A Massive Big 'Ead... and that's official!

ON the very morning that a House of Commons select committee began its investigation into the cash for honours allegations, a letter arrived from 10 Downing Street inviting me "in strictest confidence" to become a Member of the Order of the British Empire.

That glass of lemonade I once bought for Hilary Armstrong, that cup of tea with Alan Milburn when we did the talk-in at Whinfield School, the beers with Baron MacKenzie...

The letters arrive about five weeks before the Honours List is announced, with a form to indicate acceptance or otherwise and, for some reason, another on ethnicity.

There was no decision to make, the first time in living memory that anyone had been acknowledged "for services to journalism in the North-East of England."

Honoured? I'm sure.

OTHERS are less eager. A few days after the letters went out from the Prime Minister's office, Mr Michael Winner - millionaire film producer, restaurant critic and maker of egregious advertisements - announced publicly that he had declined an OBE.

The award would have recognised his 22-year-campaign to honour police officers killed in the line of duty. "An OBE is what you get for cleaning the toilets well at Kings Cross station," he said.

Mr Winner joins a list of refuseniks ranging from John Lennon to Hank B Marvin, Graham Greene to Roald Dahl - who wanted a knighthood that his wife could be Lady Dahl - and John Cleese to Lady Callaghan.

Though a surefire winner of a gold medal for pomposity, Winner received a letter of support in the following week's Sunday Times. "Quite right to refuse an OBE, Michael," it said. "You can surely afford better than that."

DOWNING Street informs the media of the awards at noon on the day before the announcement. Once we were forbidden to approach recipients until the following day; now it's allowed, but without obligation to treat with the fourth estate. It seemed a bit churlish not to, nonetheless.

The nice young lady from the Echo rang on Friday tea-time, whilst we meandered contiguously with the banks of the River Cresswell, in Pembrokeshire. It wasn't her shorthand but an iffy line - or whatever these days they're called - which mistakenly produced the quote that I was a "regular Shildon lad."

Regular Shildon lads were those force fed California Syrup of Figs before bedtime. I was a "raggy-arsed Shildon lad" - and, then as now, very proud of it.

THAT story on Saturday morning also mentioned the hope of standing Her Majesty a pint of Strongarm and a Taylor's pork pie - the former made in Hartlepool, the latter in Darlington.

It reminded John Barr in Darlington of his long gone electrical apprenticeship at Dove's, in Bondgate, his job - "apart from washing the showroom" - to collect Taylor's pies, twopence ha'penny each, for the rest of the workers.

"As I could never afford one myself, I used to drink the juice from the top," he confesses. "When they went up to the astronomical price of threepence, the lads just didn't believe me."

Paid seven pence and a farthing each hour, John preferred Fox's coffee shop, where chocolate marshmallows could be had for a penny. It was 1952 - "and much more," he recalls wistfully, "within my price bracket."

AT least two other old friends of the column's were similarly honoured - Peter Sotheran, a regular irregular hereabouts, "for services to Sir William Turner's almshouses in Kirkleatham and to the community in Redcar, North Yorkshire."

A retired stationer and printer, Peter has over the years brought our attention to everything from a shortage of string vests to the sign at an ear piercing place in York: "Three for the price of two.".

He has introduced us to Dr Seuss, who wrote a children's book with just 50 different words, pondered the morals of Cushy Butterfield, kept a 1975 Echo headline on an elderly tugboat on the Tees. "Rusting hulk Amos should be scrapped."

Particularly, however, we recall the service exactly two years ago to mark the 330th anniversary of Sir William's almshouses - and the column's raised eyebrow that it coincided with an England match in Euro 2004.

"Presumably," replied Peter, "Sir William Turner's copy of Nostradamus did not include the schedule of football games for 2004 when he decided to open the almshouses on June 24, 1674."

THEN there's 87-year-old Beatrice Cuthbertson, a former mayor of Darlington, whose MBE for services to the community will particularly be welcomed in Sadberge.

Her virtues else, the splendid Beattie may particularly be recalled for her distinctive headgear, which on several occasions the column erroneously called a beret.

Fifteen years ago, the Daily Mail crossword even had a clue about it: "Party's brief rise providing a lesson that may go to one's head (8)."

Though most of the ladies who go up to the Palace this autumn will have come straight from milliners' row, Beattie is almost certain to stick to what she looks good in.

It's known, wonderfully appropriately, as a Balmoral.

HUGH Malone is honoured "for services to the community in Consett". He gets the MBE, but could just as easily have become a Dame.

Hughie, 71, has been entertaining the folk of north-west Durham since first treading the boards with his father, when he was 14.

Frequently it's been at old folks' homes; always it's been funny, always free. In 1996, the retired mobile library driver received a special award from Consett Rotary Club.

He's most affectionately known, says Ian Hamilton in Consett, for his annual portrayal of the pantomime dame - even when driving the library van.

"His Widow Twankee is magnificent," says Ian. If not a gong show, there could be a royal command performance.

HITHERTO Gadfly's highest accolade had been Keeper of the Queen's Apostrophe, awarded by the gentlemen of the Coundon Society for the Prevention and Prosecution of Felons after we'd spoken at their annual do.

Perhaps it prompted the photograph below, taken outside Darlington Memorial Hospital by "JVG" - "I must be anonymous, I might be a patient one day."

Clearly the health service cuts are biting even more deeply than any had supposed. Just one patient remains.

ALREADY there have been hundreds of messages - all most gratefully received and, in most cases, even acknowledged.

It's harder to acknowledge Mr M L Woods, whose note gives no address but which comes with four books from his shelves. "Knowing your likes and dislikes, I think they may interest you," he says.

One's the official guide ("and industrial handbook") to Shildon, "published with the authority of the Urban District Council". A second is a Penguin copy of Eric Partridge's classic Usage and Abusage, the third a Modern Teaching Dictionary - or modern, 33rd impression, when it was published in 1950.

The fourth is Tom Whittaker's Arsenal Story, written in 1958 by the glorious Gunners' former manager. Mr Woods, to whom many thanks, appears to have got it spot on.

THE Most Excellent Order of the British Empire was introduced in 1917 by King George V in an attempt to make the honours list more representative of society.

Still it's restricted to 858 Officers and 1,464 Members each year, so they don't exactly give these things away with every fourth packet of chewing gum.

It's true, perhaps as a result, that some wonderfully worthy folk - not least in the field of grass roots sport - seem inexplicably to be overlooked. Over the years I've been asked to support the nomination of a dozen or so, each a true local hero. None has yet been rewarded.

A bi-annual review of the honours list does also suggest that school bus driving has become an uncommonly dangerous occupation and that government departments have an awful lot of meritorious "messengers".

Back in those raggy-arsed Shildon days, running a message meant going to the shops - and you didn't even get a tube of sherbet for that.

Many correspondents recall that OBE familiarly stands for Other Beggars' Efforts - or something like that - a chance once again to acknowledge the indispensable part played in these columns by their readers.

Correspondents struggle, however, for a plausible extension of MBE, the most familiar variations on Massive Big 'Ead and the most flattering Mike: Echo's Bard.

There can be no apology for filling a column with what might almost be called honourabilia. For the next day or two, at least, Modesty Begins Elsewhere.