It was once my privilege to play a round at Pyle and Kenfig Golf Club. If you’re ever on the M4 in south Wales between Porthcawl and Port Talbot, look over the grassy dunes towards the sea and know that my balls are in there somewhere. I was playing with a friend, a retired butcher from Neath, and a couple of his mates. One of these old boys had been something to do with education; I think he had spent his working life with the local education authority. Nice chap.
On our way round we discussed matters various – his career, the weather, where the hell my ball was and so on. At the conclusion of one of our chats, he said he would give me his card. At first I thought he meant his golfing scorecard but it eventually became clear that he was talking about some kind of business card.
In the changing rooms afterwards, said card was handed over. I stuck it straight in my pocket, apologising that as I don’t carry such cards, I couldn’t return the compliment. He looked decidedly disappointed. We had a beer and that was that; we went our separate ways. It was weeks or months later when I found the card in my golf trousers. It was only then that I realised why he had looked a bit crestfallen. It wasn’t because I hadn’t had a card to give him, rather that I hadn’t read his. The card had been through the wash but was still legible. I can’t remember his name but I do remember the three letters after it: MBE.
I may be doing him a grave disservice, but it did seem as if he just wanted me to know he had been awarded an MBE. My first reaction was an amused, patronising chuckle. I’m ashamed of that now. Why wouldn’t he be proud? Why wouldn’t it mean something to him, and anyone who knew of it? Why wouldn’t he want the world to know? I think of him every time the anomalies and outrages accompanying an honours announcement devalue the system a little more. Yes, the reference to empire sits somewhere between daft and offensive. And recognising the undoubted achievements of well-known people isn’t of the highest importance – their work is, by definition, already recognised. But there should always be a place to officially mark the efforts of the largely unsung and under-celebrated.
Still, the whole honours system is an aspect of British life that is in need of change – like potholes, public transport and the sporting of sandals with socks. All normalised. Amid the fire and fury over appointments and non-appointments to the Lords, it struck me that the maddest thing is not what the appointments committee does look at – it’s what it doesn’t. It’s incredible, when you think about it, that its job is merely to check you’re not too dodgy to be allowed in. It doesn’t seem to occur to anybody that it might make sense to look at it the other way round: are the candidates intelligent and dedicated enough to be entrusted with the scrutiny of legislation? Have they got the brains? Could they at least distinguish between their backsides and their elbows? A straight IQ assessment might be a start, along with something akin to the British citizenship test, but obviously a more advanced version, checking that applicants have at least a rudimentary knowledge of how the legislature works and can make head or tail of the language of our laws.
Not that I’m remotely under consideration, but I couldn’t possibly accept anything anyway. There are people who deserve recognition for their work much more than I do, and there are certainly plenty of candidates for the Lords with better brains than mine.
Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
