"Names are not always what they seem. The common Welsh name Bzjxxllwcp is pronounced Jackson."
(Maybe) Mark Twain
For 25 years, people have assumed my email address means I'm mad. Turns out, it's really about a high school romance, a lucky number, and my dad's questionable wit.
It’s a common reaction. I spell out my email—m-a-d-m-o-r-g-1-3—and get a smile, maybe a chuckle. If they know me, there’s usually a comment: ‘So fitting,’ or ‘That’s apt!’”
I always take it as a compliment—who doesn’t want to be seen as a little wild, a little memorable?
In an age where almost everyone has a Gmail address, having such a catchy, succinct handle with a distinctive number feels unique.
As so often in life, the perception vs. the reality of how this came to be are actually quite different.
My earliest memory of rugby was at age seven, standing on the balcony of my dad's friend's apartment on Westgate Street in Cardiff. The back overlooked Cardiff Arms Park—the smaller of the city's two adjoining stadiums. The larger one, now called The Principality Stadium but back then The Arms Park, hosted international matches and would soon become the mecca for my rugby ambitions.
I remember very little about that first game - just that I didn't really know what was going on but that it was super cool to be able to watch a sporting event from the balcony of an apartment overlooking the field without having to buy a ticket!
That early taste of rugby was enough. Dad soon took me to play at our local village club, Dinas Powys, where they'd been playing on the common since 1892—the same fields that once held neolithic settlements and Iron Age forts.
I started as a prop-forward—brute strength over subtlety—but my athleticism soon moved me to flanker, a position demanding speed of thought, aggression, and game awareness.
Lucky Number 13
Initially, we all wore unnumbered jerseys we'd bought ourselves. Around age ten, numbered shirts arrived—mine was 7, openside flanker. I'd occasionally switch between #7 and the aptly named No.8 position.
Representing East Wales U11 against West Wales in that #7 shirt gave me my first taste of top-level rugby—and my first high-profile defeat, though mercifully I can't remember the score!
The thinking was simple - you wanted to be close to the ball, which meant positions 7, 8, 9, 10, or 12. When I moved to secondary school, the rugby master wanted me at inside centre (#12), but I was drawn to #13. As team captain, I claimed it despite playing a slightly different position.
Throughout my developing rugby career, I stayed in the centre positions, always wearing #13. The lone exception was representing Wales U18 against England. My memory fails me on why I wore #12 that day, but the evidence is clear from my match shirt and programme. Equally clear: we lost to our fiercest enemies because I wasn't wearing my lucky 13!
With #13 woven into my identity through nearly two decades of rugby - countless matches, successes, and new experiences- it naturally (and perhaps superstitiously!) became part of who I was beyond the pitch.
In January 2000, travelling to Australia for a gap year at nineteen years old wasn't outlandish. These year-long adventures between school and university had become popular, with dedicated travel agents helping teens plan elaborate trips to the other side of the world.
Despite being common, the trip was still pretty daunting, particularly as an only child and someone who spoke to my parents most days.
This was different to going away to boarding school, from where I had just completed high school and was now living back in Wales with my parents for a brief period of time, earning money to pay for my trip to Oz.
At Rugby School, I'd used the computer a handful of times for this "email" thing they'd given us. I was hardly cutting-edge - I can vaguely picture myself in the IT centre, fumbling to log into my school account.
But email seemed like a good and cost effective way to stay in touch with my parents, even if I had no idea how easy it would be to find internet cafes when I got to Sydney.
I needed an email account. Tech-savvy friends had mentioned this new free service called Hotmail. A few days before departing for Australia, I sat in my childhood bedroom with our family Apple Macintosh, fired up the dial-up connection, and several minutes later navigated to www.hotmail.com.
When prompted for a username, I was stumped. My name was taken, and I needed something creative. This was before I knew about underscores or other variations to claim popular handles. I called Dad for help—but first, a crucial detour is needed in our story...
The 1998-99 season at Rugby School promised everything - for me personally and the team. I'd been identified by Welsh Schoolboys coaches and invited into their trial squad.
We'd just returned from a six-week tour of New Zealand and Fiji. Despite disappointing results against superior opposition, we'd learned volumes and bonded as a group.
Our opener was against fierce rivals Uppingham, who boasted two England U16 internationals tipped for U18 honours. Dan Hipkiss was my opposite number. I'd love to say I wanted to outplay him for confidence and momentum. Honestly though, I mainly wanted to look good in front of my teammates and the watching school crowd and parents.
The game was a battle, but we were outplayed. Worse, Dan outshone me in every aspect. I'd let down the team, the school, my parents who'd driven up from Wales, and myself.
After dressing-downs from both my coach and dad, I drowned my sorrows at the school "bar"—a facility serving beer to final-year students. There I formally met Madelon, a star track athlete I'd noticed but never spoken to during my first year.
Her own sporting commitments meant she hadn't watched my dreadful performance - this felt like a win and gave me confidence to start chatting!
Madelon and I dated for two years, until she headed to Durham University and I returned to Wales to earn money for Australia.
When I explained the username predicament to Dad, he initially suggested "Cadbury13"—because, as he liked to quip, I was the soft-centre. (An ironic and unintended link back to that poor performance a few years ago)
I scowled. Mum chided him for being mean. He quipped back: "What about 'Madmorg13'—Madelon, Morgan, and your lucky number?”
Even though Madelon and I had parted ways, it seemed perfect - solving my username problem while honouring a meaningful two-year relationship.
A handle that's stuck with me for 25 years suggests one thing but has origins far different- and far less cutting-edge - than people assume.
What began as Dad's half-serious suggestion, stitched together from a high school romance and a lucky rugby jersey, has followed me through continents, careers, and countless versions of myself.
Maybe that's what names do best—they carry our stories, whether we remember them or not.
