The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  ‘Pray tell me the others,’ I replied coldly.

  Without hesitation he gave me a list. ‘Delaying decisions, dodging questions, juggling figures, bending facts and concealing errors.’

  He’s quite right, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t see what else he could have expected me to do yesterday.

  ‘Couldn’t you have made it look as though you were doing something, and then done nothing? Like you usually do?’

  I ignored that remark and tried to get at the facts. ‘Humphrey,’ I began, ‘if these revelations are true…’

  He interrupted rapidly. ‘If. Exactly! If! You could, for instance, have discussed the nature of truth.’

  Now it was my turn to explain a thing or two. ‘The Select Committee couldn’t be less interested in the nature of truth — they’re all MPs.’

  ‘You should have said it was a security matter,’ said Humphrey, falling back on the usual first line of defence.

  Completely idiotic! I asked him how HB pencils could be a security matter.

  ‘It depends what you write with them,’ he offered. Pathetic. He can’t really think I’d have got away with that.

  ‘And why on earth are we building roof gardens on offices?’ I asked.

  ‘We took over the office design from an American company that was going to occupy it. It just happened that nobody noticed the roof garden on the plans.’

  I simply stared at him, incredulously.

  ‘A tiny mistake,’ he was defiant. ‘The sort anyone could make.’

  ‘Tiny?’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘Tiny? Seventy-five thousand pounds. Give me an example of a big mistake.’

  ‘Letting people find out about it.’

  Then I asked him why we are heating sheds full of wire.

  ‘Do you want the truth?’ he asked.

  I was taken aback. It’s the first time he’s ever asked me that. ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ I replied with magnificent condescension.

  ‘All the staff,’ he said, ‘use these sheds for growing mushrooms.’

  I didn’t even know where to begin. So I kept it simple. ‘Stop them,’ I ordered.

  He shook his head sadly, and sighed a heartfelt sigh. ‘But they’ve been doing it since 1945. It’s almost the only perk of a very boring job.’

  I understand this argument, but it’s clearly untenable in public. So next I asked about Rhodes’s proposal for saving money on stationery orders. Why hadn’t we accepted it?

  ‘Minister,’ said Humphrey vehemently, ‘that man was a troublemaker. A crank. He had an unhealthy obsession about efficiency and economy.’

  ‘But why didn’t we adopt his proposal? It would have saved millions of pounds.’

  ‘It would have meant a lot of work to implement it.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Taking on a lot more staff.’

  This argument was manifest nonsense. I told him so. He seemed unbothered.

  ‘Disprove it,’ he challenged me.

  ‘I can’t, obviously.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he replied smugly.

  I stared at him. I had suddenly realised what was going on. ‘You’re making all this up aren’t you?’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  He stood up.

  ‘As an example,’ he said in his most superior manner, ‘of how to handle a Select Committee.’

  [The following week the same Select Committee met Sir Humphrey. Mrs Oldham questioned him closely on the Rhodes disclosures and proposals. The evidence taken that day is printed below — Ed.]

  Mrs Betty Oldham: This is all very well, Sir Humphrey, but let’s get down to details. This heated aircraft hangar for example.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Indeed, I fully understand the Committee’s concern. But it can be very cold in Herefordshire in winter, and even civil servants cannot work in subzero temperatures.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: We aren’t talking about civil servants. We are talking about coils of wire, with plastic coats to keep them warm.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, but staff are in and out all the time.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Why?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Taking deliveries, making withdrawals, checking records, security patrols, fire inspection, stock-taking and auditing, and so forth.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, they can wear gloves can’t they?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: They could. It’s a question of staff welfare policy.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, I suggest this policy is costing the taxpayer millions of pounds. (silence) Nothing to say, Sir Humphrey?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: But you advise the Minister.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: I think the Chairman is aware that I cannot disclose how I advise my Minister. The Minister is responsible for policy.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: All right. So we’ll ask the Minister. Now then, what about those stationery requisition savings?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: That would have involved putting very considerable government patronage in the hands of junior staff.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Considerable government patronage? Buying a packet of paper-clips?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is government policy to exercise strict control over the number of people allowed to spend its money. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is right and proper.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: But it’s plain common sense to allow people to buy their own paper-clips.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Government policy has nothing to do with common sense.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, don’t you think it’s time that the policy was changed? (silence) Well, Sir Humphrey?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: But the Minister advises us to ask you.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: And I am advising you to ask the Minister.

  Mr Alan Hughes: When does this end?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: As soon as you like.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, let’s come to the roof garden.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: With pleasure. It was part of a wide variety of roof insulation schemes which the government undertook to test, in the interest of fuel economy.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Seventy-five thousand pounds?

  The actual report of Sir Humphrey Appleby’s evidence to the Select Committee, reproduced by kind permission of HMSO.

  [We have reprinted it in more readable form — Ed.]

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It was thought that the sale of flowers and vegetable produce might offset the cost.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: And did it?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: No.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Then why not abandon the garden?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Well, it’s there now. And it does insulate the roof. But we aren’t building any more.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: But you’ve wasted seventy-five thousand pounds.

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It was the government’s policy to test all the proposals for fuel saving.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: At this fantastic waste of taxpayers’ money? You agree the money was wasted?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: Look, Sir Humphrey. Whatever we ask the Minister, he says is an administrative question for you. And whatever we ask you, you say is a policy question for the Minister. How do you suggest we find out what’s going on?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, I do think there is a real dilemma here, in that while it has been government policy to regard policy as the responsibility of Ministers and administration as the responsibility of officials, questions of administrative policy can cause confusion between the administration of policy and the policy of administration, especially when responsibility for the administration of the policy of administration conflicts or overlaps with responsibility for the policy of the
administration of policy.

  Mrs Betty Oldham: That’s a load of meaningless drivel, isn’t it, Sir Humphrey?

  Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

  SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[37]

  It was theoretically true, as Sir Humphrey claimed, that Ministers are — and were in the 1980s — responsible for policy. In practice, however, Ministers are responsible for relatively little policy because the useful life of a government is only about two years. The first year is spent learning that commitments made while in Opposition cannot be kept once they are in office: once a government gets in it has to get to grips with the real problems that actually exist, invariably connected with the prevailing economic situation which is always either appalling or catastrophic, and of which the full details of the horror were invariably kept secret from the nation and therefore from the Opposition.

  As a new government struggles to sort out these problems it will be dependent on economists and on the Treasury. This is a trifle unfortunate — economists are always in a state of total intellectual disarray and confusion and are too busy arguing with each other to be able to advise politicians who are usually rather ignorant of economics. And the Treasury, on the other hand, has had rather a lot of bad luck with its economic forecasts over the last sixty years or so.

  So, after a period of between a year and eighteen months, Ministers come to an understanding of the situation as it actually is. Then there follows about two years of potentially serious government — after which the run-up to the next general election begins. At this point achievement has to be subordinated to the winning of votes — or, rather, winning votes becomes the only measure of achievement. The last two years are rather like swotting for an exam. You don’t do anything new, you just try to pass.

  Therefore, as he knew only too well, Sir Humphrey’s claim that Ministers make policy applies — at most — to two years out of every five. This Select Committee enquiry took place, of course, during the first year that Hacker was in office.

  There is one further interesting question raised by this discussion. If the Minister makes policy for two years out of five, who makes policy in the other three years? Obviously, we in the Civil Service used to fill the vacuum. And this created serious problems during the Minister’s two years of ‘serious government’ — which were therefore frequently absorbed in a war between the Minister’s policies and the Ministry’s policies.

  The only time that this eighteen-month vacuum did not occur at the start of a government was when a government was re-elected for a second full term with a working majority. In the early 1980s this had not occurred in Britain for a quarter of a century. This is why it was always absurd to categorise the Civil Service as either Conservative or Labour — we always believed in, and hoped for, regular alternation of governments. This gave us the maximum freedom from control by Ministers who, if they stayed too long in office, were likely to begin to think that they knew how to run the country.

  October 13th

  Today I read in the papers the reports of Humphrey’s appearance before the Select Committee. He’s been a big help!

  And we’ve both been called back to make a joint appearance, to sort out the mess that he made.

  I called him in and gave him a bollocking.

  He said he’d done his best.

  I told him: ‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps. But you’ve solved nothing. The day after tomorrow we’ll be sitting there, side by side, getting the third degree from the Committee. We must have proper answers — or, at the very least, the same answers.’

  Humphrey said that we must begin by establishing what our position is.

  ‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘What are the facts?’

  He got very impatient with me. ‘I’m discussing our position, Minister — the facts are neither here nor there.’

  Fair enough. So I asked him to outline our position.

  He suggested that we choose one of the Civil Service’s five standard excuses, to deal with each of their allegations. A different one for each if possible.

  I had never before heard of the five standard excuses. Humphrey must be quite anxious about the situation if he’s prepared to reveal his techniques to me so openly.

  I made notes. I have called each excuse by the name of a famous example of its use.

  The Anthony Blunt excuse

  There is a perfectly satisfactory explanation for everything, but security prevents its disclosure

  The Comprehensive Schools excuse

  It’s only gone wrong because of heavy cuts in staff and budget which have stretched supervisory resources beyond the limit

  The Concorde excuse

  It was a worthwhile experiment now abandoned, but not before it provided much valuable data and considerable employment

  The Munich Agreement excuse

  It occurred before important facts were known, and cannot happen again

  (The important facts in question were that Hitler wanted to conquer Europe. This was actually known; but not to the Foreign Office, of course)

  The Charge of the Light Brigade excuse

  It was an unfortunate lapse by an individual which has now been dealt with under internal disciplinary procedures

  According to Sir Humphrey, these excuses have covered everything so far. Even wars. Small wars, anyway.

  I finished making notes, and contemplated the list. It seemed okay, if we could carry it off. But I knew I couldn’t manage it without Humphrey.

  I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘so it’s real teamwork from now on, eh, Humphrey?’

  ‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ he replied, with a distinctly optimistic air.

  I was about to start going through the list to see which excuse we could apply to which allegation, when Bernard reminded me that I had to be at the House in ten minutes for a committee meeting. ‘And,’ he added nervously, ‘Number Ten’s been on the phone. Sir Mark Spencer [the Prime Minister’s special political adviser — Ed.] wonders if you could pop in for a drink sometime tomorrow. I suggested 5.30.’

  I pointed out to Sir Humphrey that this was not a good sign. Clearly the PM wants me to account for our feeble explanations to the Select Committee.

  ‘Perhaps it is just for a drink,’ said Sir Humphrey, with more optimism than sense.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You don’t get invited to drinks at Number Ten because you’re thirsty.’ I agreed to meet Humphrey tomorrow, and cook up a story.

  ‘Agree our position, Minister,’ he corrected me.

  ‘That’s what I said,’ I replied, ‘cook up a story.’

  October 14th

  I am very confused this evening.

  At 5.30 I went to see Sir Mark Spencer at Number Ten.

  Going to Number Ten is a very weird experience. From the outside it just looks like an ordinary terraced Georgian house — big, but not that big. But when you step inside the front door and walk along a big wide hall that seems a hundred yards long, you realise that you’re actually in a palace.

  It’s so English, so extremely discreet on the outside. The secret of the house is that it’s three or four houses knocked together, and built onto at the back as well. As a result it’s pretty hard to find your own way round Number Ten. You go up and down funny little stairs, crossing from one house to another, and in no time you don’t even know which floor you’re on.

  This, according to the drivers’ grapevine, is put to creative use by the civil servants, who know the plan of the building inside out and who therefore situate their own offices in the key rooms from which they can monitor and control all comings and goings within the building. Also these are usually the nicest rooms. In fact, there is a persistent rumour that the battle for rooms goes on through every administration, with political staff fighting for the rooms nearest to the PM’s office — and fighting also to get the civil servants further away. But it seems that as
soon as the government changes, the civil servants move swiftly and smoothly to reoccupy all the lost ground before the new Prime Minister’s staff arrive.

  I was escorted up to Sir Mark Spencer’s office. It was a small, poky, sparse little room, under-furnished, exactly the sort of office in which the permanent civil servants would put a temporary part-time adviser.

  [Sir Mark Spencer was the Managing Director of a well-known and popular multiple chain-store, a byword for efficiency and productivity, who had been brought into Number Ten by the PM to advise personally on economies and increased administrative productivity. So far, it seems, he was still struggling with the problem of getting a decent office. Presumably, if it were not for the PM’s personal interest in his work, he would have been found an office in Walthamstow — Ed.]

  I’d only met Sir Mark once before. He is a big fellow, highly intelligent and with a kindly soft-spoken manner. He welcomed me warmly.

  ‘Ah, come in, Jim. Scotch?’

  I thanked him.

  ‘How are things going?’ he enquired gently, as he brought me my drink.

  I told him things were fine. Absolutely fine. I told him that it was a bit of a shock, having Rhodes’s book thrown at us out of the blue, but that now the whole situation was under control. ‘Humphrey and I will be getting together this evening. We’ll be able to explain everything. Nothing for the PM to worry about.’

  I hoped that I was being sufficiently reassuring to Sir Mark. As I heard myself speak, however, I rather sounded as though I were reassuring myself.

  I paused. But Sir Mark said nothing. He just sat still, looking at me.

  I found myself continuing, and making more excuses. ‘What beats me is how Malcolm Rhodes got all that information. Most of it happened outside his division. And I wouldn’t mind knowing who got those advance proofs to Betty Oldham. The PM must be livid. But it’s certainly no fault of mine.’

  I paused again. In fact, I had really nothing left to say on the subject. Sir Mark obviously sensed this, because he finally spoke.

  ‘What makes you think the PM is livid?’ he asked, in a slightly puzzled tone.

  I hadn’t expected this question. I thought it was obvious. Why else was I there at Number Ten? I stared at him.