong sense of individuality - although maybe that’s just the Boudicca in me again.  

Regardless, to be a Boudicca is to live under the shadow of an intimidating fairy godmother. The warrior queen is quite a lot to live up to, both Queen Elizabeth and Victoria would have agreed. I am no rabble rouser, you will not find me snatching up the reins of a cause, full of indignation. I can be quite timid, and have been known to give a pseudonym when booking a restaurant simply to avoid the tired-old confused interchange, and for years preferred to be called Boo.

It was a big name for a small girl - and even now, it sometimes feels like it dwarfs my 5ft5in frame, but there are plenty of other Boudiccas in the UK, each of us leading our own lives, and all without succumbing to the urge to commit arson. Plus, there's the added benefit that, should you turn up at a birthday party forgetting it’s fancy dress, a picnic blanket and some blue paint is all that’s needed to save the day.

Recently, I’ve started to introduce myself as Boudicca more and I’m grateful to my parents for naming me after an inspiring woman and in doing so, nurturing a love for history. There has never been a better age to be a woman, and with that, no better age to be a Boudicca.