My dad used to be a draughtsman and worked in an old-style drawing office where the tops of the drawing boards came up to about chest height if you were standing. One of the guys in the office was a notorious shirker. He received his nickname because of his cunning ruse to appear inconspicuous when rolling-in late in the morning. He would take his jacket off and casually saunter in, trailing it along the floor behind him (hidden, he imagined, by the height of the desks), hoping to give the impression that he’d been in all along and had just popped out of the office for a bit.
For this, they named him The Matador.
From my own experience, I used to work with a regrettable woman, nick-named Vimto.
“Coz naebody likes Vimto.”
In the same job, I shared an office with two gay guys. The younger one was camp as knickers and a bit immature, whereas the older “straight-acting” one was pretty low-key with a very dead-pan sense of humour. He christened the younger one “WPC”.
“Wee Poofy ****”.