The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  [Like all Permanent Secretaries, Sir Humphrey Appleby was a generalist. Most of them studied classics, history, PPE or modern languages. Of course you might expect the Permanent Secretary at the Department of Administrative Affairs to have a degree in business administration, but of course you would be wrong — Ed.]

  Then he went on to explain that metadioxin means ‘with’ or ‘after’ dioxin, depending on whether it’s with the accusative or the genitive: with the accusative it’s ‘beyond’ or ‘after’, with the genitive it’s ‘with’ — as in Latin, where the ablative is used for words needing a sense of with to precede them.

  Bernard added — speaking for the first time in the whole meeting — that of course there is no ablative in Greek, as I would doubtless recall.

  I told him I recalled no such thing, and later today he wrote me a little memo, explaining all the above Greek and Latin grammar.

  However, I hoped these explanations would satisfy Joan Littler. And that, like me, she would be unwilling to reveal the limits of her education. No such luck.

  ‘I still don’t understand,’ she said disarmingly.

  Humphrey tried snobbery. ‘Oh dear,’ he sighed, ‘I should have thought that was perfectly clear.’ It never works.

  Her eyes flashed. ‘What I insist on knowing,’ she stated, ‘is what is the actual difference between dioxin and metadioxin.’

  I didn’t know, of course. Humphrey sailed into the rescue. ‘It’s very simple,’ he replied grandly. ‘Metadioxin is an inert compound of dioxin.’

  I hoped that that would be that. But no.

  She looked at me for help. I, of course, was unable to give her any. So I looked at Humphrey.

  ‘Um, Humphrey,’ I said, bluffing madly, ‘I think I follow that but, er, could you, er, just explain that a little more clearly?’

  He stared at me, coldly. ‘In what sense, Minister?’

  I didn’t know where to start. I was going to have to think of the right question again. But Joan said: ‘What does inert mean?’

  Sir Humphrey stared at her, silently. And in that glorious moment I suddenly realised that he had no idea what he was talking about either.

  ‘Well,’ he said eventually, ‘inert means that… it’s not… ert.’

  We all stared at each other in silence.

  ‘Ah,’ said Joan Littler.

  ‘Ah,’ I said.

  ‘Wouldn’t ’ert a fly,’ muttered Bernard. At least, I think that’s what he said, but when I asked him to repeat it he refused and fell silent.

  And again, Joan Littler persisted.

  ‘But,’ she pressed me, ‘what does that mean in practical terms?’

  ‘You mean, chemically?’ I asked her. My degree is in economics.

  ‘Yes, chemically,’ she said.

  Again, I turned to Humphrey. ‘Yes,’ I said, beginning to enjoy myself, ‘what does it mean chemically, Humphrey?’

  His eyes spun. Bluffing magnificently, he said in his most patronising voice, ‘Well, I’m not sure that I can explain in layman’s language, Minister.’

  I called the bluff. ‘Do you know any chemistry, Humphrey?’ I enquired.

  ‘Of course not, Minister. I was in the Scholarship form.’

  [At any English public school — ‘public’ meaning ‘private’, of course — the scholarship form would have meant the classics form. Indeed, if you went to a very good school indeed you might avoid learning any science at all — Ed.]

  ‘And while we’re at it,’ continued Joan Littler, ‘what’s a compound?’

  ‘You don’t know any chemistry either?’

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Do you?’

  Suddenly, this all seemed awfully funny. None of us knew anything about the matter we were discussing. Joan, Humphrey, Bernard and I, all charged with a vital decision on a matter of government policy — and you couldn’t have found four people anywhere in the UK who understood less about it.

  [It is significant that none of those present thought of telephoning Sir Wally McFarland. But then, he was merely the expert, and the chairman of the Nationalised Industry in question — Ed.]

  I grinned, embarrassed, like a naughty schoolboy. ‘We ought to know something about inert compounds, oughtn’t we?’

  Humphrey had no sense of humour about this, and he made a brave attempt at bluffing us again.

  ‘A compound is… well, you know what compound interest is, surely?’ he complained. Joan and I nodded. ‘Compound interest is a jolly good thing to enjoy. Well, that’s the sort of thing a compound is.’

  I stared at him. Did he really think that would do? I looked at Joan. She was staring at him too. But reduced to silence for the first time. So I plunged in hopefully.

  ‘Well,’ I said, trying it on in the hope of bringing the discussion to a close, ‘that’s about it, then. To sum up, I think we’re all of the same mind, basically in agreement, broadly speaking, about this. And we are happy to continue with its development.’

  Littler spoke up. ‘I’ve said no such thing.’

  We were getting nowhere. So I tried to sum it up again. I pointed out that we had established that the only similarity between dioxin and metadioxin was in the name. She didn’t seem to see it.

  I searched desperately for an analogy, ‘It’s like Littler and Hitler,’ I explained. ‘We’re not saying that you’re like Hitler because your name sounds similar.’

  I realised that I’d been less than tactful, but the words were out. She flared up. ‘That’s hardly the point,’ she said angrily.

  ‘Then what is the point?’ But I knew already.

  ‘The point is, this factory is in my constituency.’

  Of course I could see why she was worried, but if Humphrey was telling me the truth she was worried unnecessarily. ‘It’s good for the constituency.’ I said. ‘More jobs. More money. The only people who could possibly be upset by this are a few cranky environmentalists. It can’t cost us more than, on balance, a couple of hundred votes.’

  ‘My majority,’ she replied quietly, ‘is ninety-one.’

  I hadn’t realised. She certainly had a point. I don’t want to be responsible for jeopardising a government-held marginal, especially if the sitting MP is PPS to the PM.

  She pressed home her argument. ‘And don’t forget that there are three government constituencies bordering onto mine — all marginal, all with majorities of well under two thousand.’

  I didn’t know what to say. While I considered the position, Sir Humphrey spoke up again. ‘Miss Littler,’ he began, ‘may I intervene once more?’ She nodded. ‘The case for the BCC manufacturing Propanol is overwhelming — am I right, Minister?’

  ‘Overwhelming,’ I agreed.

  ‘It will create jobs,’ continued Humphrey fluently, ‘it will increase income for the Local Authority, and it will secure profitable export orders.’

  ‘Export orders,’ I agreed.

  ‘Furthermore,’ he continued, ‘the chemical has been declared safe by the FDA in Washington.’

  ‘Washington,’ I agreed.

  ‘We are having,’ he went on, ‘a report prepared here as well. The Minister regards this scheme as being wholly to the advantage of your constituency and the country.’

  I chimed in. ‘And if the stuff is dangerous, I promise you I’ll stop it being made here. But if the report shows it’s harmless, that would be absurd, wouldn’t it?’

  She sat still for a moment, staring at me, then at Humphrey. Then she stood up. She said she wasn’t satisfied. (I can’t blame her. If it were my constituency, I’m not sure I’d be satisfied either.) She advised me to remember that the party made me an MP — and that I certainly can’t go on being a Minister if our party loses the next election.

  She’s got a point there too.

  Also, I have a nasty feeling that the PM will hear her point of view before the end of the week.

  Humphrey looked at me after she left, obviously asking for a go-ahead. I told him that I would consider the matte
r further, and told Bernard to put all the relevant papers in my box to take home and study. Then the decision should become clear.

  June 8th

  I’ve studied all the Propanol papers and I still don’t know what to do.

  So I called a meeting with Humphrey to discuss the report on Propanol that we have commissioned. I’ve been wondering if it really will be conclusively in favour of Propanol, as Sir Humphrey and Sir Wally predict.

  I asked if I should meet Professor Henderson, who is chairing the report, or writing it himself or something.

  Humphrey said that there was no need for such a meeting. He is apparently a brilliant biochemist and was chosen with some care.

  Naturally he was chosen with care. But to what end: to produce a report that backs Sir Wally and Sir Humphrey? Naturally he was. But surely none of them would be foolish enough to cook up a report saying that metadioxin were safe if, in fact, it were dangerous. Naturally not. I think I’m going round in circles.

  There was another possibility that I could raise though. ‘Suppose he produces one of those cautious wait-and-see reports?’

  ‘In that case,’ said Sir Humphrey cheerfully, ‘we don’t publish it, we use the American report instead.’

  I was completely torn. On the one hand, the scheme is a wonderful one — the jobs, the income etc. — if it works out safely! And I’m assured it will. But if there’s an accident after I have given the go-ahead… The consequences would be too awful to contemplate.

  ‘Is there any chance he’ll produce a report saying the stuff’s dangerous?’ I wanted to know.

  Humphrey was plainly baffled. ‘No. No chance. It isn’t dangerous,’ he said.

  He clearly is totally sincere on this issue. And yet he’s suggesting we don’t publish a cautious wait-and-see type report if that’s what Henderson writes.

  ‘Why would you consider suppressing the Henderson report?’

  He was outraged. ‘I would never suppress it, Minister. I merely might not publish it.’

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘All the difference in the world. Suppression is the instrument of totalitarian dictatorships. You can’t do that in a free country. We would merely take a democratic decision not to publish it.’

  That makes sense. But what would I say to the press and to Parliament, I wondered? That we had hoped the Henderson Committee would show we’d made the right decision but instead they’ve said we cocked it up, so we’re pretending the report doesn’t exist? I offered this suggestion to Humphrey.

  He was not amused. ‘Very droll, Minister,’ he remarked.

  So I asked Humphrey, ‘What would I say, if I decided not to publish it?’

  ‘There is a well-established government procedure for suppressing — that is, not publishing — unwanted reports.’

  This was news to me. I asked how it was done.

  ‘You discredit them,’ he explained simply.

  How? I made notes as he spoke. It occurred to me, that his technique could be useful for discrediting some of the party’s more idiotic research papers.

  Stage one: The public interest

  1) You hint at security considerations.

  2) You point out that the report could be used to put unwelcome pressure on government because it might be misinterpreted. [Of course, anything might be misinterpreted. The Sermon on the Mount might be misinterpreted. Indeed, Sir Humphrey Appleby would almost certainly have argued that, had the Sermon on the Mount been a government report, it should certainly not have been published on the grounds that it was a thoroughly irresponsible document: the sub-paragraph suggesting that the meek will inherit the earth could, for instance, do irreparable damage to the defence budget — Ed.]

  3) You then say that it is better to wait for the results of a wider and more detailed survey over a longer time-scale.

  4) If there is no such survey being carried out, so much the better. You commission one, which gives you even more time to play with.

  Stage two: Discredit the evidence that you are not publishing

  This is, of course, much easier than discrediting evidence that you do publish. You do it indirectly, by press leaks. You say:

  (a) that it leaves important questions unanswered

  (b) that much of the evidence is inconclusive

  (c) that the figures are open to other interpretations

  (d) that certain findings are contradictory

  (e) that some of the main conclusions have been questioned

  Points (a) to (d) are bound to be true. In fact, all of these criticisms can be made of a report without even reading it. There are, for instance, always some questions unanswered — such as the ones they haven’t asked. As regards (e), if some of the main conclusions have not been questioned, question them! Then they have.

  Stage three: Undermine the recommendations

  This is easily done, with an assortment of governmental phrases:

  (a) ‘not really a basis for long-term decisions…’

  (b) ‘not sufficient information on which to base a valid assessment…’

  (c) ‘no reason for any fundamental rethink of existing policy…’

  (d) ‘broadly speaking, it endorses current practice…’

  These phrases give comfort to people who have not read the report and who don’t want change — i.e. almost everybody.

  Stage four: If stage three still leaves doubts, then Discredit The Man Who Produced the Report

  This must be done OFF THE RECORD. You explain that:

  (a) he is harbouring a grudge against the government

  (b) he is a publicity seeker

  (c) he’s trying to get his knighthood

  (d) he is trying to get his chair

  (e) he is trying to get his Vice-Chancellorship

  (f) he used to be a consultant to a multinational company or

  (g) he wants to be a consultant to a multinational company

  June 9th

  Today the Propanol plan reached the television news, damn it. Somehow some environmental group got wind of the scheme and a row blew up on Merseyside.

  The TV newsreader — or whoever writes what the newsreader reads — didn’t help much either. Though he didn’t say that Propanol was dangerous, he somehow managed to imply it — using loaded words like ‘claim’.

  [We have found the transcript of the BBC Nine O’Clock News for 9 June. The relevant item is shown below Hacker seems to have a reasonable point — Ed.]

  [We asked an old BBC current affairs man how the News would have treated the item if they had been in favour of the scheme, and we reproduce his ‘favourable’ version to compare with the actual one — Ed.]

  June 10th

  I summoned Humphrey first thing this morning. I pointed out that metadioxin is dynamite.

  He answered me that it’s harmless.

  I disagreed. ‘It may be harmless chemically,’ I said, ‘but it’s lethal politically.’

  ‘It can’t hurt anyone,’ he insisted.

  I pointed out that it could finish me off.

  No sooner had we begun talking than Number Ten was on the phone. The political office. Joan Littler had obviously made sure that Number Ten watched the Nine O’Clock News last night.

  I tried to explain that this was merely a little local difficulty, and there were exports and jobs prospects. They asked how many jobs: I had to admit that it was only about ninety — but well-paid jobs, and in an area of high unemployment.

  None of this cut any ice with Number Ten — I was talking to the Chief Political Adviser, but doubtless he was acting under orders. There was no point in fighting this particular losing battle with the PM, so I muttered (as Humphrey was listening, and Bernard was probably listening-in) that I was coming round to their point of view, i.e. that there was a risk to three or four marginals.

  I rang off. Humphrey was eyeing me with a quizzical air.

  ‘Humphrey,’ I began carefully, ‘something has just struck me.’

 
‘I noticed,’ he replied dryly.

  I ignored the wisecrack. I pointed out that there were perfectly legitimate arguments against this scheme. A loss of public confidence, for instance.

  ‘You mean votes,’ he interjected.

  I denied it, of course. I explained that I didn’t exactly mean votes. Votes in themselves are not a consideration. But the public will is a valid consideration. We are a democracy. And it looks as if the public are against this scheme.

  ‘The public,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘are ignorant and misguided.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘It was the public who elected me.’

  There was a pointed silence.

  Then Sir Humphrey continued: ‘Minister, in a week it will all have blown over, and in a year’s time there will be a safe and successful factory on Merseyside.’

  ‘A week is a long time in politics,’ I answered.[28]

  ‘A year is a short time in government,’ responded Sir Humphrey.

  I began to get cross. He may be in government. But I’m in politics. And the PM is not pleased.

  Humphrey then tried to tell me that I was putting party before country. That hoary old cliché again. I told him to find a new one.

  Bernard said that a new cliché could perhaps be said to be a contradiction in terms. Thank you, Bernard, for all your help!

  I made one more attempt to make Humphrey understand. ‘Humphrey,’ I said, ‘you understand nothing because you lead a sheltered life. I want to survive. I’m not crossing the PM.’

  He was very bitter. And very insulting. ‘Must you always be so concerned with climbing the greasy pole?’

  I faced the question head on. ‘Humphrey,’ I explained, ‘the greasy pole is important. I have to climb it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ I said, ‘it’s there.’

  June 11th

  Today there was an astonishing piece in The Times. A leak.

  I was furious.

  I asked Bernard how The Times knows the wording of the Henderson Report before I do.

  ‘There’s been a leak, Minister,’ he explained.

  The boy’s a fool. Obviously there’s been a leak. The question is, who’s been leaking?

  On second thoughts, perhaps he’s not a fool. Perhaps he knows. And can’t or won’t tell.