The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  [Later that week Sir Humphrey Appleby lunched with Sir Arnold Robinson, the Cabinet Secretary, at the Athenaeum Club. As usual Sir Humphrey kept a memo of the meeting — Ed.]

  Arnold observed that my Minister had enjoyed quite a little publicity triumph down at Thames Marsh. He seemed pleased, which surprised me.

  I’m always worried when this Minister has a triumph of any sort. It invariably leads to trouble because he thinks he has achieved something.

  Arnold thinks it’s good when Ministers think they have achieved something. He takes the view that it makes life much easier, because they stop fretting for a bit and we don’t have to put up with their little temper tantrums.

  My worry, on the other hand, is that he will want to introduce his next idea.

  Arnold was most interested to learn that we have a Minister with two ideas. He couldn’t remember when we last had one of those.

  [Of course, Hacker had not really had any ideas. One was Bernard’s and the other was Dr Cartwright’s — Ed.]

  Arnold wanted to know about the latest idea, and I was obliged to tell him that it was Cartwright’s idiotic scheme to introduce pre-set failure standards for all council projects over £10,000, and to make a named official responsible.

  Arnold knew about this scheme, of course, it’s been around for years. But he thought (as I did) that Gordon Reid had squashed it. I think Arnold was a bit put out that Cartwright had got it to Hacker, though I don’t see how I could have prevented it since Cartwright has now come over to the DAA. After all, he slipped it to the Minister privately, under plain cover. Brown envelope job.

  Arnold was adamant that it must be stopped. He’s absolutely right. Once you specify in advance what a project is supposed to achieve and whose job it is to see that it does, the entire system collapses. As he says, we would be into the whole squalid world of professional management.

  Arnold reminded me (as if I didn’t already know) that we already move our officials around ever two or three years, to stop this personal responsibility nonsense. If Cartwright’s scheme goes through, we would have to be posting everybody once a fortnight.

  Clearly we have to make the Minister understand that his new local authority responsibilities are for enjoying, not for exercising.

  I told Arnold that tomorrow Hacker will be living his little triumph all over again, recording a TV interview with Ludovic Kennedy for a documentary on Civil Defence.

  Arnold wondered out loud what would happen if we gave Hacker a dossier of the curious ways in which local councillors spend their Civil Defence budgets. I remarked that I couldn’t really see how that would help. But Arnold had an idea…

  Perhaps he should become a Minister!

  [Appleby Papers 39/H1T/188]

  [It was known that Hacker was delighted by the invitation, expected though it was, to appear on Ludovic Kennedy’s television documentary on Civil Defence. He was under the impression that he was being given a chance to discuss a Ministerial success. Before the recording, in fact, it is said that he jocularly asked Kennedy if this represented a change of policy by the BBC.

  We reproduce the transcripts of the interview, which took a course that was, as it turned out, not to Hacker’s liking. This, of course, was a result of Sir Arnold Robinson’s idea — Ed.]

  [It is interesting to read Hacker’s brief remarks in his diary, written on the evening of the television interview — Ed.]

  March 29th

  TV interview went quite well. But I got into a bit of difficulty over Ben Stanley’s bunker. I said that politicians weren’t as important as doctors and so on.

  He asked about the PM’s place in a government shelter. I should have seen that one coming.

  I got out of it, pretty cleverly on the whole. All the same I’m not sure how happy the PM will be about it.

  Fortunately I was able to tell a marvellously funny story about a group of councillors who spent three years’ Civil Defence budget on a jaunt to California. So that’s all right. On the whole it should do me a bit of good when it goes out next week.

  March 30th

  A worrying day. I’ve put my foot in it with the PM in a much bigger way than I’d ever imagined.

  That wretched story about the councillors going to California is the root of the trouble. I don’t even remember where I got it from — it was in some brief that Bernard passed on to me from the Civil Defence Directorate before the TV programme, I think.

  Anyway, Humphrey asked me about it. At first he wouldn’t say why. He merely made the observation that he was sure that I knew what I was doing.

  He only says that when I’ve made an appalling cock-up.

  Then he revealed that the borough in question contains the PM’s constituency. And the PM’s election agent was the councillor who led the offending delegation.

  At first I thought he was joking. But no.

  ‘Number Ten have been trying to keep it quiet for weeks,’ he said. ‘Ah well. Truth will out.’

  I couldn’t see why. Truth mustn’t out. That’s the worst thing that can happen. It’ll look like a personal attack, and the PM’s very touchy about disloyalty at the moment. I told Humphrey that we must stop the interview going out. I could see no other alternative.

  To my astonishment he chose that moment to get to his feet and bring the discussion to a close.

  ‘Unfortunately, Minister, I have no time. I must be going.’

  I gasped. ‘You can’t. This is top priority. I order you.’

  ‘Alas! Minister, it is your orders that are calling me away.’

  I couldn’t think what he meant. He explained: ‘Your scheme for imposing pre-set failure standards on local councils is very complex. You asked for proposals straight away. It is taking every moment of my time. Much as I would like to help…’

  He paused. Then he seemed to make a proposal. ‘On the other hand, if implementing failure standards were not quite so urgent…’

  ‘Do you mean,’ I asked casually, ‘you could stop the broadcast?’

  He was guarded. ‘Minister, we cannot censor the BBC. But… I happen to be having lunch tomorrow with the BBC’s Director of Policy, perhaps you’d care to join us?’

  I couldn’t see any point, if we can’t censor them. I said so, rather disconsolately.

  But Sir Humphrey’s reply has given me grounds for hope. ‘No Minister, but we can always try to persuade them to withdraw programmes voluntarily once they realise that transmission is not in the public interest.’

  ‘It’s not in my interest,’ I replied firmly, ‘and I represent the public. So it can’t be in the public interest.’

  Humphrey looked intrigued. ‘That’s a novel approach,’ he said. ‘We’ve not tried that on them before.’

  I think that he has more respect for my ideas than he likes to show.

  March 31st

  A very successful lunch today with Humphrey and Francis Aubrey, the BBC’s Director of Policy, a man with a permanently anxious expression on his face. As well he might have.

  It started badly though. As soon as I broached the subject he stated his position firmly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Hacker, but the BBC cannot give in to government pressure.’ His black bushy eyebrows bristled sternly.

  ‘Well, let’s leave that on one side, shall we?’ said Sir Humphrey smoothly.

  I thought Humphrey was supposed to be on my side.

  ‘No really,’ I began, ‘I must insist…’

  But he silenced me, rather rudely I thought. ‘Let’s leave that on one side,’ he repeated. ‘Please, Minister.’

  I had no option really. But I later realised that I had underestimated my Permanent Secretary.

  He turned to Mr Aubrey and said: ‘Frank, can I raise something else? There is considerable disquiet about the BBC’s hostility to the Government.’

  Aubrey laughed off the idea. ‘That’s absurd.’

  ‘Well, is it?’ asked Humphrey. And he leaned across to the empty chair beside him and opened up an enormous brie
fcase. Not his usual slimline leather job with gold engraved initials, but a big fat bulging leather bag, so heavy that his driver had carried it into the club for us.

  I’d been preoccupied and worried, and I’d scarcely noticed it. If I had thought about it I suppose I’d have assumed it contained some documents with such a high security clearance that Humphrey had to take them with him everywhere he went.

  In the event, it turned out that it contained a number of files that he intended to show the man from the Beeb.

  ‘We have been documenting instances of bias in BBC current affairs.’ He handed over a file with Bias written across it in a felt pen in large red letters. Francis Aubrey put down his knife and fork and was about to open it when Humphrey handed over a second file, with the words Favourable News Stories Not Reported By The BBC. Then he handed over one file after another, pointing out their contents.

  Excessive Publicity For Other Countries’ Case Against Britain — ‘Especially our Common Market enemies. Er, partners, I mean,’ explained Humphrey. Jokes Against The Prime Minister. Unnecessary Publicity for Anti-government Demonstrations. And finally, one huge file, much fatter than the others, which he heaved across the table, marked, Ministers’ Programme Suggestions Not Accepted.

  Francis Aubrey was clearly shaken by this mass of incriminating allegations and evidence. ‘But… I’m… but I’m sure we’ve got answers to all these.’ He sounded more firm than he looked.

  ‘Of course the BBC’s got answers,’ I told him. ‘It’s always got answers. Silly ones, but it’s always got them.’

  Humphrey was taking a cooler line. ‘Of course the BBC has explanations,’ he said soothingly. ‘But I just thought I ought to warn you that questions are being asked.’

  ‘What sort of questions?’ Mr Aubrey was looking even more worried.

  ‘Well,’ said Humphrey thoughtfully, ‘for example, if Parliament were to be televised, whether it shouldn’t be entrusted to ITV.’

  ‘You can’t be serious,’ he exploded.

  ‘And,’ continued Humphrey in the same quiet and thoughtful vein, ‘whether the BBC administration has really made the cuts in jobs and premises that we have endured in government. Should a Select Committee be appointed to scrutinise all BBC expenditure?’

  Francis Aubrey started to panic. ‘That would be an intolerable intrusion.’ Resorting to pomposity to hide his thoroughly understandable fears.

  I was enjoying myself thoroughly by this time.

  ‘Of course,’ said Sir Humphrey agreeably. ‘And then there’s the extraordinary matter of the boxes at Ascot, Wimbledon, Lord’s, Covent Garden, the Proms…’

  I pricked up my ears. This was news to me.

  Francis said, ‘Ah yes, but these are a technical requirement. For production and engineering staff, you know.’

  At this juncture Humphrey fished about at the bottom of his copious and now nearly empty Gladstone bag, and produced a box of photographs and press cuttings.

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said, and smiled and dropped his final bombshell. ‘Reports suggest your production and engineering staff are all holding champagne glasses, all accompanied by their wives — or other ladies of equal distinction — and all bearing a remarkable similarity to governors, directors and executives of the corporation and their friends. I’m wondering whether it is my duty to pass the evidence to the Department of Inland Revenue. What’s your view?’

  And, with that, he handed over the box of photographs.

  In silence, an ashen Francis Aubrey looked through them.

  As he stopped at a splendid ten by eight portrait Humphrey leaned across, glanced at it, and observed, ‘You’ve come out awfully well, haven’t you?’

  We fell into silence for some while. F. A. put down the photographs, tried to eat a little more of his Sole Meunière, but clearly it was turning to dust in his mouth. He gave up. I just watched with interest. Humphrey’s performance was brilliant, and I had no wish to interrupt it or get in the way.

  Humphrey was quietly enjoying his glass of Château Léoville-Barton 1973, a bottle of which he had carefully chosen to go with his roast beef. It tasted okay, though one glass of red is much like another as far as I’m concerned.

  Finally Humphrey broke the silence. ‘Mind you, I think we may just be able to contain all this criticism of the corporation, provided the files don’t get any larger. That’s why I am urging my Minister that there is no need to take up the case of the Civil Defence programme formally.’

  Francis was looking desperate. He turned the photo of himself face downwards on the pile. ‘Look, you do see my position. The BBC cannot give in to government pressure.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Humphrey. This surprised me. I thought that that was precisely what we were trying to achieve. But I had reckoned without the hypocrisy of the Establishment. Or, to put it more kindly, Humphrey was devising some face-saving apparatus for Mr Aubrey.

  And that’s how it turned out to be. He looked at me.

  ‘We wouldn’t want the BBC to give in to government pressure. Would we Minister?’

  ‘No?’ I asked, slightly cautiously, recognising a clear cue.

  ‘No, of course we wouldn’t,’ he went on. ‘But the Minister’s interview with Ludovic Kennedy did contain some factual errors.’

  Francis Aubrey seized on that. He brightened up considerably. ‘Factual errors? Ah, that’s different. I mean the BBC couldn’t give in to government pressure…”

  ‘Of course not,’ we agreed.

  ‘… but we set great store by factual accuracy.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Humphrey, nodding sympathetically. ‘And then, some of the information in the interview is likely to be out of date by the time of transmission.’

  ‘Out of date?’ he responded eagerly. ‘Ah that’s serious. As you know, the BBC couldn’t give in to government pressure…’

  ‘Of course not,’ we agreed in unison.

  ‘… but we don’t want to transmit out-of-date material.’

  I saw that I could help Humphrey now.

  ‘And since the recording,’ I interjected, ‘I’ve discovered that I inadvertently let slip one or two remarks that might have security implications.’

  ‘Such as?’ he asked.

  I hadn’t expected that question. I thought he’d be too well-bred to ask.

  Humphrey came to the rescue. ‘He can’t tell you what they are. Security.’

  Francis Aubrey didn’t seem to mind a bit. ‘Ah well, we can’t be too careful about security, I do agree. If the defence of the realm is at stake, we have to be very responsible. I mean, obviously the BBC can’t give in to government pressure…’

  ‘Of course not,’ we chorused enthusiastically one more time.

  ‘… but security, well, you can’t be too careful, can you?’

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ I echoed.

  ‘You can’t be too careful,’ murmured Humphrey.

  ‘And in the end, it wasn’t a very interesting interview anyway. All been said before. Bit of a yawn, actually.’

  F. A. — or Sweet F.A. as I like to think of him now — had brightened up considerably by this time. Colour had returned to his cheeks. His eyes were no longer lustreless and dead. He was now able to expound on the matter of BBC policy and practice with renewed confidence.

  ‘I mean,’ he explained, ‘if it’s boring, and if there are inaccuracies and security worries, the BBC wouldn’t want to put the interview out. That puts a completely different complexion on it.’

  ‘Completely different,’ I said happily.

  ‘Transmission,’ he went on, ‘would not be in the public interest. But I do want to make one thing absolutely clear.’

  ‘Yes?’ enquired Humphrey politely.

  ‘There can be absolutely no question,’ Francis Aubrey stated firmly and categorically, ‘of the BBC ever giving in to government pressure.’

  I think it will be all right now.

  April 5th

  This afternoon Sir Hum
phrey popped in to see me. He had just received a message that the BBC had decided to drop my interview with Ludovic Kennedy. Apparently they feel it is the responsible course. Of course they do.

  I thanked Humphrey, and offered him a sherry. As I thought about the events of the last few days a new thought occurred to me.

  ‘You know,’ I said, ‘it seems to me that, somehow, I was trapped into saying those things that would embarrass the PM.’

  ‘Surely not,’ said Humphrey.

  ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I think I was dropped right in it.’

  Humphrey derided this as a ridiculous thought, and asked how I could even think it. I asked him why it was ridiculous to think that Ludo tried to trap me.

  ‘Who?’ he asked.

  ‘Ludo. Ludovic Kennedy.’

  Humphrey suddenly changed his tune. ‘Oh, Ludovic Kennedy tried to trap you. I see. Yes. I’m sure he did.’

  We both agreed that everyone who works for the media is deceitful, and you can’t trust them an inch. But, now I think about it, why was he so surprised that I was talking about Ludo? Who did he think I was talking about?

  Still, he has got me out of a frightful hole. And it was quite clear what the quid pro quo was expected to be. I had to suggest that we lay off the local authorities.

  ‘It must be admitted,’ I was forced to concede, ‘that local councillors — on the whole — are sensible, responsible people, and they’re democratically elected. Central government has to be very careful before it starts telling them how to do their job.’

  ‘And the failure standards?’

  ‘I think they can manage without them, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes Minister.’

  And he smiled contentedly.

  But I don’t intend to let the matter drop for good. I shall return to it, after a decent interval. After all, we had a little unspoken agreement, an unwritten détente — but no one can hold you to an unspoken, unwritten deal, can they?

  17 The Moral Dimension

  May 14th

  I am writing this entry, not in my London flat or in my constituency house, but in the first-class compartment of a British Airways flight to the oil sheikhdom of Qumran.