AFTER 31 YEARS of waiting, I've finally come to the reluctant conclusion that Queen Elizabeth has no intention of ever making me a peer of the realm. So I have decided to take matters in my own hand and nominate myself for a seat in the House of Lords.

With a little bit of luck and a fair dollop of gross incompetence on the part of the House of Lords Appointments Commission, I may soon be signing this column "By Lord AlWebb of Barnes." (Or maybe "By Lord AlWebb of Croughton," depending upon how far along my wife and I are with moving house at the time.)

Getting a lordship has been a dream of mine ever since the day I landed on these rain-drenched shores and decided I could live without sunshine, grits and corned beef hash for months at a stretch and that beer was acceptable as long as it was still 25 degrees short of boiling point on the Fahrenheit scale.

The monarch normally hands out such titles on occasions such as the Queen's New Year's honors list or a similar one at her birthday, or when the latest do-nothing government decides to reward its cronies, or, for all I know, when the moon is in Aquarius and the bluebird drops a load over the White Cliffs of Dover.

Anyway, I've waited all these years, but not a dickie bird from Buckingham Palace (although I did once get an invitation to the Queen's Tea Party, along with 41,239 other souls, 98 percent of whom were just as appalled as I was to find tea meant "tea" and was not a euphemism for Scotch, gin, schnapps or Old Horse's Butt).

Like everything else these days, it seems that if you want something done, you have to do it yourself. Such as, in my case, getting that lordship. That's why I've sent off for my Do-It-Yourself Kit for Would-Be Lords.

This golden opportunity has arrived in the form of a decision by the House of Lords Appointments Commission to invite us, the public hoi polloi, to apply for jobs as peers. This is described as "a historic change. . .to the way in which non-party political members of the House of Lords are appointed."

The House of Lords is Britain's upper chamber of Parliament (the Commons is the lower one), and what the Appointments Commission is doing is equivalent to American voters being allowed to nominate themselves as U.S. senators. (Which, considering what now gets elected, might not be a bad thing, but let's not get into that. . .)

According to the information that has reached me, the idea is to give some folks peerages "because of their qualities as prospective parliamentarians." From what I have observed, those qualities include throwing reams of paper into the air, storming out of the room, insulting any and all who don't agree with you, and in general engaging in the sort of behavior that would get any school kid expelled for six weeks.

Having been divorced three times, banned from practically every country in the Middle East, locked up in the Juarez jail for six hours for complaining about overcharges at a bodega and kicked out of Australia on trumped-up charges of disorderly conduct, I feel I'm already better qualified that most in the field.

I've downloaded off the Internet a six-page nomination form from the Appointments Commission, and I am now dealing with the criteria involved. It looks pretty heartening, from my viewpoint:

- "Independence from political parties." I am so independent that, because all the other candidates looked such a collection of raving crackpots. I voted at the last election for the Monster Raving Loony Party candidate on grounds that he was the sanest of the lot. You can't get much more independent than that.

- "Outstanding personal qualities." See above. Also apathy is a desirable attribute for public life, and I have a goodly supply of that. Ask my wife Elizabeth.

- "A record of significant achievement within chosen way of life." Well, I've never gone to prison for lying under oath, I've never accepted a bribe, I've never been guilty of tax evasion and I've never turned away a homeless cat. All of which puts me six furlongs ahead of most politicians I know.

- "Ability to make a significant contribution to the Lords." I was in a play once, and I do know I look rather dashing in ermine. Also, considering that the present ages of members of the Lords average out at about 102.7 years, I should be able to hold my own in staying awake, remaining lucid and not drooling at least 57 percent of the time.

So what's in it for me? Well, aside from the chance to render a service to the nation, there's the 121 bucks a day just for showing up, the snapshots of me in ermine robes that should look good on our Christmas cards and the virtual guarantee of a table at restaurants where you normally have to reserve at the moment of birth.

Also, my wife would gain the title of "Lady Elizabeth," which should mollify things on the home front when I stay rather longer than planned at the House of Lords floating poker and crap game. (I think she's already gotten the idea. When I mentioned all this to her, she sort of rolled her eyes and muttered something like, "Lord help us. . .")

There remains the small matter of getting someone to second my nomination. Fellow journalist David Millward reports getting a "slight guffaw" from the chap he sought to endorse his application. I got what might best be described as a strangled snicker from my proposed seconder, my work chum Dave Queenan.

When I even volunteered to write the endorsement for him, something along the lines of what Millward had suggested, "I think you would lend a certain gravitas and some exuberance to the House of Lords," Queenan collapsed in a giggling heap.

Disgusting, that's what it is. Pray tell, how am I to get on as a prospective lord of the land if my bloody subjects-to-be don't take me seriously?

Thought for the Week: A clear conscience is usually the sign of a bad memory.

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