The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  Roy chuckled again. He was really getting on my nerves.

  ‘Roy, what’s so funny?’ I demanded. ‘What do you know about all this?’

  ‘No more than you might pick up on about thirty journeys between the DAA and Mr Michael Bradley’s Office, 44 Farringdon Street, and 129 Birmingham Road, Solihull,’ he replied.

  ‘Thirty journeys?’ I was astonished. ‘Who with?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Roy cheerfully, ‘your predecessor, sir, and Sir Humphrey, mostly.’ He chuckled again. I could have killed him. What’s so bloody funny, I’d like to know? ‘Very cheerful they were on the first few trips. They kept talking about shining examples of successful collaboration and suchlike. Then…’, he paused for effect, ‘… then the gloom started to come down, if you know what I mean, sir?’

  Gloom? What did he mean, gloom? ‘Gloom?’

  ‘Well, no, not gloom, exactly,’ said Roy and I relaxed momentarily. ‘More like desperation really.’

  My own mood was also moving inexorably from gloom to desperation. ‘Desperation?’ I asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Roy. ‘You’re the one who knows the background, aren’t you, sir?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes I am.’ I suppose I must have been a trifle unconvincing because my damn driver chuckled again.

  ‘Was there… um… any… er… any particular bit of the background you were thinking of?’ I tried to ask in a casual sort of way, still in a state of total mental chaos.

  ‘No,’ Roy said firmly. ‘I mean, when something’s fishy, it’s just fishy isn’t it? You don’t know which particular bit the smell’s coming from.’

  ‘Fishy?’ Did he know more than he was letting on? What’s fishy?

  ‘Well,’ continued Roy helpfully, ‘I mean, I don’t really know do I? For all I know Mr Bradley may be quite kosher, despite everything Sir Humphrey said about him. Still, you’d know more about all that than I do, sir. I’m just the driver.’

  Yes, I thought bitterly. What do I know? I’m just the bloody Minister.

  March 7th

  I’ve spent the weekend wondering if I can get any more information out of Roy. Does he know more, or has he told me everything he knows? Perhaps he can find out more, on the driver’s network. Information is currency among the drivers. They leak all over the place. On the other hand, perhaps he’ll trade the information that I don’t know anything at all about the Solihull project — which could be very damaging to me, couldn’t it?

  But the question is, how to find out if Roy knows any more without losing face myself. (Or losing any more face.) I’ve heard that drivers can be silenced with an MBE — can I get more information with the hint or promise of an MBE? But how would I drop the hint?

  These are foolish and desperate thoughts. First I’ll try and get the truth out of my Permanent Secretary. Then I’ll try my Private Secretary. Only then will I turn to my driver.

  It occurs to me, thinking generally around the problems that I’ve encountered in the last six months, that it is not possible to be a good Minister so long as the Civil Service is allowed complete control over its own recruitment. Perhaps it is impossible to stop the Civil Service appointing people in its own likeness, but we politicians ought to try to stop it growing like Frankenstein.

  This whole matter of the Solihull project — which I am determined to get to the bottom of — has reminded me how incomplete is my picture of my Department’s activities. We politicians hardly ever know if information is being concealed, because the concealment is concealed too. We are only offered a choice of options, all of which are acceptable to the permanent officials, and in any case they force decisions on us the way magicians force cards on their audience in the three-card trick. ‘Choose any card, choose my card.’ But somehow we always choose the card they want us to choose. And how is it managed that we never seem to choose a course of action that the Civil Service doesn’t approve? Because we’re too busy to draft any of the documents ourselves, and he who drafts the document wins the day.

  In fact, the more I think about it, the more the Department appears to be an iceberg, with nine-tenths of it below the surface, invisible, unknown, and deeply dangerous. And I am forced to spend my life manicuring the tip of this iceberg.

  My Department has a great purpose — to bring administration, bureaucracy and red tape under control. Yet everything that my officials do ensures that not only does the DAA not achieve its purpose, but that it achieves the opposite.

  Unfortunately, most government departments achieve the opposite of their purpose: the Commonwealth Office lost us the Commonwealth, the Department of Industry reduces industry, the Department of Transport presided over the disintegration of our public transport systems, the Treasury loses our money — I could go on for ever.

  And their greatest skill of all is the low profile. These so-called servants of ours are immune from the facts of life. The ordinary rules of living don’t apply to civil servants: they don’t suffer from inflation, they don’t suffer from unemployment, they automatically get honours.

  Jobs are never lost — the only cuts are in planned recruitment. I have found out that there were just two exemptions to the 1975 policy of a mandatory five per cent incomes policy — annual increments and professional fees: annual increments because that is how civil servants get pay rises, and professional fees on the insistence of parliamentary Counsel, the lawyers who drafted the legislation. Otherwise the legislation would never have been drafted!

  So what have I learned after nearly six months in office? Merely, it seems, that I am almost impotent in the face of the mighty faceless bureaucracy. However, it is excellent that I realise this because it means that they have failed to house-train me. If I were house-trained I would now believe a) that I am immensely powerful, and b) that my officials merely do my bidding.

  So there is hope. And I am resolved that I shall not leave my office tomorrow until I have got right to the bottom of this strange mystery surrounding the Solihull project. There must be some way of finding out what’s going on.

  March 8th

  Today was a real eye-opener.

  I hadn’t seen Sir Humphrey for some days. We met, at my request, to discuss the Solihull project. I explained that I had talked rather enthusiastically about the project on the air, but I am now having second thoughts.

  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Sir Humphrey politely.

  I didn’t beat about the bush. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘is everything all right with the Solihull project?’

  ‘I believe the building works are proceeding quite satisfactorily, Minister,’ he replied smoothly.

  I patiently explained that that was not quite what I meant. ‘What is going on?’ I asked.

  ‘Building is going on, Minister,’ he reported.

  ‘Yes,’ I said trying to keep my temper, ‘but… something is up, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes indeed,’ he replied. At last I’m getting somewhere, I thought. I relaxed.

  ‘What is up?’ I said.

  ‘The first floor is up,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and the second is almost up.’

  I began to show my annoyance. ‘Humphrey, please! I’m talking about the whole basis of the project.’

  ‘Ah,’ replied my Perm. Sec. gravely. ‘I see.’

  ‘What can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Well, as I understand it, Minister…’ here it comes, I thought, the truth at last, ‘… the basis is an aggregate of gravel and cement on six feet of best builder’s rubble.’

  Does he take me for a complete fool?

  ‘Humphrey,’ I said sternly, ‘I think you know I am talking about the finance.’

  So then he rabbited on about our contract with the construction company, and the usual stage payments, and all sorts of useless rubbish. I interrupted him.

  ‘What is it,’ I demanded, ‘that I don’t know?’

  ‘What do you mean, precisely?’ was his evasive reply.

  In a state of mounting hysteria, I tried to explain. ‘I
don’t know. It’s just that… there’s something I don’t know, and I don’t know because I can’t find the right question to ask you because I don’t know what to ask. What is it that I don’t know?’

  Sir Humphrey feigned innocence.

  ‘Minister,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what you don’t know. It could be almost anything.’

  ‘But,’ I persisted, ‘you are keeping things from me, aren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘What?’ I was nearly at boiling point by now. He smiled patronisingly at me. It was quite intolerable. He explained that it is the Department’s duty to protect the Minister from the great tide of irrelevant information that beats against the walls of the Department day after day.

  This was not the answer I was seeking. I stood up, and made one last attempt at explaining my problem — just in case he didn’t fully understand it. ‘Look Humphrey,’ I began, ‘there is something about the Solihull project that I know I don’t know, and I know you know. I know Bernard knows. Joe Morgan knows. For heaven’s sake, even my driver knows. It’s only poor old Joe Soap here who has to stand up and talk about it in front of the British people who hasn’t got a clue what’s going on.’

  Humphrey just stared at me. He said nothing. So I tried to spell it out for him.

  ‘Humphrey,’ I said, resisting the temptation to tear out my hair. Or his hair. ‘Will you please answer one simple question?’

  ‘Certainly Minister,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ I yelled. ‘You tell me and I’ll ask it!’

  March 10th

  Today seemed to last an eternity. Ruin stared me in the face.

  It began with another meeting with Humphrey. The atmosphere was distinctly frosty — Frank Weisel was there too, wanting to discuss his new paper about quangos.

  I wasn’t a bit interested in discussing quangos today, which seem to have no immediate relevance to my current problems, though it was full of stuff about ‘ending the scandal of ministerial patronage’ and ‘jobs for the boys’. Humphrey described it as ‘most imaginative’ which Frank interpreted as a sign of approval. Frank hasn’t yet learned that ‘original’ and ‘imaginative’ are two of Humphrey’s most damning criticisms.

  Frank’s scheme was to hand over all quango appointments to a Select Committee of Parliament. ‘Get the best men for the jobs instead of old chums, party hacks, and you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,’ he explained with his usual charm.

  It seemed to me that it was a good plan, and I suggested we put it forward for legislation.

  ‘It’s certainly a novel proposal,’ remarked Humphrey. ‘Novel’ — that’s the other killer!

  But Humphrey went on to explain his view that there was no sense in upsetting the current system when it is working smoothly.

  Smoothly? I’d never heard such nonsense. Only this morning I’d received a proposal for the Chairmanship of the new Industrial Co-partnership Commission, the latest quango. And whose name was being put up? Sir Desmond Glazebrook, of all people. ‘He’s never worked in industry,’ I said to Humphrey, ‘he’s never met a trades unionist, and he’s said a whole lot of nasty things about this government — is this the kind of suggestion a smoothly working system comes up with?’

  ‘But he would be an excellent Chairman,’ said Sir Humphrey.

  ‘He’s an ignorant buffoon,’ I explained carefully.

  ‘Nonetheless,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘an excellent Chairman.’

  I told Humphrey that I drew the line at Glazebrook. I absolutely refused to appoint him. Over my dead body, I declared.

  There was silence in the office for some moments. Then Sir Humphrey said, ‘Minister, before you make your final decision I think there is something that you ought to see.’

  And he produced a Ministry file. On the cover was written SOLIHULL PROJECT — TOP SECRET. Why top secret? I opened it. I saw why. Bradley, our Department’s partner, owed £7½ million, was going bankrupt, and the entire project was in imminent danger of collapse.

  I was aghast. Absolutely aghast. I asked Humphrey why I hadn’t been told any of this and he wittered on idiotically about how he was deeply conscious of the heavy burdens of my office. It seems to me that he’s made them quite a lot heavier in the last few days.

  ‘If this comes out,’ I said weakly, ‘it will be all over the front pages. A public scandal. A disaster.’

  ‘Appalling,’ added Bernard. He’s always such a comfort!

  Then for a moment, Frank gave me a tiny ray of hope. ‘Hold on, Jim.’ He grabbed the file. ‘Look, this report is dated before the election. You’re in the clear.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ murmured Humphrey, ‘under the convention of Ministerial responsibility, the blame must fall…’

  Frank interrupted him. ‘But everyone will know it wasn’t Jim.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Sir Humphrey shook his head mournfully. ‘But the principle of democratic accountability requires the occasional human sacrifice — Crichel Down and all that.[14] When the pack is baying for blood… isn’t that so, Minister?’

  I couldn’t speak.

  Frank was undeterred. ‘Surely he has only to point to the dates?’

  ‘Ah, well,’ Sir Humphrey put on his most pious expression, ‘a lesser man might try to wriggle out of it. But there is only one honourable course. As the Minister is well aware.’ He gazed at me sorrowfully and shook his head again. I felt I was at my own funeral.

  ‘Don’t you think Frank might have a point?’ I asked, determined to fight to the last.

  ‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘except that in that broadcast, which goes out…’

  ‘Today,’ I interjected.

  ‘… today,’ continued Bernard, ‘you publicly identified yourself with the success of the project. In fact, it’ll be on the air any minute now.’

  We all gaped at each other. Then Bernard rushed for the radio.

  I shouted, ‘Bernard, get on to the BBC and stop it.’

  Humphrey said, ‘I wish you luck, Minister, but — well, you know what the BBC are like.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but surely in a case like this, a crisis, an emergency, a scandal…’

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘if you put it like that, they might move it to peak listening time. And then repeat it. And film it for Panorama.’

  ‘I’ll order them to cancel it,’ I said.

  ‘MINISTER TRIES TO CENSOR BBC,’ said Humphrey, gloomily dreaming up headlines again.

  I could see his point, of course. It was obviously hopeless. I was just about to suggest asking them very, very nicely when Bernard hurried in holding a transistor, and out of it came my voice saying all those dreadful things about government money and private investment in a real partnership, and how I took such a great personal interest in the Solihull project and how it is symbolic of everything this government is working for — concrete proof that our policy really works in practice.

  I switched it off. I couldn’t bear to listen to it. We gazed at each other, bleakly, in silence.

  I waited. Nobody spoke.

  Eventually I did.

  ‘Humphrey,’ I asked quietly, ‘why did you let me say all that?’

  ‘Minister,’ he assumed his I’m-just-a-humble-civil-servant manner, ‘I can only advise. I did advise. I advised most strongly. But when an adviser’s advice is unheeded…’

  He petered out, only too aware that he’d kept some rather vital information back from me.

  ‘Advise me now,’ I said coldly.

  ‘Certainly Minister.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Now, it is possible Bartletts Bank will take over from Sloane Enterprises, and all will be well.’

  The bank! I’d never thought of that. It seemed too good to be true!

  ‘But…’ said Humphrey.

  Clearly it was too good to be true.

  ‘But… the bank is hesitant. However, the Director in charge is retiring next year and is anxious for some appointment. The Chairmanship of a quango, fo
r instance.’

  I could see no problem at all. ‘Give him one,’ I said immediately. ‘Give him that one you were proposing that fool Desmond Glaze-brook for. Who is the Director in charge, anyway?’

  ‘Desmond Glazebrook,’ explained Humphrey.

  Suddenly it all became clear.

  I felt I had to leave a decent pause before I said that actually he’s not such a bad chap really.

  Frank was extraordinarily slow on the uptake. ‘He’s always attacking the government,’ he said angrily.

  I explained to Frank that it does us good to appoint our opponents occasionally. It’s democratic — statesmanlike.

  Frank seemed unimpressed with this point of view, and he argued and argued till finally I just told him to shut up.

  I asked Humphrey who else knew about this wretched Solihull Report. Only Joe Morgan, Humphrey told me — which suddenly explained his confident claim for a Birmingham Allowance. Blackmail!

  And it occurred to me at that moment that Desmond Glazebrook might need a Deputy Chairman, one with real experience of industry. A trades unionist, perhaps. I mentioned it to Humphrey, who thought it was an awfully good idea, and he immediately suggested Joe Morgan. I thought that was an awfully good idea.

  ‘It takes two to quango, Minister,’ smiled Humphrey, and we got them both on the phone right away.

  Frank watched us in silence, and when we’d had brief chats with Desmond and Joe he had an absolutely amazing outburst — ‘This is exactly what I’ve been talking about,’ he shouted, even louder than usual. ‘This is what’s wrong with the system. Jobs for the boys. Quid pro quo. Corruption.’ I couldn’t believe my ears, Frank accusing me of corruption. What an idea! He’s obviously going off his rocker.

  ‘What about my quango abolition paper?’ he yelled, going red in the face.

  ‘Very good Frank,’ I said smoothly. ‘Imaginative. Ingenious.’

  ‘Novel,’ added Humphrey.

  Then Frank announced that he wouldn’t let me suppress it. As if I would do such a thing! Me, suppress papers? I’m a democrat, a believer in open government. Frank must be raving mad.

  ‘I’ll get it to Cabinet through someone else,’ he threatened at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. ‘I’ll get it adopted as party policy. You’ll see.’