Anyone who thinks names are unimportant,” said my friend, the psychoanalyst, “might like to consider what was going on in Henry James's mind when he gave the experienced older woman in The Golden Bowl the name Fanny Assingham.” The book was about adultery, James was fastidious and, even back in 1904, fanny meant fanny and ass meant ass.

Though other writers may be more decorous in choosing names for their major characters, they will almost always consult their internal dictionary for associations. Harry is brave, regal and young (Prince Harry, Harry Hotspur, and that wizard with the scar), Rupert is dashing but haughty (Prince Rupert, Rupert of Hentzau), Charles is pompous but well-meaning.

This is at first sight, of course, logically absurd. If name were any kind of guide to character, then parents would postpone naming their children until at least the coastline of personality was clearly in view, at - say - seven or eight years of age. Our names can only suggest something about our mothers and fathers' fantasies about what kind of people we may become, or what kind of people they thought they were.

And yet they are held to say much about us. Was it possible then, that we grew into our names? Back in 1997, Martin Amis wrote a piece in The New Yorker about the success of the up-and-coming British tennis star, Tim Henman. Amis thought that every connecting part of that prospect was unlikely - starting with “success” and “British tennis”, but concentrating on the impossible coupling of sporting glory with the name “Tim”. Henman was, said Amis, “the first human being called Tim to achieve anything at all”. The name itself, Amis considered, “lacks all gravity”, most likely because of the association with the words “timid” and “timorous”. Additionally burdened by being called “Timmy” during infancy, Tims “had all their ambitions crushed, all their aspirations dashed” even before reaching adolescence. And those who had somehow escaped may have gone on to read Amis's article.

I once wrote something similar about Nicks. I don't quite remember the occasion for my prejudice, but I had it in my head that Nicks, as they moved into middle age, were archaically boyish and irresponsible, and therefore incapable of midlife fidelity. In a way it doesn't matter whether my prejudice was justified, for what counts is the mental association that people make with a name, and - at the moment - it seems to be my name, whether in its long or abbreviated form, that people are interested in. While 1997 may have seen a false dawn for Tims, 2008 is the year - for television watchers - of Dave. Or, if you wear Dolce & Gabbana underwear, of David. Or, if you are minded to vote Conservative, of either.

Let's begin with the longer form, the one that I have gone by in two periods of my life - up till the age of 13, and after the age of 25. The advantage of the name David to any British parent considering their newborn son used to be its flexibility. It was biblical and therefore satisfied both Christians and Jews, it was commonly used in Scotland and in Wales and therefore had loose Celtic connotations. Nor was history full of bad or unsuccessful Davids, as it was of evil Johns and pathetic Stephens. And it was devoid of class specificity - an important feature in 1950s and 1960s Britain.

That was some time ago. Now, one of my Jewish friends, whose name is not David, swears that his English mother-in-law calls him David because she thinks it's more Jewish and therefore that's what he ought to be called.

But this is not, I imagine, what the marketing people at Dolce & Gabbana were thinking when launching their David range of products, as well as their David 2008 calendar. On their website, March shows the dark-haired David model (a Dave Gandy, from Essex) sprawled in tight white briefs, with the word “elegant” incongruously appearing just as the camera moves down over his crotch, and in April “body” just as it sweeps over his face. Other months are “profane” and “narcissistic”, but the most revealing, I think, is “mythic”.

If the connection between the model and the name is myth, then we must be thinking about the Hebrew shepherd boy, called by the prophet, who slays Goliath with a slingshot and goes on to be a great king, a wonderful poet and a famous lover. The boy-poet-lover-warrior combination is a particularly potent one now, when youth is revered, sexuality celebrated and homosexuality is regarded as almost fashionable.

Even so, the loss of a biblical foundation to our mass-education system means that the David idea survives mostly because of Michelangelo. Yet his David is really just a pretty boy whose sling is incidental, and is far less obvious than the subject's pudendal coiffure, which is much too carefully sculpted to have been in battle any time recently. Blink downwards and we see that this David is also evidently un-Hebrew.

David, then, is the original Harry Potter, but with sex. He is also androgynous, and it may have deepened the association between danger, eroticism and boyishness that its 1970s embodiment, Ziggy Stardust, was a David.

But this David can also seem effete and mothered. When I wanted to put away childish things I became a Dave, and can still date how long people have known me by whether or not I am a Dave to them too. Dave was a round-headed version of David, truncated as though verbally circumcised. It was more manly.

This understanding didn't stop me being amazed when, a few months ago the digital channel UK Gold, relaunched itself as Dave. I thought it must be a joke, at the expense of Daves. But then I saw the head of the station explaining that the name had been chosen because it suggested “a strong and noisy personality for the channel that immediately aligns us with our core 16-34 male audience.” UKTV further elaborated that “everyone knows a bloke called Dave”. A bloke, note, not a chap.

The channel has been successful and has attracted the desired audience, not least by showing editions of Top Gear, presented by Jeremy Clarkson, the bloke's bloke. To appreciate this irony, you only have to consider what might have been expected from a channel called Jeremy. At once it raises the thought that Jeremy C. is now the ultimate Dave precisely because he went through early life with such a cissy moniker.

He may have other reasons for being pleased with his transcendence. In a ludicrous poll of 1,000 British women recently conducted by an organisation called one-poll.com, the question was asked about which man's name was most associated with genital magnitude. I am glad to say that Nick was number ten in the smallness vote, and even gladder that Jeremy was sixth. Dave, however, was considered to be the name most likely to be connected to an uberputz.

Even here, however, in the most crude of locations, there is an irony. It is unlikely that these women - unless they have knocked about a bit - have ever seen the endowments of a Dave, just as it is improb-able that “everyone knows a bloke called Dave”. In the past few years the name has become deeply unfashionable. Now the birth lists are topped by Jacks, Joshuas, Thomases and (unbelievably) Olivers. David was 64th in 2007, behind Tyler and Harrison. Behind Louis. Behind Jayden. Jayden? And so it has been for a long, long time. Even as Cameron prepares himself for government, and Mr Gandy sells his knickers, Daves and Davids are dying out.

You'll miss us when we've gone.

DAVID SEAMAN, 44, former England goalkeeper

I've always been a David. I've never liked Dave, I reckon since I heard Cockneys pronounce it “Daawve”. I suppose I'm just a northerner trying to be posh. Back when I was born, David was a really common name - an English name. The fact that I had such an English name went down very well when I was playing football for England, obviously. And particularly given the, erm, unusual nature of my last name. Seaman, as in sailor, that's what I always tell people. It could be worse, though - my dad's name was Roger and his brother's name was Richard, so I suppose I'm pretty happy with the name David!

DAVID BADDIEL, 43, comedian and novelist

Despite what people probably imagine, I'm not called David because it's a Hebrew name, but because my dad is Welsh. I don't mind being called Dave or David. One of my oldest friends, who I call Dave, calls me Dave. Frank Skinner calls me Dave, but I'm not sure he would call anyone David. I think he would have called the French revolutionary painter Jacques-Louis Dave. However, I think of myself as David. Maybe because of its Old Testament origins, I've always thought of it as the most genteel of the standard names (by which I'm thinking John, Steve, Chris, Andy, etc). But that's assuming that one sticks with David. King Dave doesn't sound so genteel. In fact it sounds rather gentile.

DAVID BLUNKETT, 60, politician

I am called David, definitely not Dave! I've only grown into the name since I learnt to spell it. What do I think it says about me? That I am strong and masculine, obviously

DAVID NICKLESS, 27, lawyer

My parents call me David and I would be mortified if they ever tried to call me Dave. Similarly I prefer girls with whom I have a more than platonic relationship to call me David. I always introduce myself at job interviews or formal social occasions as David, but almost all my friends call me Dave. Occasionally I feel “Dave” is a giant anchor weighing me down into being mediocre. But people are usually friendly and open with me in a way that they may not be were I Mungo, Tarquin or Wayne.

DAVID ROSE, 27, journalist

At school the name Dave had a rather chavvy image, like Trevor or Kevin, but my mum's Welsh so I was named after the patron saint. I've always introduced myself as David but there's a roughly equal split between what my friends call me - my American mates, to whom it doesn't evoke the same class stereotypes, seem to prefer Dave - but as long as it's nothing more offensive, I really don't mind.

DAVID PHILPOTT, 49, bank relationship director

I don't care for Dave but concede it is preferable to Potty, which I endured at school. Although preferring David, Dave can come in handy. For example, if I mess up at work I'd sooner they call “Dave” to account than “that useless tosser”.

INTERVIEWS BY FRANCESCA STEELE