Honour bound

UNNATURAL SELECTION I
Kenneth Roy is introduced to the bizarre world of the honours list

Someone Kenneth Roy didn't recommend for a knighthood

When I used to get the train to Glasgow in the morning, one of my fellow travellers was a knight of the realm. I shall call him Sir Hamish. One day, we talked of a mutual acquaintance who had just been appointed to a high-profile public office. I expressed some surprise, suggesting that Old Tommy (as I shall call him) was not up to the job and that he would be better off staying where he was.
     Sir Hamish did not disagree with this assessment of Old Tommy's capabilities.
     'Of course, it's the handle he's after,' he added sotto voce.
     'The handle?' Sir Hamish had lost me there. 'What handle?'
     'An honour,' he whispered. 'He's looking for an honour.'
     'But he's already got one of those,' I protested.
     Sir Hamish looked at me with some exasperation. What sort of journalist was I?
     'Well, now he wants an upgrade. You follow me? A k. He's hoping for a k.'
     Even I was able to work out what a k must stand for.
     I was – I confess – a little shocked. Did people like Old Tommy take on challenging public sector jobs on the off-chance of a knighthood? Until then I had had no interest in the honours list. I had never stopped to wonder how anyone got on it or to question the sanity of people motivated by such ambition. On the station platform that morning, Sir Hamish opened my eyes to a bizarre new world of vanity and privilege.
     Sadly, as it turned out, Sir Hamish and I were proved correct in our assessment of Old Tommy's lack of suitability for his new job. It all ended in tears. For him there was no upgrade. He remains to this day one of the lesser fry of the British Empire; a disappointed man, no doubt.

Several years later, I found myself recommending someone else for a k. It would not be an upgrade in this case, for the individual in question had received no honour from her majesty. That was, indeed, part of the problem in my mind. Prompted by Sir Hamish, I had begun to take a mild interest in the upper reaches of the honours system and was naturally appalled by the pygmies and placemen receiving knighthoods. I decided I knew someone of exceptional distinction who was very much worthier of such an honour than most. It would not be pushing it to say that I rather revered this individual. I knew also that he did not have long to live, so there was a certain urgency. It was now or never.
     Without a clue how to proceed, I wrote to someone I knew at the Scottish Office, as it then was. I expected to be asked to submit a formal recommendation or testimonial or whatever was required. Instead, lunch was proposed. I thought this a promising start. The lunch was relaxed and convivial. I spent an hour or so discussing with my host, a senior civil servant, the many virtues of the individual I wished to recommend.
     We were agreed on three essentials. First, this was a man of outstanding quality, brilliant in his field, humanitarian in outlook, whose work had been highly influential not only in Scotland but throughout the civilised world. Second, he was worthy of high honour. Third, nothing less than a knighthood would do; it would be inappropriate, even insulting, to offer him anything less.
    The senior civil servant seemed as enthusiastic about the merits of the case as I was myself, but towards the end of the discussion – the business end – he became more guarded and sceptical. These matters were, he emphasised, of the greatest sensitivity and discretion; nothing could be taken for granted; there were many stages to be observed, many hurdles to be overcome; I should not expect an early determination of so important a suggestion; it would be wrong to build up my hopes, etc. Nevertheless, I left the restaurant feeling reasonably optimistic and, for once, extremely virtuous.
     Months elapsed. I heard nothing. Then one afternoon I received a phone call from the same senior civil servant. He sounded slightly embarrassed. It was all rather a pity. My recommendation had been carefully considered but, in the end, regretfully rejected. Only one Scottish knighthood a decade was offered in that field and the one vacancy had already been filled. It would be 10 years before the opportunity arose again and by then...well, enough said.
     I was unconvinced by this explanation. If it was true, I wondered how it had taken so long to work out what must have been obvious at the start. Long ago, early in his career, the object of my admiration had taken an honourable decision which had inconvenienced the state; that decision had subsequently been vindicated; but I imagined such independence of mind was never forgotten by those whose job it is never to forget. Whatever the explanation, I now reproached myself for my own naivety. What had I been doing getting mixed up with the Establishment and its silly games?
     As for the great man, he died without honour. Yet he continues to be fondly remembered for what he was; not for the absence of a handle.

These uncomfortable memories are stirred by the news at the weekend that the golfer Nick Faldo has been given a knighthood. This is a field, literally a field, where knighthoods are dished out, not once a decade, but scarcely ever; the last knighted golfer, Henry Cotton, who died before he could receive the gong, is going back a bit. Why Faldo? Sir Nick (as we must now learn to call him) made such a hash of captaining the European Ryder Cup team last year that the stronger team lost. He must rank as one of the least loved sports personalities in the country. When he won one of his Open Championships, he delivered a graceless victory speech, thanking the press corps 'from the heart of my bottom', in front of millions of telly viewers. What a lovely chap! But I must stop myself there. We are only talking about the honours list, after all.