Hugh Grant, the star of Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill and Love Actually turned 50 last year, yet his only honours thus far are a Golden Globe, a Bafta and an honorary César.
We all know that in 1995 Grant was arrested in Hollywood for engaging in lewd conduct in his car with prostitute Divine Brown. But that reckless episode - which gave almost as much pleasure to the rest of us as it did to him - has long since come and gone.
In 2007, he cheered us all up when he gave short shrift to a paparazzo who had been bothering him in the street, and just this summer he brought us to our feet in celebration of his role in helping expose the malpractises that brought down the News of the World.
The case for his admission to the Register of National Treasures is unanswerable. How much longer must this hero wait to receive his just desserts?
We can only hope that good sense, and sentimentality, prevail.
Many are called, but few are chosen.
Stephen Fry is a National Treasure par excellence. Indeed, he heads the Order. So are Alan Bennett - the National Treasurer - Michael Caine, Elton John, Dawn French, David Jason, Frank Bruno, Joan Collins, Cliff Richard, P.D. James and Helen Mirren.
The Queen is of course a National Treasure, as is the Duke of Edinburgh, who has won the plaudits of the masses in spite of, or perhaps because of, his public indiscretions.
If Prince Phillip can get away with it, why not Grant?
Prince Charles, is not a National Treasure - though he may yet become one. His wife, the Duchess of Cornwall, is permanently barred because of the distress she caused to the Jeanne d'Arc of National Treasure, Diana, Princess of Wales.
Margaret Thatcher was nominated by Lord Whitelaw (Gold Treasurer In Waiting), but rejected on the basis that though half the country loved her, the other half would happily dance on her grave. Tony Blair was not even considered. The former premier's sponsors were too few in number for their voice to be heard above the clamour of those demanding his indictment for war crimes.
It will not have occurred to anyone to nominate Gordon Brown (too dull) or John Prescott (too rude). John Major was in with a shout - the British love a gallant loser - but was critically hobbled by his underpants and his ill-advised affair with Edwina Currie.
In my own trade of journalism, there are very few National Treasures. Max Hastings might have squeezed through, though I rather think not. His attitude of de haut en bas does not endear him to the multitude. Andrew Neil, despite recent attempts on the Politics Programme to exude avuncularity, has been blackballed too often to be considered a serious candidate. Simon Jenkins could yet make it. He opposes reckless military adventures and loves English churches. But against that, he did serve on the Millennium Commission and the British public can be very unforgiving.
It is, rightly, a requirement for the Order that aspirants should not be seen to be too obviously campaigning for admission. In the past, this ruled out Carol Vorderman, Gyles Brandreth, John Sergeant and, possibly, Paul Merton (opinion is divided), but posed no problem for Tony Benn, Paul Gascoigne or, in an odd way, given his overt unctuousness, Nicholas Parsons.
But I digress. It is time to turn our minds to this year's service of thanksgiving for Britain's National Treasures and to the question of the investiture, or not, of Hugh Grant. Surely there is no one this year more deserving of Britain's non-existent, yet integral accolade of popular acclaim.
There is no doubt that the man himself would be grateful. After being handed his Bafta, Grant said in his acceptance speech: "This is very, very nice, and unusual for me as I don't really get many prizes and when I do I'm cockahoop." The award to him of his Golden Globe prompted the response: "It's tragic how much I'm enjoying getting this. It's heaven. Right up my alley."
Quite so. Words straight from the heart - central organ of the National Treasure. But we must hurry, for the hour is late and the will of the people can all too easily be denied, especially if the X-Factor is on the telly. But should Grant receive his due, our reward as a people will be all the greater. For as Stephen Fry places the tea cosy of radiant affection atop the head of this most beloved of English rascals, the unmistakable sound will arise of a nation briefly at peace with itself and certain of the rightness of its choice: Aaaaaah! Look at 'im: Ee's a National Treasure