The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  I explained this to Humphrey at the start of our meeting this morning. He started going on about the contract being worth £340 million. ‘Get thee behind me, Humphrey,’ I said, and reminded him of the moral dimension of government. The contract may be worth £340 million, but my job’s worth even more to me.

  But then Humphrey told me that Bernard had something to tell me. I waited. Bernard was looking very anxious. Finally he coughed and began to speak, rather haltingly.

  ‘Um… you know that jar the Qumranis gave you?’

  I remembered it well. ‘Yes, we’ve got it in the flat. Most attractive.’

  I waited. Clearly he was worried about something.

  ‘I told Mrs Hacker that it was all right to keep it,’ he said, ‘because I had it valued at under fifty pounds. But I’m not sure… the man who valued it was awfully nice… I told him Mrs Hacker liked it a lot… but he might have been er, being helpful.’

  I still couldn’t see any problem. So I told him not to worry, and that no one will ever know. In fact, I was rash enough to congratulate him for being jolly enterprising.

  Then came the bad news. ‘Yes, but you see, Mrs Hacker told me this morning that a Guardian journalist came round and started asking questions.’

  This was horrifying! I asked to see the valuation. It was written on the back of the menu. [The Treasury were never awfully happy about valuations written on the backs of menus — Ed.]

  I asked what the jar was really worth. Humphrey had the information at his fingertips. If it’s a copy, then the valuation is roughly correct. But if it’s an original — £5000.

  And I had kept it!

  If I’d had a day or two to consider the matter there would have been no problem. It would have been pretty easy to dream up some valid explanation of the situation, one that got both me and Bernard off the hook.

  But at that moment Bill Pritchard came bursting in from the press office. And he brought even worse news!

  The Guardian had been on the phone to him. They’d been on to the Qumrani Embassy, telling them that my wife had said that this extremely valuable seventeenth-century thing presented to me by the Qumrani Government was a copy. The Qumrani Government was incensed at the suggestion that they insulted Britain by giving me a worthless gift. (Though I can’t see the point of giving me a valuable gift if it’s got to be stored in the vault forever.) The FCO then phoned Bill and told him it was building up into the biggest diplomatic incident since Death of a Princess.

  I thought I’d heard enough bad news for one day. But no. He added that Jenny Goodwin of The Guardian was in the private office, demanding to see me right away.

  I thought Annie had always described Jenny Goodwin as a friend of hers. Some friend! You just can’t trust the media! Despicable, muck-raking nosey parkers, always snooping around trying to get at the truth!

  Bernard looked beseechingly at me. But it was clear that I had no choice.

  ‘My duty is clear,’ I said in my Churchillian voice. ‘I have no choice.’

  ‘No choice?’ squeaked Bernard, like Piglet confronting the Heffalump.

  I made it clear that indeed I had no choice. My wife had not asked him to lie about the value of the gift. He admitted she hadn’t. I explained to Bernard that I fully realised that he had done this with the best of possible motives, but that there could be no excuse for falsifying a document.

  He protested that he hadn’t. But of course he was hair-splitting.

  But my trouble is, I never know when to stop. I then launched into a tremendously self-righteous tirade. I told him that I cannot have it thought that I asked him to do this. Then I turned on Humphrey, and told him that I cannot have it thought that I will tolerate bribery and corruption in our business dealings. ‘Enough is enough,’ I went on, digging my own grave relentlessly. ‘If this journalist asks me straight questions about either of these matters I must give straight answers. There is a moral dimension.’

  I should have realised, since Humphrey was looking so thoroughly unflappable, that he had an ace up his sleeve. I didn’t guess. And he played it.

  ‘I agree with you, Minister. I see now that there is a moral dimension to everything. Will I tell the press about the communications room or will you?’

  Blackmail. Shocking, but true! He was clearly saying that if I laid the blame for (a) the bribery and corruption, or (b) the rosewater jar — neither of which were my fault — at his door or Bernard’s door or anyone’s door (if it comes to that) then he would drop me right in it.

  I think I just gaped at him. Anyway, after a pause he murmured something about the moral dimension. Hypocritical bastard.

  I tried to explain that the communications room was not the same thing at all. Completely different, in fact. Drinking is nothing to do with corruption.

  But Humphrey would have none of it. ‘Minister, we deceived the Qumranis. I am racked with guilt, tormented by the knowledge that we violated their solemn and sacred Islamic laws in their own country. Sooner or later we must own up and admit that it was all your idea.’

  ‘It wasn’t,’ I said desperately.

  ‘It was,’ they chorused.

  I would have denied it, but it was their word against mine. And who would ever take the word of a mere politician against that of a Permanent Secretary and a Private Secretary?

  Sir Humphrey piled on the pressure. ‘Is it fifty lashes or one hundred?’ he asked Bernard, who seemed to be brightening up a little.

  In what seemed like an interminable pause, I contemplated my options. The more I contemplated my options the more they disappeared, until I didn’t seem to have any at all. Finally Bill said that I had to meet the journalist or she would write something terrible anyway.

  I nodded weakly. Humphrey and Bernard hovered. I knew that only one possible course was open to me. Attack! Attack is always the best form of defence, especially when dealing with the press.

  And after all, dealing with the press is my stock-in-trade. That is what I’m best at.

  [That is what Ministers had to be best at. At that time the Minister’s main role was to be the chief public relations man for his Ministry — Ed.]

  I sized her up in no time as she came into the office. Attractive voice, slightly untidy pulled-through-a-hedge-backwards sort of look, trousers, absolutely what you’d expect from The Guardian — a typical knee-jerk liberal, Shirley Williams type.

  As she came in a rough strategy formed in my mind. I was charming, but cool, and gave her the impression that I was fairly busy and didn’t have too much time to spare. If you don’t do that, if you let them think that you think they are important, it confirms their suspicions that they are on to something.

  So I adopted a brisk tone like the family doctor. ‘What seems to be the trouble?’ I asked in my best bedside manner.

  ‘Two things,’ she said, ‘both of them rather worrying to the public.’

  How dare she speak for the public, who know nothing about any of it? And never will, if I can help it!

  She started with the French allegation of BES corruption in getting the Qumrani contract.

  ‘Absolute nonsense,’ I said categorically. If in doubt, always issue an absolute denial. And if you’re going to lie, then lie with one hundred per cent conviction.

  ‘But they quoted reports of payments to officials,’ she said.

  I pretended to lose my rag. I fixed her with a piercing gaze. ‘This is absolutely typical. A British company slogs its guts out to win orders and create jobs and earn dollars, and what do they get from the media? A smear campaign.’

  ‘But if they won by bribery…’

  I talked over her. ‘There is no question of bribery — I have had an internal inquiry and all these so-called payments have been identified.’

  ‘What as?’ she asked, slightly on the retreat.

  Humphrey saw his opportunity to help.

  ‘Commission fees,’ he said quickly. ‘Administrative overheads.’

  He’d given me time t
o think — ‘Operating costs. Managerial surcharge,’ I added.

  Bernard chimed in too. ‘Introduction expenses. Miscellaneous outgoings.’

  I thundered on. ‘We have looked into every brown envelope,’ I found myself saying, but changed it to ‘balance sheet’ in the nick of time. ‘And everything is in order.’

  ‘I see,’ she said. She really didn’t have a leg to stand on. She had no proof at all. She had to believe me. And I’m sure she knew only too well the risk of incurring the wrath of a Minister of the Crown with false allegations and accusations.

  [We get the impression that Hacker, like many politicians, had the useful ability to believe that black was white merely because he was saying so — Ed.]

  I told her that the allegations she was making were the symptoms of a very sick society for which the media must take their share of the blame. I demanded to know why she wanted to put thousands of British jobs at risk. She had no answer. [Naturally, as she did not want to put thousands of British jobs at risk — Ed.] I told her that I would be calling on the Press Council to censure the press for a disgraceful breach of professional ethics in running the story.

  ‘Indeed,’ I continued, rather superbly I thought, ‘the Council, and the House of Commons itself must surely be concerned about the standards that have applied in this shameful episode, and pressure will be brought to bear to ensure that this type of gutter press reporting is not repeated.’

  She looked stunned. She was completely unprepared for my counter-attack, as I thought she would be.

  Nervously she collected herself and asked her second question, with a great deal less confidence, I was pleased to see. ‘This rosewater jar, apparently presented to you in Qumran?’

  ‘Yes?’ I snapped, belligerently.

  ‘Well…’ she panicked but continued, ‘I saw it in your house actually.’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘we’re keeping it there temporarily.’

  ‘Temporarily?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I was doing my ingenuous routine now. ‘It’s very valuable, you see.’

  ‘But Mrs Hacker said it was an imitation.’

  I laughed. ‘Burglars, you silly girl. Burglars! We didn’t want gossip going around. Until we’ve got rid of it.’

  Now she was completely confused. ‘Got rid of it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m presenting it to our local museum when we get back to the constituency on Saturday. Obviously I can’t keep it. Government property, you know.’ And then I came out with my master stroke. ‘Now — what was your question?’

  She had nothing else to say. She said it was nothing, it was all right, everything was fine. I charmingly thanked her for dropping in, and ushered her out.

  Humphrey was full of admiration.

  ‘Superb, Minister.’

  And Bernard was full of gratitude.

  ‘Thank you, Minister.’

  I told them it was nothing. After all, we have to stick by our friends. Loyalty is a much underrated quality. I told them so.

  ‘Yes Minister,’ they said, but somehow they didn’t look all that grateful.

  18 The Bed of Nails

  [ In politics, August is known as the ‘silly season’. This is a time when voters are away on holiday, and trivial issues are pushed in the forefront of the press in order to sell newspapers to holidaymakers. It is also the time when the House of Commons has risen for the summer recess and is thus an excellent time for the government to announce new or controversial measures about which the House of Commons cannot protest until they reconvene in October — by which time most political events that took place in August would be regarded as dead ducks by the media.

  It follows that August is also the time when Cabinet Ministers are most off their guard. Members of Parliament are not at hand to question them or harass them, and the Ministers themselves — secure from the unlikely event of an August reshuffle and secure from serious press coverage of their activities — relax more than they should.

  Perhaps this is the explanation of the transport policy crisis, which very nearly led to Hacker taking on one of the most unpopular jobs in Whitehall. How he evaded it is a tribute to the shrewd guiding hand of Sir Humphrey, coupled with Hacker’s own growing political skills.

  Early in the month a meeting took place at Ten Downing Street between Sir Mark Spencer, the Prime Minister’s Chief Special Adviser, and Sir Arnold Robinson, the Secretary of the Cabinet. Sir Mark’s files contain no reference to this meeting, but as he was not a career civil servant this is not surprising. But Sir Arnold Robinson’s diary, recently found in the Civil Service archives Walthamstow, reveal a conspiracy in the making — Ed.]

  Lunched with Sir Mark Spencer today. He and the PM are keen to bring in an integrated transport policy.

  I suggested that Hacker could be the best man for the job, as he doesn’t know anything at all about the subject. The Secretary of State for Transport, who knows a lot about it, won’t touch it with a ten foot barge pole. M.S. and I agreed that this job was indeed a bed of nails, a crown of thorns, a booby trap — which is why I suggested Hacker, of course.

  He is ideally qualified, as I explained to M.S., because the job needs a particular talent — lots of activity, but no actual achievement.

  At first M.S. couldn’t see how to swing it on Hacker. The answer was obvious: we had to make it seem like a special honour.

  The big problem was to get Hacker to take it on before Humphrey Appleby hears of it, because there’s no doubt that Old Humpy would instantly smell a rat. ‘Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’[48] he would be sure to say, though he’d probably have to say it in English for Hacker’s benefit as Hacker went to the LSE.[49]

  It seemed clear that we had to get a commitment today, especially as my departure for the Florida Conference on ‘Government and Participation’ is both imminent and urgent, tomorrow at the latest. [During the 1970s and 1980s it was the custom for senior government officials to send themselves off on futile conferences to agreeable resorts at public expense during the month of August — Ed.]

  Hacker came to meet us at tea-time. I had resolved to flatter him, which almost invariably leads to success with politicians. M.S. and I agreed therefore that we would give the job the title of Transport Supremo, which was a lot more attractive than Transport Muggins.

  I was also careful not to inform him in advance of the purpose of the meeting, partly because I did not want him to have the opportunity to discuss it with Humpy, and partly because I knew he would be anxious about being summoned to Number Ten. This would surely make him more pliable.

  Events turned out precisely as I anticipated. He knew nothing whatever about transport, floundered hopelessly, was flattered to be asked and accepted the job.

  It is fortunate that I shall be leaving for the country tonight, before Humpy gets to hear about all this.

  [It is interesting to compare the above recollections with Hacker’s account of the same day’s events in his diary — Ed.]

  August 11th

  An absolutely splendid day today, with a big boost for my morale.

  I was summoned to meet Mark Spencer at Number Ten. Naturally I was a bit wary, especially as I knew the PM hadn’t been awfully pleased to hear about that business with the rosewater jar, even though no harm came of it all in the end. I thought I might be in for a bit of a wigging, for when I got there I was met by Arnold Robinson, the Cabinet Secretary.

  However, the meeting was for quite a different purpose — I’ve been promoted.

  Arnold kicked off by saying they wanted to offer me something that was rather an honour. For a split second I was horrified — I thought they were telling me I was to be kicked upstairs. It was a nasty moment. But, in fact, they want to put me in charge of a new integrated national transport policy.

  They asked me for my views on transport. I had none, but I don’t think they realised because I carefully invited them to explain themselves further. I’m sure they thought that I was merely playing my cards close to my
chest.

  ‘We’ve been discussing a national integrated transport policy,’ they said.

  ‘Well, why not?’ I replied casually.

  ‘You’re in favour?’ enquired Sir Arnold quickly.

  I thought the answer required was ‘yes’ but I wasn’t yet sure so I contented myself by looking enigmatic. I’m sure that they were by now convinced that I was sound, because Sir Mark continued: ‘Unfortunately, public dissatisfaction with the nationalised transport industries is now at a high enough level to worry the government, as you know.’

  Again he waited. ‘Can you go on?’ I enquired.

  He went on. ‘We need a policy.’ I nodded sagely. ‘It’s no good just blaming the management when there’s an R in the month and blaming the unions the rest of the time.’

  Sir Arnold chipped in. ‘And unfortunately now they’ve all got together. They all say that it’s all the government’s fault — everything that goes wrong is the result of not having a national transport policy.’

  This was all news to me. I thought we had a policy. As a matter of fact, I specifically recall that in our discussions prior to the writing of our manifesto we decided that our policy was not to have a policy. I said so.

  Sir Mark nodded. ‘Be that as it may,’ he grunted, ‘the PM now wants a positive policy.’

  I wished Sir Mark had said so earlier. But I can take a hint, and it was not too late. ‘Ah, the PM, I see.’ I nodded again. ‘Well, I couldn’t agree more, I’ve always thought so myself.’

  Sir Arnold and Sir Mark looked pleased, but I still couldn’t see what it had to do with me. I assumed that it was a Department of Transport matter. Sir Arnold disabused me.

  ‘Obviously the Transport Secretary would love to get his teeth into the job, but he’s a bit too close to it all.’

  ‘Can’t see the wood for the trees,’ said Sir Mark.

  ‘Needs an open mind. Uncluttered,’ added Sir Arnold.