The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  He marched to the door. Then he stopped, and turned. He had a beatific smile on his face. I didn’t like the look of it one bit. Whenever Frank smiles you know that something very nasty is about to happen. ‘The press,’ he said softly. ‘The press. If the press were to get hold of this…’

  And suddenly, I had a brainwave. ‘Frank,’ I said gently, ‘I’ve been thinking. Changing the subject completely, of course, but have you ever thought about serving on a quango?’

  ‘Oh no,’ he replied, smiling his most unpleasant smile, ‘you’re not corrupting me!’

  I explained patiently that nothing could be further from my thoughts. My idea is that, even better than abolishing the quango system, would be to make it work. And that if we set up a commission to supervise and report on the composition and activities of all quangos, it could be the answer. It could have very senior people, most Privy Councillors. I know that Frank has always secretly fancied himself hob-nobbing with Privy Councillors. I explained that such a body would need some really able people, people who have studied quangos, people who know the abuses of the system. ‘And in view of your knowledge, and concern,’ I finished, ‘Humphrey suggested your name.’

  ‘Privy Councillors?’ said Frank, hypnotised.

  ‘It’s up to you, of course,’ I added, ‘but it would be a great service to the public. How do you feel?’

  ‘You’re not going to change my opinions, you know,’ replied Frank thoughtfully. ‘There is such a thing as integrity.’

  Humphrey and I both hastened to agree with Frank on the importance of integrity, and we pointed out that it was, in fact, his very integrity that would make him such a good member of this quango.

  ‘Mind you,’ Humphrey said, instinctively aware of Frank’s enormous sense of guilt which needs constant absolution and aware also of his deep commitment to the puritan work ethic, ‘it would be very hard work. I’m sure that service in this super-quango would involve a great deal of arduous foreign travel, to see how they manage these matters in other important government centres — Japan, Australia, California, the West Indies…’

  ‘Tahiti,’ I added helpfully.

  ‘Tahiti,’ agreed Sir Humphrey.

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank with an expression of acute suffering on his face, ‘it would be arduous, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Very arduous,’ we both said. Several times.

  ‘But serving the public’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?’ asked Frank hopefully.

  Humphrey and I murmured, ‘serving the public, exactly’ once or twice.

  Then Frank said, ‘And what about my quango paper?’

  I told him it would be invaluable, and that he should take it with him.

  And Humphrey offered to keep a copy on the files — with the Solihull Report.

  8 The Compassionate Society

  March 13th

  Having effectively squashed the awful scandal that was brewing over the Solihull project, but having done a deal with Frank Weisel on the little matter of his suggested reforms in the quango system as a price for extricating myself from the appalling mess that Humphrey had got me into, I decided this weekend to consider my various options.

  First of all it has become clear that Frank has to go. He really is very uncouth and, valuable as he was to me during my days in opposition, I can see that he lacks the subtlety, skill and discretion that my professional advisers display constantly.

  [The contradiction inherent in these two paragraphs indicates the state of mental confusion in which Hacker now found himself about Sir Humphrey after five months in Whitehall — Ed.]

  However, having despatched the self-righteously incorruptible Frank the day before yesterday on his arduous fact-finding mission to review important centres of government — California, Jamaica, and Tahiti — I already feel a load off my mind as one significant source of pressure on me is lifted. I felt free and easy for the first time in months, as if I had actually gained time yesterday.

  I am now able to draw some conclusions about the Civil Service in general and Sir Humphrey in particular. I begin to see that senior civil servants in the open structure[15] have, surprisingly enough, almost as brilliant minds as they themselves would claim to have. However, since there are virtually no goals or targets that can be achieved by a civil servant personally, his high IQ is usually devoted to the avoidance of error.

  Civil servants are posted to new jobs every three years or so. This is supposed to gain them all-round experience on the way to the top. In practice, it merely ensures that they can never have any personal interest in achieving the success of a policy: a policy of any complexity takes longer than three years to see through from start to finish, so a civil servant either has to leave it before its passage is completed or he arrives on the scene long after it started. This also means you can never pin the blame for failure on any individual: the man in charge at the end will say it was started wrong, and the man in charge at the beginning will say it was finished wrong.

  Curiously the Civil Service seem to approve of this system. They don’t like civil servants to become emotionally involved in the success or failure of policies. Policies are for Ministers. Ministers or Governments stand or fall by them. Civil servants see themselves as public-spirited impartial advisers attempting to implement, with total impartiality, whatever policy the Minister or the Government see fit.

  Except that they don’t, do they? There’s the rub.

  Because Permanent Secretaries are always trying to steer Ministers of all parties towards ‘the common ground’. [In other words, the Department’s policy — a policy they have some hope of being able to pursue uninterrupted, whichever party is in power — Ed.]

  Afterthought: considering that the avoidance of error is their main priority, it is surprising how many errors they make!

  March 14th

  Today, Sunday, has been spent going through my boxes and mugging up on my PQs [Parliamentary Questions — Ed.] for tomorrow.

  I take PQs very seriously, as do all Ministers with any sense. Although the voters are mainly aware of a Minister’s activities through the newspapers and television, his real power and influence still stems from the House of Commons. A Minister cannot afford to make an idiot of himself in the House, and will not last long if he doesn’t learn to perform there adequately.

  One day a month this ghastly event takes place. PQs are the modern equivalent of throwing the Christians to the lions, or the medieval ordeal by combat. One day a month I’m on First Order, and some other Minister from some other Department is on Second Order. Another day, vice versa. [There’s also Third Order but no one knows what it’s there for because it’s never been reached — Ed.]

  The Sundays and Mondays before I’m on First Order are absolute bloody anguish. I should think they’re anguish for the civil servants too. Bernard has an Assistant Private Secretary employed full-time on getting answers together for all possible supplementaries. Legions of civil servants sit around Whitehall exercising their feverish imaginations, trying to foretell what possible supplementaries could be coming from the backbenchers. Usually, of course, I can guess the political implications of a PQ better than my civil servants.

  Then, when the gruesome moment arrives you stand up in the House, which is usually packed as it’s just after lunch and PQs are considered good clean fun because there’s always a chance that a Minister will humiliate himself.

  Still, I’m reasonably relaxed this evening, secure in the knowledge that, as always, I am thoroughly prepared for Question Time tomorrow. One thing I’m proud of is that, no matter how Sir Humphrey makes rings round me in administrative matters,[16] I have always prided myself on my masterful control over the House.

  March 15th

  I can hardly believe it. PQs today were a disaster! A totally unforeseen catastrophe. Although I did manage to snatch a sort of Pyrrhic victory from the jaws of defeat. I came in bright and early and went over all the possible supplementaries — I thought! — and spent luncht
ime being tested by Bernard.

  The first question was from Jim Lawford of Birmingham South-West who had asked me about the government’s pledge to reduce the number of administrators in the Health Service.

  I gave the prepared reply, which was a little self-congratulatory — to the civil servants who wrote it, of course, not to me!

  [We have found the relevant exchange in Hansard, and reprint it below — Ed.]

  Somebody had leaked this wretched paper to Lawford. He was waving it about with a kind of wild glee, his fat face shining with excitement. Everyone was shouting for an answer. Humphrey — or somebody — had been up to his old tricks again, disguising an increase in the numbers of administrative and secretarial staff simply by calling them by some other name. But a rose by any other name is still a rose, as Wordsworth said. [In fact, Shakespeare said ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ But Hacker was an ex-journalist and Polytechnic Lecturer — Ed.] This looked like it was going to be a real political stink. And a stink by any other name is still a stink. [Or a stink by any other name would smell as bad? — Ed.] Had it stayed secret, it would have been seen as a brilliant manoeuvre to pass off an increase of staff by 7 % as a decrease of 11.3 % — but when leaked, it suddenly comes into the category of a shabby deception. What’s more, an unsuccessful shabby deception — quite the worst kind!

  I stalled rather well in the circumstances:

  Thank God one of my own backbenchers came to my rescue. Gerry Chandler asked me if I could reassure my friends that the enquiries would not be carried out by my own Department but by an independent investigator who would command the respect of the House. I was forced to say that I was happy to give that assurance.

  So I just about satisfied the House on that one. However, I shall have to have a very serious talk about the whole matter with Humphrey and Bernard tomorrow. I don’t mind the deception, but allowing me to look ridiculous at Question Time is simply not on!

  It’s not even in their interest — I wasn’t able to defend the Department, was I?

  March 16th

  This morning started none too well, either.

  Roy [Hacker’s driver, and like all drivers, one of the best-informed men in Whitehall — Ed.] picked me up as usual, at about 8.30. I asked him to drive me to the Ministry, as I was to spend all morning on Health Service administration.

  He started needling me right away.

  ‘Chap just been talking about that on the radio,’ he said casually. ‘Saying the trouble with the health and education and transport services is that all the top people in government go to private hospitals and send their kids to private schools…’

  I laughed it off, though I sounded a little mirthless, I fear. ‘Very good. Comedy programme, was it?’

  This egalitarian stuff, though daft, is always a little dangerous if it’s not watched very carefully.

  ‘And they go to work in chauffeur-driven cars,’ added my chauffeur.

  I didn’t deign to reply. So he persisted.

  ‘Don’t you think there’s something in it? I mean, if you and Sir Humphrey Appleby went to work on a number 27…’

  I interrupted him. ‘Quite impracticable,’ I explained firmly. ‘We work long enough hours as it is, without spending an extra hour a day waiting at the bus stop.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘You’d have to make the bus service much more efficient, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘We certainly would,’ I said, trying to dismiss the subject quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Roy. ‘That’s what he was saying, see?’ The man should be a television interviewer.

  ‘Same with the Health Service,’ Roy continued inexorably. ‘You a member of BUPA, sir?’

  It was none of his bloody business. But I didn’t say so. Instead, I smiled sweetly and asked if there was anything on the radio.

  ‘Yesterday in Parliament, I think sir,’ he replied, reaching for the switch.

  ‘No, no, no, don’t bother, don’t bother,’ I shrieked casually, but too late. He switched it on, and I was forced to listen to myself.

  Roy listened with great interest. After it got to Second Order he switched it off. There was a bit of an awkward silence.

  ‘I got away with it, didn’t I?’ I asked hopefully.

  Roy chuckled. ‘You were lucky they didn’t ask you about that new St Edward’s Hospital,’ he said jovially.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well…’ he smacked his lips. ‘They finished building it fifteen months ago — and it’s still got no patients.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘the DHSS haven’t got enough money to staff it.’

  ‘Oh, it’s got staff,’ said Roy. ‘Five hundred administrators. Just no patients.’

  Could this be true? It hardly seemed possible.

  ‘Who told you this?’ I asked cautiously.

  ‘The lip.’

  ‘The lip?’

  [The slang word used by drivers to describe he who knows the most — Ed.]

  ‘My mate Charlie,’ he explained. ‘He knows all right. He’s the driver for the Secretary of State for Health.’

  When I got to the office I summoned Humphrey at once. I told him straight out that I was appalled by yesterday’s debate.

  ‘So am I, Minister,’ Humphrey said. I was slightly surprised to find him agreeing so vehemently.

  ‘The stupidity of it… the incompetence,’ I continued.

  ‘I agree,’ said Humphrey. ‘I can’t think what came over you.’

  I blinked at him. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘To concede a full independent enquiry…’

  So that was it. I stopped him dead in his tracks. ‘Humphrey!’ I said magisterially. ‘That is not what I am talking about.’

  Sir Humphrey looked puzzled. ‘But you mentioned stupidity and incompetence.’

  ‘Yours, Humphrey!’ I roared. ‘Yours!’

  Now it seemed to be his turn to be astounded. ‘Mine, Minister?’ He was incredulous.

  ‘Yes. Yours. How could you drop me in it like that?’

  To be fair, he personally hadn’t dropped me in it. But his precious Department had. Humphrey, however, seemed disinclined to apologise.

  ‘A small omission from the brief. We can’t foresee everything.’ Then his face resumed an expression of pure horror. ‘But to concede a full independent enquiry…’

  I’d had enough of this. ‘I didn’t particularly want an enquiry either,’ I pointed out. ‘But if you’re drowning and somebody throws you a rope, you grab it.’

  ‘It was not a rope,’ replied Sir Humphrey. ‘It was a noose. You should have stood up for the Department — that is what you are here for.’

  That may be what Humphrey thinks I’m here for. As a matter of fact, it’s nice to know he thinks I’m here for something. But I knew that if I didn’t stop him he would give me a little lecture on Ministerial Responsibility.

  The Doctrine of Ministerial Responsibility is a handy little device conceived by the Civil Service for dropping the Minister in it while enabling the mandarins to keep their noses clean. It means, in practice, that the Civil Service runs everything and takes all the decisions, but when something goes wrong then it’s the Minister who takes the blame.

  ‘No, Humphrey, it won’t do,’ I interjected firmly before he could go any further. ‘I prepared myself thoroughly for Question Time yesterday. I mugged up all the Questions and literally dozens of supplementaries. I was up half Sunday night, I skipped lunch yesterday, I was thoroughly prepared.’ I decided to say it again. ‘Thoroughly prepared!’ I said. ‘But nowhere in my brief was there the slightest indication that you’d been juggling the figures so that I would be giving misleading replies to the House.’

  ‘Minister,’ said Humphrey in his most injured tones, ‘you said you wanted the administration figures reduced, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed.

  ‘So we reduced them.’

  Dimly I began to perceive what he was saying. ‘But… you only reduce
d the figures, not the actual number of administrators!’

  Sir Humphrey furrowed his brow. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well,’ I explained patiently, ‘that was not what I meant.’

  Sir Humphrey was pained. ‘Well really, Minister, we are not mind-readers. You said reduce the figures, so we reduced the figures.’

  This was obvious nonsense. He knew perfectly well what I’d meant, but had chosen to take my instructions literally. It was because of this sort of Civil Service foolishness and unhelpfulness that this country is literally bleeding to death.

  [We assume that Hacker did not literally mean literally — Ed.]

  ‘How did it get out?’ I demanded. ‘Another leak. This isn’t a Department, it’s a colander.’ I was rather pleased with that little crack. Sir Humphrey ignored it, of course. ‘How can we govern responsibly,’ I continued, ‘if backbenchers are going to get all the facts?’ There was another silence. Naturally. There was no answer to that one. ‘Anyway,’ I concluded, ‘at least an enquiry gives us a little time.’

  ‘So does a time bomb,’ observed my Permanent Secretary.

  So I waited to see if he had a disposal squad up his sleeve. Apparently not.

  ‘If only you’d said we’d have a departmental enquiry,’ he complained, ‘then we could have made it last eighteen months, and finally said that it revealed a certain number of anomalies which have now been rectified but that there was no evidence of any intention to mislead. Something like that.’

  I allowed myself to be diverted for a moment. ‘But there was an intention to mislead,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I never said there wasn’t,’ Sir Humphrey replied impatiently. ‘I merely said there was no evidence of it.’

  I think I was looking blank. He explained.

  The job of a professionally conducted internal enquiry is to unearth a great mass of no evidence. If you say there was no intention, you can be proved wrong. But if you say the enquiry found no evidence of an intention, you can’t be proved wrong.’