THE MAJOR'S winter fuel allowance has become a cause celebre in the village. For although the world has many other things to worry about, there seems to be a civil servant somewhere totally obsessed with robbing the old warrior of last year's £100 - and possibly this year's £200 too.

Now the Major, at first, did not wish for such matters to become public knowledge: he just took a gill too many of Rams' Blood whilst seeking Owd Tom's advice in the Beggars' Arms and we locals couldn't fail to overhear.

But now, the Major has become a soldier again, battling the evil forces of bureaucracy, and is something of a hero in the Dale.

He was bowler-hatted out of the army before all state employees were given index-linked pensions as an election bribe some 30 years ago. Last winter, his winter fuel allowance did not arrive for reasons unknown - it was paid the year before - so, come mid-summer, he picked up he phone to find out why.

He was told that he should have made a formal application for it, as was advertised "in all the papers" in March. The Major, nor anyone else in Beggarsdale for that matter, had seen these alleged ads. but it was too late now: he couldn't have his hundred quid.

This really put his back up so, egged on by Owd Tom - who would fight civil servants for nowt, never mind £100 - he appealed. This week, he got the form he needed to fill in and, such is the notoriety of the case now, that he brought it into the Beggars' so that everyone could have a laugh (a bitter, ironic laugh, that is).

They wanted to know the Major's name and address, although they had just sent him the form.

They wanted, of course, his national insurance number, which they had used to identify him on the computer when he first rang up to complain.

They wanted to see his birth certificate (no photocopies allowed) to prove that there was a man called the Major on their records which, of course, go back to the day when he was registered - and given a birth certificate and a national insurance number.

They wanted to know if he had been in hospital last winter (so his tumble-down cottage on Windmill Hill Lane wouldn't have needed heating: just let the frost crack all the pipes).

But, best of all, they wanted to know if he had been in prison - which the Major thought was hysterically funny (by now, of course, he has once more had a gill too many).

"I would have thought that the state would know which of its citizens are in or out of prison," he roared.

"If not, how can they tell if anyone has escaped?"

It all became very jolly until Owd Tom spotted the pre-paid One Her Majesty's Service set to carry the bones of the Major's life to some civil servant in Newcastle so cast his or her decision.

It was, of course, Second Class.

"That's bleeping typical," snorted Tom, holding the envelope aloft. "Yer income tax cheques go First Class a'course. The Government gets its money fast whilst owt goin' t'other way goes slow - if it goes at all."

But this, of course, is obviously necessary. The Government needs to pay out as little as it can, as slowly as it can, so that it can pay the wages of the people whose job is to hold up such payments. Catch 22, I believe!

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.