Claire arrived at the Orange Hall with the faintly anthropological air of someone observing a rare and self-congratulatory species in its natural habitat. The bunting was emphatic, the tea was stewed to a Protestant fortitude, and the mood hovered somewhere between parish fête and imperial afterglow. They had gathered to honour Noel Liggett , newly decorated with an MBE — that curious bauble bestowed by the British Empire.

Claire tried, she really did, to look solemn. But there is something exquisitely, almost operatically ironic about a member of the Orange Order  becoming a Member of the British Empire. The organisation has long defined itself by its staunch Protestant exclusivity — a “no Catholics need apply” ethos worn as comfortably as an orange sash. That this same insularity should be rewarded with a medal stamped by imperial nostalgia felt both sadly amusing and amusingly sad.

Speeches were made. Words like “tradition,” “service,” and “community” were deployed with the careful polish of heirloom silver. Claire noted how “community” seemed to mean a very specific slice of it. Outside, the modern world hummed along in pluralist technicolour; inside, history clung to the wallpaper.

And yet, there was Noel — beaming, bashful, clearly proud. It is difficult to begrudge a person their moment, even when the stage itself feels like a period piece that overstayed its run. The applause rang out, hearty and self-assured, echoing off walls that have heard decades of similar certainties.

Claire sipped her tea and reflected that empire, like sectarianism, has a habit of lingering in ceremonial corners long after its moral authority has packed up. An MBE pinned to an Orange lapel: a tiny medal, glinting with all the complicated comedy of history.

What was it Benjamin Zephania said? Ah yes – “Me?/ I thought, OBE me?  Up yours, I thought”. And unlike Claire, he wasn’t tangled up in Orange.