The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  ‘Let’s try and look at this situation logically, shall we?’ suggested Sir Mark.

  ‘Of course,’ I agreed.

  Then he asked me a series of questions. At first I simply couldn’t see what he was driving at.

  ‘What has the PM been trying to achieve, in public expenditure?’

  ‘Cuts, obviously.’

  Sir Mark nodded. ‘And why has there been so little success?’

  Again the answer was obvious. ‘Because of Civil Service obstruction.’

  ‘And are all the Cabinet committed to this policy of cutting public expenditure?’

  I wasn’t sure if this was an attack on me. ‘I think so, yes. I certainly am.’

  He stared at me. He seemed unconvinced. Then he said: ‘If that is so, why have virtually no Ministers achieved any real cuts?’

  ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.’

  ‘Wrong. It’s because the Ministers have gone native.’

  ‘Oh I don’t think…’ I paused again. I had been about to disagree. But what had I just said to Sir Mark? Rome wasn’t built in a day. The standard Civil Service answer when pressed for results. But surely I’ve not gone native?

  ‘The Civil Service has house-trained the lot of you,’ he said with a little sad smile.

  ‘Well, some of us, perhaps. But I certainly haven’t been…’

  He interrupted me. ‘Look, if a Minister were really trying to cut expenditure, how would he react to a book exposing massive government waste?’

  ‘Well, he’d, he’d er… oh!’ I realised I had no immediate answer. ‘It would depend on… er…’ I was stuck. So I asked him precisely what he was trying to say.

  He didn’t answer. That is to say, he answered obliquely. ‘Do you know what the Civil Service is saying about you?’

  I shook my head nervously.

  ‘That you’re a pleasure to work with.’ A rush of mixed emotions overwhelmed me. First relief. Then pleasure and pride. Then, suddenly, a dreadful realisation of the awfulness of what he had just revealed!

  ‘That’s what Barbara Woodhouse says about her prize-winning spaniels,’ he added.

  I just sat there, struggling to grasp all the implications. My head was in a whirl.

  Sir Mark continued destroying me, in that kindly voice of his. ‘I’ve even heard Sir Humphrey Appleby say of you that you’re worth your weight in gold. What does that suggest to you?’

  It was only too clear what it suggested. I felt deeply miserable. ‘You mean… I’ve failed utterly,’ I said.

  Sir Mark stood up, picked up my empty glass, and observed that I looked as if I needed another Scotch.

  He returned it to me, I sipped it. Then he waited for me to speak again.

  ‘And now,’ I mumbled, ‘I suppose the PM is not pleased with my performance at the Select Committee because I failed to cover up the failure?’

  He sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. He was becoming impatient. ‘On the contrary, the PM is not pleased because you’re covering up too well.’

  This baffled me even more.

  He explained. ‘You’re protecting the Civil Service. You’re protecting Humphrey Appleby. The PM and I are doing our level best to expose why cuts in public expenditure are not taking place — and you’re helping the Civil Service to defy the Government.’

  ‘Am I?’ My brain was reeling. How could I be doing that?

  ‘You were wondering where Betty Oldham got the advance proofs of that book. And where Malcolm Rhodes got the inside information.’ He smiled at me. And waited. I just stared at him, blankly. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked eventually, with pity in his voice.

  Suddenly the light dawned. ‘You mean… the PM?’ I whispered.

  Sir Mark looked shocked. ‘Of course not… not directly.’

  ‘You mean,’ I whispered again, ‘you?’

  He sipped his drink and smiled.

  So that was it. Whether wittingly or unwittingly, Malcom Rhodes and Betty Oldham had been put up to this by the PM’s special adviser. And therefore, in effect, by the PM.

  Therefore… therefore what? What do I do at the Select Committee? What does Number Ten want?

  ‘There’s only one course open to you,’ Sir Mark added enigmatically. ‘Absolute loyalty.’

  ‘Ah,’ I said, and then realised that my worries were not fully answered. ‘But, er, who to?’

  ‘That’s your decision,’ he said.

  I think I know what is expected of me. I think.

  October 15th

  Today we met the Select Committee and I really put the cat among the pigeons.

  They started with the plastic-coated copper wire in the heated sheds. Humphrey gave the answer that he and I had agreed he would give when we met earlier today. He said that the error actually occurred before some important facts were known and that he was able to answer the Committee that no such oversight could possibly occur again.

  He asked me to agree.

  My answer surprised him.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sir Humphrey’s reply is absolutely correct. The correct official reply.’ He glanced at me quickly. ‘But I’ve been thinking very deeply since our last meeting’ (which was true!) ‘and really there is no doubt that this Committee is on to something.’

  Humphrey turned and stared at me in astonishment.

  ‘Of course there’s waste,’ I continued carefully, ‘whatever the excuses that we can always find for individual cases. You have convinced me that our whole attitude is wrong.’

  It was clear from the expression on his face that they had not convinced Sir Humphrey.

  Nevertheless, I took my courage in both hands, and continued. ‘Ministers and their civil servants cover up and defend where we should seek out and destroy.’ Sir Humphrey was now absolutely aghast. ‘I have spoken to Mr Malcom Rhodes, the author of this invaluable book, and he has agreed to give extensive evidence to an outside independent enquiry which I shall set up.’ I could see Sir Humphrey out of the corner of my eye, putting his head in his hands. ‘This will examine the whole of government administration, starting with my Department.’

  The Chairman looked pleased. ‘How does Sir Humphrey react to this?’ he asked.

  Sir Humphrey lifted his head from his hands and tried to speak. But no words came out.

  I quickly answered for him. ‘He is in full agreement. We work as a team, don’t we Humphrey?’ He nodded weakly. ‘And I may say he’s a pleasure to work with.’

  Meanwhile, Betty Oldham had been thrown into a state of confusion. She was still trying to attack me, but there was no longer any reason to do so.

  ‘But Minister,’ she complained shrilly, ‘this account of what’s been going on doesn’t square with what you were saying in your Washington speech about a ruthless war on waste.’

  I was ready for that. In my most patronising manner I explained my position. ‘Well Betty,’ I said, ‘I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap. I believe in things like loyalty. Whatever you say to them privately, you defend your chaps in public. Eh, Humphrey?’

  Humphrey was now eyeing me as if I were a rabid dog.

  ‘In that case,’ pressed Mrs Oldham, ‘aren’t you being rather disloyal to them now?’

  ‘No,’ I explained charmingly, ‘because in the end a Minister has a higher loyalty — a loyalty to Parliament, a loyalty to the nation. And that loyalty must take precedence, come what may, painful as it may be. My belief is that one is loyal to one’s department and one’s officials until the evidence is overwhelming. But I must now say in public what I have long been saying in private: that reforms can and will be carried out and I know that in Sir Humphrey I will find my staunchest ally. Isn’t that so, Humphrey?’

  ‘Yes Minister,’ replied my staunchest ally in a thin choking voice of pure hatred.

  After the meeting was over Humphrey, Bernard and I strolled back across Whitehall to the DAA. It was a lovely sunny autumn day with a cool breeze from the river. I was feeling fairly positive about it
all, though desperately hoping that I had not misunderstood Sir Mark’s intentions. It seemed to me that I had just been as loyal as could be to the PM, even though I’d upset Sir Humphrey more than somewhat.

  Humphrey didn’t speak all the way back to the Department. He was too angry. Bernard didn’t either. He was too frightened.

  In fact, nothing was said until we were back in my office. Humphrey had followed me into my room, so clearly he did have something to say to me.

  I shut the door and looked at him expectantly.

  ‘That was a big help Minister,’ he began bitterly.

  ‘I did my best,’ I replied with a modest smile.

  He stared at me, trying to understand why I had behaved as I had. He must have thought that I had gone out of my mind.

  ‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps,’ he said. ‘So this is your idea of teamwork, is it? Most amusing, if I may say so.’

  I felt I should explain. So I started to say that I had to do it, that I’d had no choice. He wouldn’t listen.

  ‘You had to do what? Cravenly admitting everything to that Committee. Don’t you realise how utterly calamitous this has been for us?’

  ‘Not for me, I hope,’ I replied.

  He shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘You hope in vain, Minister. The Department will be up in arms — they will have very little confidence in you in future. And as for Number Ten — well, I shudder to think how the PM may react to a public admission of failure.’

  I said nothing. As I sat there, wondering for a moment if I’d made a ghastly mistake, Bernard knocked and came in. He was holding an envelope.

  ‘Excuse me, Minister, sorry to interrupt,’ he said nervously, ‘but here’s a personal letter from the Prime Minister.’

  He handed it to me. Sir Humphrey shook his head. I ripped it open. As I read it I was aware of Humphrey’s voice.

  ‘I did warn you,’ it was saying. ‘Bernard, perhaps you should give some thought to drafting a face-saving letter of resignation for the Minister.’

  I read the letter. [We reproduce it below — Ed.]

  10 Downing Street

  15th October

  The Prime Minister

  Dear Jim,

  We haven’t seen enough of each other lately. Would you be free to lunch at Chequers on Sunday? We shall be just the family. Do please bring Annie and Lucy.

  I look forward so much to seeing you and perhaps we could catch up on each other’s news.

  Then I read it aloud.

  Humphrey’s face was a picture of confusion. ‘I don’t think I quite…’ he said, and then the penny dropped. ‘A conspiracy!’ he hissed at me. ‘That drink with Mark Spencer!’

  I just smiled. The gamble had paid off. I reread the letter. It was a triumph. ‘We haven’t seen enough of each other lately… lunch at Chequers… just the family…’ And it is handwritten.

  ‘Do you know what this letter is worth, Humphrey?’ I asked with quiet pride.

  ‘I believe the going rate is thirty pieces of silver,’ he replied nastily.

  I shook my head. ‘No Humphrey,’ I said with supreme confidence. ‘Integrity and loyalty have been rewarded.’

  ‘Loyalty?’ he sneered contemptuously. ‘Loyalty?’

  I just couldn’t resist rubbing his nose in it. ‘Yes Humphrey. I supported you just the way you have always supported me. Isn’t that so?’

  He really didn’t know how to answer that. A sort of snorting noise emanated from behind his clenched teeth.

  ‘Did you say something, Humphrey?’ I asked politely.

  ‘I think,’ said Bernard, ‘that he said “Yes Minister.”’

  15 Equal Opportunities

  October 23rd

  Today was a fairly quiet Saturday afternoon in the constituency. The end of our first year and I was feeling that I’ve done pretty well, one way or another: no great cock-ups after my first-ever year in office (or at least, none which we haven’t survived somehow) and I have a sense that I am beginning to understand the administrative machine at last.

  You may think that a year is rather too long a period in which to achieve an understanding of the one department of which I am the titular head. In political terms, of course, that’s true. Nonetheless if, had I become Chairman of ICI after a lifetime as a journalist and polytechnic lecturer and with no previous experience of running a major industry, I had a thorough understanding of how it all worked after only one year, I would be considered a great success.

  We politicians blunder into Whitehall like babes in the wood. So few of us have ever run anything before, other than a medical practice, a law firm, or a political journal — and suddenly we find ourselves the head of a ministry with between twenty thousand and a hundred thousand employees.

  All in all, I think we do pretty well! [It was in this bullish mood that Hacker had agreed that day to give an interview to Cathy Webb, a fourth-former in one of the comprehensive schools in Hacker’s constituency[38] — Ed.]

  However, my enthusiastic feelings about my first year in office were, I must admit, a little shaken after I was interviewed at teatime by a precocious schoolgirl for the school magazine.

  She began by asking me how I had reached my present eminent position. I summarised my political career so far, culminating, I said, with carefully calculated modesty, ‘with the moment when the Prime Minister saw fit, for whatever reason, to invite one to join the Cabinet and, well, here one is.’ I didn’t want to seem conceited. In my experience the young have a nose for that sort of thing.

  She asked me if it isn’t a terrific responsibility. I explained to her that if one chooses, as I have chosen, to dedicate one’s life to public service, the service of others, then responsibility is one of those things one has to accept.

  Cathy was full of admiration, I could see it in her eyes. ‘But all that power…’ she murmured.

  ‘I know, I know,’ I replied, attempting the casual air of a man who is used to it. ‘Frightening, in a way. But actually, Cathy…’ (I was careful to use her name, of course, because it showed I did not consider myself above my constituents, even schoolchildren — future voters, after all) ‘… this power actually makes one rather humble!’

  Annie hurried in and interrupted me. The phone had been ringing elsewhere in the house.

  ‘Bernard just rang, oh Humble One,’ she said. I wish she wouldn’t send me up like that in front of other people. I mean, I’ve got a pretty good sense of humour, but there is a limit.

  She went on to tell me that Central House[39] wanted me to see some programme on television. On BBC2.

  I had already remembered the wretched programme, and made a note not to watch.

  ‘Oh Lord,’ I said. ‘Maureen Watkins MP. One of our backbenchers — not my favourite lady, a rampaging feminist, I don’t think I’ll bother.’

  In the nick of time I noticed Cathy making a note. I had to explain that my remark was ‘off the record’, a concept that she seemed to have some difficulty with. It reminded me how lucky we are to have those well-trained lobby correspondents to deal with most of the time.

  Anyway, she crossed it out. But to my surprise she spoke up in defence of Maureen Watkins.

  ‘I like her,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think that women are still exploited? All of my friends in 4B think that they are exploited at work and at home and that it’s still a world designed by men and run by men for the convenience of men.’

  I was slightly surprised by this little speech. It didn’t sound entirely… home-grown, if you know what I mean. Cathy must have realised, because she had the grace to add: ‘You know — like she says.’

  I must say, I’m getting a bit fed up with all this feminist crap. Nowadays, if you so much as compliment a woman on her appearance, you’re told you’re a sexist. This dreadful lesbian lobby is getting everywhere.

  So I decided to argue the point with young Cathy. ‘Surely it’s not like that any longer,’ I said with a warm smile. ‘Anyway, she doesn’t carry
any weight in the House, thank goodness.’

  ‘Not in the House, perhaps,’ interjected Annie. ‘It’s full of men.’

  I thanked my dear wife for her helpful comment, renewed my smile in Cathy’s direction, and asked her if there was anything else she wanted to know.

  ‘Just one last question,’ she said. ‘As a Cabinet Minister with all this power, what have you actually achieved?’

  I was pleased to answer that question. It seemed an easy one. ‘Achieved?’ I repeated reflectively. ‘Well, all sorts of things. Membership of the Privy Council, membership of the party policy committee…’

  She interrupted. It seemed that she wanted to make the question more specific. What, she wanted to know, had I actually done that makes life better for other people.

  Well, of course, I was completely nonplussed. Children ask the oddest questions. Right out of left field, as our American allies would say. Certainly no one had ever asked me such a question before.

  ‘Makes life better?’ I repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ she said.

  ‘For other people?’ I thought hard, but absolutely nothing sprang to mind. I tried to think as I spoke. ‘There must be a number of things. I mean, that’s what one’s whole job is about, eighteen hours a day, seven days a week…’

  Cathy interrupted me as I made the mistake of momentarily drawing breath. She has a future with the BBC, that kid! ‘Could you just give me one or two examples, though? Otherwise my article might be a bit boring.’

  ‘Examples. Yes, of course I can,’ I said, and found that I couldn’t.

  Her pencil was poised expectantly above her lined exercise book. I realised that some explanation was called for.

  ‘Well,’ I began, ‘you see, it’s difficult to know where to start. So much of government is collective decisions, all of us together, the best minds in the country hammering it out.’

  She seemed dissatisfied with my explanation.

  ‘Yes,’ she said doubtfully, ‘but what is it you’ll look back on afterwards and say “I did that”? You know, like a writer can look at his books.’

  Persistent little blighter.