NINE hundred and seventy-one names were on the New Year's Honours List. I should know, I've read every one. Twice. It's not that I expected my name to be among them, at least not at first; but then I discovered that this year's medal mart was dominated by what Downing Street called the "cultural economy".

As you might imagine, many's the time I have been stopped by a well-wisher keen to thank me for boosting the cultural capital of this city. I am a net contributor after all, having stoically ignored York's theatrical premieres, art exhibitions and railway bridge graffiti for fear of destabilising the city's cultural balance of payments.

Ron Cooke may argue that by steering York University to the pinnacle of academic achievement, he has contributed more. But then, he's got the big K; I am much too humble to expect to leap straight from serfdom to Sir Christopher, however popular that decision would be. Some letters after my name, other than Esq: that's all I wanted.

Alas, it was not to be. My absence from this list left me scratching my unanointed head. Week in, week out, excluding holidays, I slave to make another deposit in York's cultural current account.

It could be that my name just doesn't sound right. Glancing through the honours list, I notice there are a lot of exotic appellations there. Who could resist honouring someone called John George Harold Champ, giving a gong to Michael Spong or awarding Kenneth Ernest Brian Bragger something to boast about?

Aha, you say, but what more conventional a name could anyone possess but Ron Cooke? Yet Prof Cooke's middle name is wonderfully Dickenisan: Urwick. Mine is John.

It is not the recognition, fame or status that I hanker after, of course. Any honour I receive will never be ostentatiously displayed in a frame of finest teak for guests to admire, but semi-discarded, attached to the living room window by the merest squidge of Blu-Tack.

To me, the real meaning of a queenly handout is knowing I had become an official Member of the British Empire or (dare I hope) find myself in the Order of the British Empire.

How thrilling it must be to consider yourself an immortal part of the greatest empire the world has ever known; an empire that now encompasses Anguilla, whose 12,000 residents are scattered the length and breadth of that 16-mile long island; the volcanic outpost of Montserrat, with its seven-strong parliament; or the two square miles that comprise the mighty Pitcairn Islands.

To think that one day, as an MBE, I might secure the right to drive a herd of sheep through the South Sandwich Islands or, in a glittering civic ceremony, receive the key to Edinburgh Of The Seven Seas, bustling capital of Tristan Da Cunha.

None of these rights are mine today, of course. But I console myself with the thought that I am relatively young, and might still be dunked in the perfumed pool of patronage. Let me assure you of one thing: when that happens I will not betray my republican beliefs. My bow before the monarch will be brief enough to be interpreted as a nervous spasm rather than a ritualised symbol of submission.

And I will bear in mind the words of the newly-knighted Sir Jimmy Young. He said he shared his award with his five million listeners. My pledge is equally magnanimous: any such honour coming this way will be as much yours as mine.

Just don't expect to come round to look at it. It would not do for a member of the honoured classes to have his home sullied by the poorly-shod feet of Joe Public Esq.