The upshot is that it would now be up to the PM to cancel the visit on my recommendation or Martin’s. And I have decided it is on. Another policy decision. Quite a lot of them after all. Good.
November 26th
Today was the first day of the long-awaited official visit. President Mohammed’s arrival was shown on TV. Bernard and I were watching in the office — I must admit I was slightly on tenterhooks in case he did turn out to be a bit uncouth.
A jumbo jet touched down, with BURANDAN AIRWAYS written on the side. I was hugely impressed. British Airways are having to pawn their Concordes, and here is this tiny African state with its own airline, jumbo jets and all.
I asked Bernard how many planes Burandan Airways had. ‘None,’ he said.
I told him not to be silly and use his eyes. ‘No Minister, it belongs to Freddie Laker,’ he said. ‘They chartered it last week and repainted it specially.’ Apparently most of the Have-Nots (I mean, LDCs) do this — at the opening of the UN General Assembly the runways of Kennedy Airport are jam-packed with phoney flag-carriers. ‘In fact,’ added Bernard with a sly grin, ‘there was one 747 that belonged to nine different African airlines in one month. They called it the mumbo-jumbo.’
While we watched nothing much happened on the TV except the mumbo-jumbo taxiing around Prestwick and the Queen looking a bit chilly. Bernard gave me the day’s schedule and explained that I was booked on the night sleeper from King’s Cross to Edinburgh because I had to vote in a three-line whip at the House tonight and would have to miss the last plane. Then the commentator, in that special hushed BBC voice used for any occasion with which Royalty is connected, announced reverentially that we were about to catch our first glimpse of President Selim.
And out of the plane stepped Charlie. My old friend Charlie Umtali. We were at LSE together. Not Selim Mohammed at all, but Charlie.
Bernard asked me if I were sure. Silly question. How could you forget a name like Charlie Umtali?
I sent Bernard for Sir Humphrey, who was delighted to hear that we now know something about our official visitor.
Bernard’s official brief said nothing. Amazing! Amazing how little the FCO has been able to find out. Perhaps they were hoping it would all be on the car radio. All the brief says is that Colonel Selim Mohammed was converted to Islam some years ago, they didn’t know his original name, and therefore knew little of his background.
I was able to tell Humphrey and Bernard all about his background. Charlie was a red-hot political economist, I informed them. Got the top first. Wiped the floor with everyone.
Bernard seemed relieved. ‘Well that’s all right then.’
‘Why?’ I enquired.
‘I think Bernard means,’ said Sir Humphrey helpfully, ‘that he’ll know how to behave if he was at an English University. Even if it was the LSE.’ I never know whether or not Humphrey is insulting me intentionally.
Humphrey was concerned about Charlie’s political colour. ‘When you said he was red-hot, were you speaking politically?’
In a way I was. ‘The thing about Charlie is that you never quite know where you are with him. He’s the sort of chap who follows you into a revolving door and comes out in front.’
‘No deeply held convictions?’ asked Sir Humphrey.
‘No. The only thing Charlie was deeply committed to was Charlie.’
‘Ah, I see. A politician, Minister.’
This was definitely one of Humphrey’s little jokes. He’d never be so rude otherwise. Though sometimes I suspect that Humphrey says things he really means and excuses himself by saying ‘only joking’. Nonetheless, I was able to put him down by patronising him with his own inimitable phrase. ‘Very droll, Humphrey,’ I said cuttingly. And I pointed out that as Charlie was only here for a couple of days he couldn’t do much harm anyway.
Sir Humphrey still seemed concerned. ‘Just remember, Minister,’ he said, ‘you wanted him here, not me.’
‘If you’ll excuse me, Humphrey, I must get on with my letters,’ I said, trying to hide my irritation.
‘Just before you do,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d be most grateful if you would glance at this brief on African politics.’ He handed me a very bulky file. More paper. I declined to read it.
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’m all right on all that.’
‘Oh good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘because one wouldn’t want to upset the delicate power balance between FROLINAT and FRETELIN, would one?’
I think he could see that he’d got me there. So he pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, if the new President is more sympathetic to ZIPRA than ZANLA, not to mention ZAPU and ZANU, then CARECOM and COREPER might want to bring in GRAPO, and of course that would mean going back over all that old business with ECOSOC and UNIDO and then the whole IBRD — OECD row could blow up again… and what would HMG do if that happened?’[4]
The only initials I understood in that whole thing were HMG [Her Majesty’s Government — Ed.]. As he had predicted, I said — as casually as I could — that I might as well glance through it.
‘I’ll see you on the train,’ he said, and departed smoothly. I’m afraid he won a small moral victory there.
Bernard then tried to hurry me along to the House. But the huge pile of correspondence in my in-tray was now multiplying horrifyingly and apparently reproducing itself. ‘What about all this,’ I said helplessly. ‘What can I do?’
‘Well, Minister…’ began Bernard, and his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly across to the out-tray a couple of times. I realised that I had very little choice. I picked up the whole pile of letters and moved them solemnly from the in-tray to the out-tray.
It was a funny feeling. I felt both guilty and relieved.
Bernard seemed to think I’d done the right thing. The inevitable thing, perhaps. ‘That’s right, Minister,’ he said in a kindly tone, ‘better out than in.’
November 27th
Last night was a horrendous experience, one that I do not intend to repeat in a hurry.
And today a massive crisis has yet to be solved. And it’s all my fault. And I don’t know if I can carry it off. Oh God!
I am sitting up in bed in a first-class sleeper, writing this diary, and dreading what the day has in store for me.
To begin at the beginning. Roy drove me from the House to King’s Cross. I was there in plenty of time. I found my sleeper, ordered my morning tea and biscuits, the train was just pulling out of the station and my trousers were half off when there was a panic-stricken knocking on the door.
‘Who is it?’ I called.
‘Bernard,’ said Bernard’s voice. It was Bernard. I let him in. He was breathless and sweating. I’d never seen him in such a state. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any civil servant in such a state. They all seem so frightfully calm and controlled most of the time, in a funny way it’s rather reassuring to see that they sometimes panic just like the rest of the human race, and that when they do they just run around like headless chickens.
Bernard was clutching a pile of large brown manila envelopes.
‘Come in, Bernard,’ I said soothingly. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘Read this, Minister,’ he said dramatically, and thrust one of the brown envelopes at my chest.
I was thoroughly irritated. Bernard is endlessly pushing paper at me. I already had four red boxes on my bunk.
I thrust the envelope back at him. ‘No I won’t,’ I said.
‘You must,’ he said, and back it came as though we were playing pass the parcel. ‘This is top priority.’
‘You always say that about everything,’ I pointed out, and carried on removing my trousers.
Bernard informed me that he was offering me an advance copy of President Selim’s speech for tomorrow (today now — oh my God!) which had been sent around by the Burandan Embassy.
I wasn’t interested. These speeches are always the same: happy to be here, thanks for the gracious welcome, ties between our two countries, bonds
of shared experience, happy and fruitful co-operation in the future, and all the usual drivel.
Bernard agreed that all of that rubbish was in the speech, but insisted that I read the important bits at once — bits he’d underlined in red ink. He then said he was distributing copies around the train. Round the train? I thought he’d gone completely crackers — but he explained that Sir Humphrey and the Foreign Secretary and the Perm. Sec. to the Foreign Sec. and our press officer and assorted other dignitaries were on the train. I hadn’t realised.
I opened the envelope and saw the most appalling sight. A speech that we cannot allow to be delivered.
Then Sir Humphrey came in, wearing, incidentally, a rather startling gold silk dressing gown with a red Chinese dragon all over it. I would never have thought of Humphrey in such a garment. Perhaps I wasn’t all that impressive, in my shirt-tails and socks.
‘Well Minister,’ Sir Humphrey began, ‘we appear to have been caught with our trousers down.’ He went on to say that he didn’t like to say that he’d told me so, but he’d told me so.
‘We’re going to have egg all over our faces,’ I said.
‘Not egg, Minister,’ he replied suavely, ‘just imperialist yoke.’
I asked him if he was trying to be funny. Because I certainly can’t see anything funny about this situation. I think he said, ‘No, just my little yoke,’ but because of the noise of the train I’m not absolutely sure.
I reiterated that something had to be done. Three Scottish by-elections hang in the balance, not counting the effects on Ulster! ‘This is a catastrophe,’ I whispered.
Sir Humphrey did not exactly seem to be at pains to minimise the situation. ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed solemnly, piling on the agony. ‘A catastrophe. A tragedy. A cataclysmic, apocalyptic, monumental calamity.’ He paused for breath, and then added bluntly: ‘And you did it.’
This was not exactly helping. ‘Humphrey,’ I reproached him. ‘You’re paid to advise me. Advise me!’
‘All in all,’ replied Sir Humphrey, ‘this is not unlike trying to advise the Captain of the Titanic after he has struck the iceberg.’
‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there must be something we can do.’
‘We could sing Abide with Me.’
There was more knocking on the door and Bernard popped in. ‘Minister, the Foreign Secretary would like a word.’
Martin came in.
‘Ah, Foreign Secretary.’ Sir Humphrey was being obsequious now.
‘Yes,’ said Martin. He knew who he was. ‘You’ve read the speech?’
Before I could reply, Sir Humphrey interrupted: ‘Yes, my Minister is concerned that the government will have egg all over its face. Scotch egg, presumably.’
I’m getting a bit tired of Humphrey’s stupid puns. I asked Martin why Selim Mohammed would want to make such a speech here. Martin reckons it’s for home consumption, to show the other African readers that he is a pukka anti-colonialist.
Bernard popped his head round the door, and suggested that we draft a statement in response to the speech. I thought that was a good idea. Whereupon he announced that he had brought along Bill Pritchard from the press office.
We had me and Humphrey and Martin and Bernard already in my sleeper. Bill Pritchard turned out to have the build of a rugger front-row forward. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he enquired jovially, and knocked Humphrey forward onto the bunk, face first.
I asked Humphrey if a statement was a good idea.
‘Well Minister,’ he replied carefully as he stood up, still the mandarin in spite of his silly Chinese dressing gown. ‘In practical terms we have, in fact, the usual six options. One, do nothing. Two, issue a statement deploring the speech. Three, lodge an official protest. Four, cut off aid. Five, break off diplomatic relations. Six, declare war.’
This sounded like rather a lot of options. I was pleased. I asked him which we should do.
‘One: if we do nothing we implicitly agree with the speech. Two: if we issue a statement we just look foolish. Three: if we lodge a protest it will be ignored. Four: we can’t cut off aid because we don’t give them any. Five: if we break off diplomatic relations we cannot negotiate the oil rig contracts. Six: if we declare war it just might look as if we were over-reacting.’ He paused. ‘Of course, in the old days we’d have sent in a gunboat.’
I was desperate by this time. I said, ‘I suppose that is absolutely out of the question?’
They all gazed at me in horror. Clearly it is out of the question.
Bernard had absented himself during Humphrey’s résumé of the possibilities. Now he squeezed back into the compartment.
‘The Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office is coming down the corridor,’ he announced.
‘Oh terrific,’ muttered Bill Pritchard. ‘It’ll be like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here.’
Then I saw what he meant. Sir Frederick Stewart, Perm. Sec. of the FCO, known as ‘Jumbo’ to his friends, burst open the door. It smashed Bernard up against the wall. Martin went flying up against the washbasin, and Humphrey fell flat on his face on the bunk. The mighty mountain of lard spoke:
‘May I come in, Minister?’ He had a surprisingly small high voice.
‘You can try,’ I said.
‘This is all we needed,’ groaned Bill Pritchard as the quivering mass of flesh forced its way into the tiny room, pressing Bill up against the mirror and me against the window. We were all standing extremely close together.
‘Welcome to the Standing Committee,’ said Humphrey as he propped himself precariously upright.
‘What do we do about this hideous thing? This hideous speech, I mean,’ I added nervously, in case Jumbo took offence. His bald head shone, reflecting the overhead lamp.
‘Well now,’ began Jumbo, ‘I think we know what’s behind this, don’t we Humpy?’
Humpy? Is this his nickname? I looked at him with new eyes. He clearly thought I was awaiting a response.
‘I think that Sir Frederick is suggesting that the offending paragraph of the speech may be, shall we say, a bargaining counter.’
‘A move in the game,’ said Jumbo.
‘The first shot in a battle,’ said Humphrey.
‘An opening gambit,’ said Bernard.
These civil servants are truly masters of the cliché. They can go on all night. They do, unless stopped. I stopped them.
‘You mean, he wants something,’ I said incisively. It’s lucky someone was on the ball.
‘If he doesn’t,’ enquired Jumbo Stewart, ‘why give us a copy in advance?’ This seems unarguable. ‘But unfortunately the usual channels are blocked because the Embassy staff are all new and we’ve only just seen the speech. And no one knows anything about this new President.’
I could see Humphrey giving me meaningful looks.
‘I do,’ I volunteered, slightly reluctantly.
Martin looked amazed. So did Jumbo.
‘They were at University together.’ Humphrey turned to me. ‘The old-boy network?’ It seemed to be a question.
I wasn’t awfully keen on this turn of events. After all, it’s twenty-five years since I saw Charlie, he might not remember me, I don’t know what I can achieve. ‘I think you ought to see him, Sir Frederick,’ I replied.
‘Minister, I think you carry more weight,’ said Jumbo. He seemed unaware of the irony.
There was a pause, during which Bill Pritchard tried unsuccessfully to disguise a snigger by turning it into a cough.
‘So we’re all agreed,’ enquired Sir Humphrey, ‘that the mountain should go to Mohammed?’
‘No, Jim’s going,’ said Martin, and got a very nasty look from his overweight Perm. Sec. and more sounds of a press officer asphyxiating himself.
I realised that I had no choice. ‘All right,’ I agreed, and turned to Sir Humphrey, ‘but you’re coming with me.’
‘Of course, said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d hardly let you do it on your own.’
Is this anoth
er insult, or is it just my paranoia?
Later today:
Charlie Umtali — perhaps I’d better call him President Selim from now on — welcomed us to his suite at the Caledonian Hotel at 10 a.m.
‘Ah Jim.’ He rose to greet us courteously. I had forgotten what beautiful English he spoke. ‘Come in, how nice to see you.’
I was actually rather, well, gratified by this warm reception.
‘Charlie,’ I said. We shook hands. ‘Long time no see.’
‘You don’t have to speak pidgin English to me,’ he said, turned to his aide, and asked for coffee for us all.
I introduced Humphrey, and we all sat down.
‘I’ve always thought that Permanent Under-Secretary is such a demeaning title,’ he said. Humphrey’s eyebrows shot up.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It sounds like an assistant typist or something,’ said Charlie pleasantly, and Humphrey’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. ‘Whereas,’ he continued in the same tone, ‘you’re really in charge of everything, aren’t you?’ Charlie hasn’t changed a bit.
Humphrey regained his composure and preened. ‘Not quite everything.’
I then congratulated Charlie on becoming Head of State. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘though it wasn’t difficult. I didn’t have to do any of the boring things like fighting elections.’ He paused, and then added casually, ‘Or by-elections,’ and smiled amiably at us.
Was this a hint? I decided to say nothing. So after a moment he went on. ‘Jim, of course I’m delighted to see you, but is this purely a social visit or is there anything you particularly wanted to talk about? Because I do have to put the finishing touches to my speech.’
Another hint?
I told him we’d seen the advance copy. He asked if we liked it. I asked him if, as we were old friends, I could speak frankly. He nodded.
I tried to make him realise that the bit about colonialist oppression was slightly — well, really, profoundly embarrassing. I asked him if he couldn’t just snip out the whole chunk about the Scots and the Irish.
Charlie responded by saying, ‘This is something that I feel very deeply to be true. Surely the British don’t believe in suppressing the truth?’
The Complete Yes Minister Page 5