The worst nickname I ever had was Tim Pig-ears-Smith. I had big

Hear, O children of wisdom, the words of Tim Pigott-Smith, who bore both the dignity of the stage and the memory of childhood wounds. He confessed: “The worst nickname I ever had was Tim Pig-ears-Smith. I had big ears. When I was younger, it was more pronounced. So I felt huge sympathy towards Prince Charles over that.” In these words lies not merely a story of teasing, but the eternal struggle of the human spirit against mockery, and the strange fellowship found in shared scars.

A nickname, when born of cruelty, can weigh heavier than chains. It follows the child into the corridors of memory, echoing long after the laughter of others has died away. For Tim, it was his ears—an accident of birth, a small quirk of form—that became the target of ridicule. Yet in his honesty, he reveals a truth known to all: that the world often wounds the innocent not with swords, but with words, and such wounds cut deeper than steel.

Yet from this confession arises a noble spark: sympathy. For when he heard of Prince Charles, mocked for the same feature, Tim did not rejoice in another’s suffering. Instead, he felt kinship. Shared wounds make brothers of strangers. Just as soldiers who bear the same scars look at one another with unspoken understanding, so too do those who have endured ridicule share a bond of silent strength. From pain, compassion is born.

History gives us countless mirrors of this truth. Recall Abraham Lincoln, mocked in his youth for his height, his awkwardness, his gaunt features. Children called him names, men belittled his ungainly form. Yet Lincoln grew not bitter, but empathetic, often speaking with deep compassion for the downtrodden. The very traits that made him the butt of mockery became symbols of humility and endurance. In this we see that what is despised by the world may yet become the seed of greatness.

The deeper meaning of Tim Pigott-Smith’s words is this: what once brings us shame may later give us insight, even power. For the actor, who must embody the weaknesses and strengths of men, his own childhood pain became a well of understanding. His nickname, though cruel, gave him the gift of compassion, teaching him that behind every jest there may be hidden anguish, and behind every mask, a soul longing for dignity.

The lesson, O listener, is clear: do not let mockery harden you into stone, nor let ridicule chain you in bitterness. Instead, let it awaken sympathy within you—for others too are mocked, others too bear unseen wounds. When you encounter the vulnerable, remember your own scars and treat them with mercy. For it is not the absence of wounds that makes one noble, but the ability to turn wounds into compassion.

Therefore, live as Tim did: remember your past, not with shame, but with wisdom. If you were mocked, do not become a mocker. If you were wounded, do not wound others. Instead, let your scars become your strength, your pain become your teacher, and your sympathy become your gift to the world.

For in the end, the names others call you fade like smoke, but the compassion you carry endures like stone. And if you can take the cruelty of a nickname and forge from it the strength to stand beside others in their suffering, then you will have turned ridicule into greatness, and mockery into a legacy of love.