The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  ‘It’s labelled “Confidential”,’ I pointed out.

  ‘At least it wasn’t labelled “Restricted”,’ he said. [RESTRICTED means it was in the papers yesterday. CONFIDENTIAL means it won’t be in the papers till today — Ed.]

  I decided to put Bernard on the spot. ‘Who leaked this? Humphrey?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘I’m sure he didn’t.’

  ‘Are you?’ I asked penetratingly.

  ‘Well… he probably didn’t.’

  ‘No?’ I was at my most penetrating.

  ‘Well,’ said Bernard with a sheepish smile, ‘it might have been someone else.’

  ‘These leaks are a disgrace,’ I told him. ‘And people think that it’s politicians that leak.’

  ‘It has been known, though, hasn’t it?’ said Bernard carefully.

  ‘In my opinion,’ I said reproachfully, ‘we are much more leaked against than leaking.’

  I then read The Times story carefully through. It contained a number of phrases that I could almost hear Humphrey dictating: ‘Political cowardice to reject the BCC proposal’… ‘Hacker has no choice’, etc.

  It was clear that, by means of this leak, Humphrey thinks that he has now committed me to this scheme.

  Well, we shall see!

  June 14th

  I got my copy of the Henderson Report on Saturday, only a day after The Times got theirs. Not bad.

  The Report gives me no way out of the Propanol scheme. At least, none that I can see at the moment. It says it’s a completely safe chemical.

  On the other hand, The Times commits me to nothing. It is, after all, merely an unofficial leak of a draft report.

  Sir Wally McFarlane was my first appointment of the day. Humphrey came too — surprise, surprise!

  And they were both looking excessively cheerful.

  I asked them to sit down. Then Sir Wally opened the batting.

  ‘I see from the press,’ he said, ‘that the Henderson Report comes down clearly on our side.’

  I think perhaps he still thinks that I’m on his side. No, surely Humphrey must have briefed him. So he’s pretending that he thinks that I’m still on his side.

  I was non-committal. ‘Yes, I saw that too.’

  And I stared penetratingly at Humphrey.

  He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Yes, that committee is leaking like a sieve,’ he said. I continued staring at him, but made no reply. There’s no doubt that he’s the guilty man. He continued, brazenly: ‘So Minister, there’s no real case for refusing permission for the new Plant now, is there?’

  I remained non-committal. ‘I don’t know.’

  Sir Wally spoke up. ‘Look, Jim. We’ve been working away at this contract for two years. It’s very important to us. I’m chairman and I’m responsible — and I tell you, as a chemist myself, that metadioxin is utterly safe.’

  ‘Why do you experts always think you are right?’ I enquired coldly.

  ‘Why do you think,’ countered Sir Wally emotionally, ‘that the more inexpert you are, the more likely you are to be right?’

  I’m not an expert. I’ve never claimed to be an expert. I said so. ‘Ministers are not experts. Ministers are put in charge precisely because they know nothing…’

  ‘You admit that?’ interrupted Sir Wally with glee. I suppose I walked right into that.

  I persevered. ‘Ministers know nothing about technical problems. A Minister’s job is to consider the wider interests of the nation and, for that reason, I cannot commit myself yet.’

  Sir Wally stood up, and lost his temper. (In the reverse order, I think.) ‘Come off it, Hacker,’ he exploded, ‘this is the wrong decision and you know it. It is weak, craven and cowardly.’

  Then I got angry. I stood up too. ‘I am not a coward.’

  ‘Sit down!’ he whispered murderously. His eyes were flashing, and he looked quite ready for a physical punch-up. I decided that discretion was the better part of valour and sat down.

  He was beside himself with rage. He was spitting all over my desk as he spoke. ‘You think you’ll lose a miserable few hundred votes from a few foolish ill-informed people in those constituencies? It’s pathetic!’

  ‘It’s politics,’ I explained.

  ‘Exactly,’ he agreed contemptuously, and walked to the door.

  Then he turned. ‘I shall be telephoning the Secretary of State for Industry. I’m prepared to resign if you block this one.’

  He stalked out.

  We gazed at each other.

  After a few moments Sir Humphrey spoke. ‘How did you feel that went, Minister?’ he enquired politely.

  I refused to show my concern. As breezily as I could, I replied, ‘We’ll just have to get another chairman, that’s all.’

  Humphrey was incredulous. ‘Get another? Get another? No one else on earth would take that job. Nobody wants to be chairman of a nationalised industry. It’s instant ruin. They might as well accept the golden handshake on the day they start. It’s only a matter of time.’

  I still refused to show any concern. ‘We’ll find someone,’ I said, with a confidence that I did not feel.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Humphrey. ‘Some useless nonentity or some American geriatric.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I replied.

  ‘Oh no?’ enquired Sir Humphrey. ‘So how do you expect the DOI[29] to find a decent replacement when we’ve forced his predecessor to resign for taking a sound commercial decision which we blocked for political reasons?’

  I could see no point in going through all that again. ‘I have no choice,’ I said simply.

  Sir Humphrey tried flattery. ‘Minister,’ he wheedled. ‘A Minister can do what he likes.’

  ‘No,’ I explained. ‘It’s the people’s will. I am their leader. I must follow them. I have no guilty conscience. My hands are clean.’

  Sir Humphrey stood up, coldly. ‘I should have thought,’ he remarked, ‘that it was frightfully difficult to keep one’s hands clean while climbing the greasy pole.’

  Then he stalked out.

  I really was winning friends and influencing people this morning.

  I was left with good old faithful Bernard.

  We sat and contemplated the various possibilities that could arise from the morning’s débâcle. Clearly we had to avoid Wally making a public fuss. We had to stop him giving interviews on Panorama or making press statements accusing me of political interference.

  I am really on the horns of a dilemma. If I stop the scheme, The Times and The Daily Telegraph will say that I’m a contemptible political coward. But if I let it go ahead the Daily Mirror and the Sun will say I’m murdering unborn babies. I can’t win!

  The only way out is if the Henderson Report had any doubt about the safety of metadioxin. But it hasn’t. I’ve read it very carefully.

  On the other hand — I’ve suddenly realised — no one else has read it. Because it’s not quite finished. It’s still only a draft report.

  Tomorrow I’ll talk to Bernard about this matter. Perhaps the answer is to meet Professor Henderson while there’s still time.

  June 15th

  This morning, at our daily diary session, I asked Bernard if Professor Henderson is a Cambridge man.

  Bernard nodded.

  ‘Which college is he at?’ I asked casually.

  ‘King’s,’ said Bernard. ‘Why?’

  I brushed it aside. ‘Just curious — wondered if it was my old college.’

  Mistake! ‘Weren’t you at LSE?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes, so I was,’ I found myself saying. Feeble! I really must do better than that!

  I asked Bernard to give me his file, and I asked for a Cambridge telephone directory.

  Bernard spoke up bravely. ‘Minister…’ he began nervously, ‘… you do realise that… not that you have any such intention, of course… but, well, it would be most improper to try to influence an independent report of this nature.’

  I agreed wholeheartedly that it would be most imp
roper. Unthinkable, in fact. ‘But I just thought that we might go and have tea with my old friend R. A. Crichton, Provost of King’s.’ I told Bernard to get him on the phone.

  Bernard did so.

  ‘And,’ I added, ‘who knows? Professor Henderson might easily drop in for tea with his Provost. That would be a happy coincidence, wouldn’t it?’

  Bernard thought for a split second, and agreed that it would be perfectly natural, if they were both at the same college.

  ‘There’s nothing improper about a coincidence, is there, Bernard?’

  Deadpan, he replied: ‘How can a coincidence be improper, Minister? Impropriety postulates intention, which coincidence precludes.’

  Memo: I must learn to use longer words.

  June 18th

  I had a most satisfactory day up in Cambridge.

  Tea with Crichton, my old friend at King’s. Now a peer, and very relaxed in academic life.

  I asked him how it felt, going from the Commons to the Lords.

  ‘It’s like being moved from the animals to the vegetables,’ he replied.

  By a strange coincidence Professor Henderson had been invited for tea. Crichton introduced us.

  Henderson seemed slightly taken aback. ‘I must say, I didn’t expect to see the Minister,’ he said. We both agreed that it was a remarkable coincidence.

  Crichton looked astonished and asked if we knew each other. I explained that we’d never met, but that Henderson was writing a report for my Department.

  Crichton said that this was quite a coincidence, and Henderson and I both agreed that it was an amazing coincidence.

  After that we all settled down a bit and, over the Earl Grey, Henderson remarked that I must have been very happy with the draft of his report.

  I assured him that I was delighted, absolutely delighted, and I complimented him on his hard work. He, with modesty — and truth — admitted that most of the hard work had been done by the FDA in Washington.

  I asked him if he’d ever done a government report before. He said he hadn’t. So I explained that his name will be attached to it forever. THE HENDERSON REPORT.

  ‘A kind of immortality, really,’ I added.

  He seemed pleased. He smiled, and said he’d never thought of it like that before.

  Then I went straight for the jugular. ‘But,’ I said casually, ‘if anything were to go wrong…’ And I paused.

  He was instantly perturbed. ‘Go wrong?’ His little academic eyes blinked behind his big academic hornrims.

  ‘I mean,’ I said gravely, ‘if metadioxin is not quite as safe as you say it is. It’s your career — this is very courageous of you.’

  Professor Henderson was now very concerned. Courageous was manifestly the last thing he ever wanted to be. He was also puzzled, and not quite getting my drift. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘None of the standard tests on metadioxin show any evidence of toxicity.’

  I paused for effect. Then: ‘None of the standard tests. Quite.’

  I paused again, while he panicked silently.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he said in a high strangled voice that didn’t quite seem to belong to this tall fellow with a high forehead and big feet.

  I got out my little notebook to refresh my memory. ‘Funnily enough,’ I explained, ‘I was just making a few notes in the train on the way up here. Of course, I’m not a biochemist, you understand, but I’m told that the FDA report leaves some important questions unanswered.’

  He thought about this. ‘Well…’ he said finally, and stopped.

  I went on: ‘And that some of the evidence is inconclusive, that some of the findings have been questioned, and the figures are open to other interpretations.’

  Henderson tried to make sense of all this. Then he said: ‘But all figures are open to…’

  I interrupted him. ‘Absolutely! And that different results might come from a wider and more detailed study over a longer time scale.’

  ‘Well, obviously…’ he began.

  ‘Yes,’ I said firmly. ‘You see. If something did go wrong — even in ten years’ time, a delayed effect — well, the press would go straight to your report. And if it turned out you’d done laboratory trials for a multinational drug company…’

  He was appalled. ‘But that was fifteen years ago.’

  ‘Fourteen,’ I corrected him. (This immensely useful piece of information had been revealed by his file.) ‘And you know what the press are like — “No smoke without fire.” Even if there’s no real basis. Could be a millstone round your neck.’

  I could see that Henderson was wavering, so I piled on the pressure.

  ‘The popular press would be merciless if anything did go wrong: DEATH AGONY OF HENDERSON REPORT VICTIMS’.

  Henderson was quaking in his shoes. He was in a frightful state. ‘Yes, yes, well, I, er, I don’t know what to do. I mean. I can’t change the evidence. Metadioxin is a safe drug. The report has to say so.’

  He looked at me, desperately. I carefully did not fall into the trap. I was not going to make the elementary mistake of telling him what to put in his independent report.

  ‘Quite,’ I agreed. ‘Quite. I can see you have no choice.’

  And I left him.

  As I strolled across the room to refill my cup of tea, I saw dear old Crichton slide into my chair and offer Henderson a buttered crumpet.

  I knew what he was going to say. He was going to tell Henderson that it’s only the phrasing of the Conclusion that you have to worry about. That’s the only part the press ever reads.

  At the moment it reads: ‘On existing evidence, the Committee can see no reason not to proceed.’

  I’m sure Crichton will suggest some excellent alternative. And I’m equally sure that Henderson will take his advice.

  June 22nd

  Victory.

  I got the final version of the Henderson Report today. It’s all exactly the same, but for the end paragraph, which has undergone the teeniest bit of redrafting.

  I called Bernard at once, and told him to release the report to the press.

  Then I cancelled all appointments for today, took a train to Liverpool where another protest meeting was due to take place, the press office notified the press, radio and television — and, in a glorious triumphant moment, I announced at the meeting, on television, to an enthusiastic cheering crowd that I would not be giving my approval for the BCC to manufacture Propanol.

  I reckon that’s four marginals won in the next general election.

  When I got home tonight I saw Sir Wally on Newsnight. He made no mention of resignation — he couldn’t, of course, he’d been completely outmanoeuvred.

  He simply issued a statement in which he said that if the Henderson Report was correct to cast doubt on the safety of metadioxin it was obviously impossible to consider manufacturing it on Merseyside.

  June 23rd

  Sir Humphrey was angrier with me today than I’ve ever seen him.

  ‘Do you feel like a hero?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Number Ten will be delighted.’

  ‘Probably one of the worst governmental decisions I have ever witnessed,’ he snarled. I wasn’t bothered by this open rudeness.

  ‘Probably one of the best political decisions I’ve ever made,’ I replied confidently.

  Bernard was silent.

  ‘What do you think, Bernard?’ I asked cruelly.

  Bernard looked desperate. ‘I think… that, bearing everything in mind… and, ah… after due consideration and, well… um… considering all the implications and, ah, points of view, um, that, well, in other words, I am in fact, bound to say that… you looked awfully good on television, Minister.’

  Having enjoyed watching Bernard wriggle, I turned back to Humphrey. ‘Oh by the way,’ I asked, ‘can we manage a CBE for Henderson? Or a Vice-Chancellorship or something?’

  Humphrey was appalled. ‘Certainly not! He’s completely unreliable and totally lacking in judgement. I still can’t
think why he suddenly cast doubt on his whole report in that final paragraph.’

  ‘Because,’ I replied without thinking, ‘he has excellent judgement, enormous stature and great charm.’ Then I realised what I’d said.

  So did Humphrey. ‘I thought you said you’d never met him.’ Quick as a flash I replied, ‘Intellectual stature.’

  Humphrey was not fooled. ‘And charm?’ he enquired scathingly.

  I was almost stumped. ‘He… er… he writes with charm,’ I explained unconvincingly. ‘Doesn’t he, Bernard?’

  ‘Yes Minister,’ replied Bernard dutifully.

  Sir Humphrey’s face was a picture.

  12 The Devil You Know

  July 1st

  The EEC is really intolerably difficult to deal with. For months I have been working with the DAA to get the whole of the Civil Service to place one big central order for word-processing machines. This would replace the present nonsensical practice of every separate department in Whitehall ordering all different sorts of word-processors in dribs and drabs.

  If we at the DAA placed one big central order for everyone, the sum of money would be so large it would enable UK manufacturers to make the right sort of investment in systems development.

  For days now, we have been on the verge of success. Months of patient negotiations were about to pay off. I was all ready to make a major press announcement: I could see the headlines: HACKER’S MASSIVE INVESTMENT IN MODERN TECHNOLOGY. JIM’S VOTE OF CONFIDENCE IN BRITISH INDUSTRY. BRITAIN CAN MAKE IT, SAYS JIM.

  And then, this morning, we got another bloody directive from the bloody EEC in bloody Brussels, saying that all EEC members must work to some niggling European word-processing standards. And therefore, we must postpone everything in order to agree plans with a whole mass of European Word Processing Committees at the forthcoming European Word Processing Conference in Brussels.

  I called a meeting to discuss all this. I went through the whole story so far, and Sir Humphrey and Bernard just sat there saying, ‘Yes Minister,’ and ‘Quite so Minister,’ at regular intervals. Some help.

  Finally, I got tired of the sound of my own voice. [Was this a first? — Ed.] I demanded that Humphrey contribute something to the discussion.