The Complete Yes Minister

by Jonathan Lynn

  ‘Who knows?’ He was at his most bland. ‘The Department of Trade? The Ministry of Defence? The Foreign Office?’

  I was getting impatient. This was wilful stupidity, no doubt about it. ‘We, Humphrey. The British Government. Innocent lives are being endangered by British weapons in the hands of terrorists.’

  ‘Only Italian lives, not British lives.’

  ‘There may be British tourists in Italy,’ I replied, letting the wider issue go temporarily by default. (The wider issue being that no man is an island.)[55]

  ‘British tourists? Foreign Office problem.’

  I was wearying of this juvenile buck-passing. ‘Look, Humphrey,’ I said, ‘we have to do something.’

  ‘With respect, Minister…’ the gloves were coming off now, ‘… we have to do nothing.’

  It seemed to me that he was somehow suggesting that doing nothing was an active rather than a passive course. So I asked him to elaborate.

  He was perfectly willing to do so. ‘The sale of arms abroad is one of those areas of government which we do not examine too closely.’

  I couldn’t accept that. I told him that I have to examine this area, now that I know.

  He said that I could say that I didn’t know.

  I wanted to be quite clear what he was saying that I should be saying. ‘Are you suggesting that I should lie?’

  ‘Not you, no,’ came the enigmatic response.

  ‘Who should lie, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Sleeping dogs, Minister.’

  We were getting no further. Trying to have an argument with Humphrey can be like trying to squash a bowlful of porridge with your fist. I told him that I intended to raise the question and take the matter further as I was not satisfied with such reassurances as Sir Humphrey had been able to give me.

  Now he looked upset. Not about bombs or terrorists or innocent lives, but about taking the matter further. ‘Please Minister, I beg of you!’

  I waited for him to explain further. Perhaps I would now learn something. And I did. But not what I expected.

  ‘Minister, two basic rules of government: Never look into anything you don’t have to. And never set up an enquiry unless you know in advance what its findings will be.’

  He was still obsessed with rules of government, in the face of a moral issue of these proportions. ‘Humphrey, I can’t believe it. We’re talking about good and evil.’

  ‘Ah. Church of England problem.’

  I was not amused. ‘No Humphrey, our problem. We are discussing right and wrong.’

  ‘You may be, Minister,’ he replied smoothly, ‘but I’m not. It would be a serious misuse of government time.’

  I thought at first that he was joking. But he wasn’t! He was serious, absolutely serious.

  ‘Can’t you see,’ I begged emotionally, ‘that selling arms to terrorists is wrong? Can’t you see that?’

  He couldn’t. ‘Either you sell arms or you don’t,’ was his cold, rational reply. ‘If you sell them, they will inevitably end up with people who have the cash to buy them.’

  I could see the strength of that argument. But terrorists had to be prevented, somehow, from getting hold of them.

  Humphrey seemed to find this a ridiculous and/or an impractical approach. He smiled patronisingly. ‘I suppose we could put a sort of government health warning on all the rifle butts. NOT TO BE SOLD TO TERRORISTS. Do you think that would help?’ I was speechless. ‘Or better still, WARNING: THIS GUN CAN SERIOUSLY DAMAGE YOUR HEALTH.’

  I didn’t laugh. I told him that it was rather shocking, in my view, that he could make light of such a matter. I demanded a straight answer. I asked him if he was saying that we should close our eyes to something that’s as morally wrong as this business.

  He sighed. Then he replied, with slight irritation. ‘If you insist on making me discuss moral issues, perhaps I should point out that something is either morally wrong or it is not. It can’t be slightly morally wrong.’

  I told him not to quibble.

  He quibbled again. ‘Minister, Government isn’t about morality.’

  ‘Really? Then what is it about?’

  ‘It’s about stability. Keeping things going, preventing anarchy, stopping society falling to bits. Still being here tomorrow.’

  ‘But what for?’ I asked.

  I had stumped him. He didn’t understand my question. So I spelt it out for him.

  ‘What is the ultimate purpose of Government, if it isn’t for doing good?’

  This notion was completely meaningless to him. ‘Government isn’t about good and evil, it’s only about order and chaos.’

  I know what he means. I know that all of us in politics have to swallow things we don’t believe in sometimes, vote for things that we think are wrong. I’m a realist, not a boy scout. Otherwise I could never have reached Cabinet level. I’m not naïve. I know that nations just act in their own interest. But… there has to be a sticking point somewhere. Can it really be in order for Italian terrorists to get British-made bomb detonators?

  I don’t see how it can be. But, more shocking still, Humphrey just didn’t seem to care. I asked him how that was possible.

  Again he had a simple answer. ‘It’s not my job to care. That’s what politicians are for. It’s my job to carry out government policy.’

  ‘Even if you think it’s wrong?’

  ‘Almost all government policy is wrong,’ he remarked obligingly, ‘but frightfully well carried out.’

  This was all too urbane for my liking. I had an irresistible urge to get to the bottom of this great moral issue, once and for all. This ‘just obeying orders’ mentality can lead to concentration camps. I wanted to nail this argument.

  ‘Humphrey, have you ever known a civil servant resign on a matter of principle?’

  Now, he was shocked. ‘I should think not! What a suggestion!’

  How remarkable. This is the only suggestion that I had made in this conversation that had shocked my Permanent Secretary. I sat back in my chair and contemplated him. He waited, presumably curious to see what other crackpot questions I would be asking.

  ‘I realise, for the very first time,’ I said slowly, ‘that you are committed purely to means, never to ends.’

  ‘As far as I am concerned, Minister, and all my colleagues, there is no difference between means and ends.’

  ‘If you believe that,’ I told him, ‘you will go to Hell.’

  There followed a long silence. I thought he was reflecting on the nature of the evil to which he had committed himself. But no! After a while, realising that I was expecting a reply, he observed with mild interest, ‘Minister, I had no idea that you had a theological bent.’

  My arguments had clearly left him unaffected. ‘You are a moral vacuum, Humphrey,’ I informed him.

  ‘If you say so, Minister.’ And he smiled courteously and inclined his head, as if to thank me for a gracious compliment.

  Bernard had been in the room for the entire meeting so far, though taking very few minutes, I noticed. Unusually for him, he had not said a word. Now he spoke.

  ‘It’s time for your lunch appointment, Minister.’

  I turned to him. ‘You’re keeping very quiet, Bernard. What would you do about all this?’

  ‘I’d keep very quiet, Minister.’

  The conversation had ground to a halt. I’d thrown every insult at Sir Humphrey that I could think of, and he had taken each one as a compliment. He appears to be completely amoral. Not immoral — he simply doesn’t understand moral concepts. His voice broke in on my thoughts. ‘So may we now drop this matter of arms sales?’

  I told him that we may not. I told him that I would be telling the PM about it, in person. And I told Bernard to make the appointment for me, as it is just the sort of thing the PM wants to know about.

  Humphrey intervened. ‘I assure you, Minister, it is just the sort of thing the Prime Minister desperately wants not to know about.’

  I told him we’d see. And I lef
t for lunch.

  SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[56]

  I well remember that I felt fearfully downcast after that fateful meeting. Because I couldn’t help wondering if the Minister was right. I voiced this fear to old Humphrey. ‘Most unlikely,’ he replied. ‘What about?’

  I explained that I too was worried about ends versus means. I asked Humphrey if I too would end up as a moral vacuum. His reply surprised me. ‘I hope so,’ he told me. ‘If you work hard enough.’

  This made me feel more melancholy than before. At that time, you see, I still believed that if it was our job to carry out government policies we ought to believe in them.

  Sir Humphrey shook his head and left the room. Later that day I received a memorandum from him. I have it still.

  Memorandum From: The Permanent Secretary To: B.W.

  I have been considering your question. Please bear in mind the following points.

  I have served eleven governments in the past thirty years. If I had believed in all their policies I would have been:

  1) passionately committed to keeping out of the Common Market.

  2) passionately committed to going into the Common Market.

  3) utterly convinced of the rightness of nationalising steel.

  4) utterly convinced of the rightness of denationalising steel.

  5) utterly convinced of the rightness of renationalising steel.

  6) fervently committed to retaining capital punishment.

  7) ardently committed to abolishing capital punishment.

  8) a Keynesian.

  9) a Friedmanite.

  10) a grammar school preserver.

  11) a grammar school destroyer.

  12) a nationalisation maniac.

  13) a privatisation freak.

  14) a stark, staring, raving schizophrenic.

  H.A.

  The following day he sent for me, to check that I was fully seized of his ideas and had taken them on board.

  Of course, his argument was irrefutable. I freely admitted it. And yet I was still downcast. Because, as I explained to Appleby, I felt that I needed to believe in something.

  He suggested that we should both believe in stopping Hacker from informing the PM.

  Of course he was right. Once the PM knew of this business, there would have to be an enquiry. It would be like Watergate, in which, as you know, the investigation of a trivial break-in led to one ghastly revelation after another and finally to the downfall of a President. The Golden Rule is, was, always has been and always will be: Don’t Lift Lids Off Cans of Worms.

  ‘Everything is connected to everything else,’ Sir Humphrey explained. ‘Who said that?’

  I ventured a guess that it might have been the Cabinet Secretary.

  ‘Nearly right,’ Sir Humphrey encouraged me. ‘Actually, it was Lenin.’

  He then set me the task — to stop my Minister from talking to the PM.

  At first I couldn’t see how this could be achieved, and was unwise enough to say. This earned me a sharp rebuke.

  ‘Work it out,’ he snapped. ‘I thought you were supposed to be a high-flyer — or are you really a low-flyer supported by occasional gusts of wind?’

  I could see that this was one of those make-or-break moments in one’s career. I went off and had a quiet think, and I asked myself some questions.

  Could I stop my Minister from seeing the PM? Clearly not.

  Could Sir Humphrey? No.

  Could my friends in the Private Office at Number Ten? Or the Cabinet Office? No.

  Therefore the approach had to be through the political side. I needed someone close to the PM, someone who was able to frighten Hacker.

  Suddenly it was clear. There’s only one figure whose job it is to put the frighteners on MPs — the Chief Whip.

  I planned my strategy carefully. Hacker had asked me to phone the diary secretary in the PM’s private office for him, to make an appointment. I worked out that if Sir Humphrey had a word with the Cabinet Secretary, he (the Cabinet Secretary) could have a word with the PM’s diary secretary, then all of them could have a word with the Whip’s office.

  The Chief Whip would see the point at once. When Hacker arrived to see the PM the Chief Whip would meet him, and say that the PM was rather busy and had asked him to talk to Hacker instead.

  I requested a meeting with Appleby, and told him of my plan. He nodded approvingly. So I lifted up his phone.

  ‘What are you doing, Bernard?’ he asked.

  ‘I thought you wanted to talk to the Cabinet Secretary, Sir Humphrey,’ I replied with mock innocence.

  He took the phone from me, and made the call. I sat and listened. When it was done Appleby replaced the receiver, sat back in his chair and eyed me speculatively.

  ‘Tell me, Bernard, do you — as his Private Secretary — feel obliged to tell the Minister of this conversation?’

  ‘What conversation?’ I replied.

  He offered me a sherry, congratulated me, and told me that I would be a moral vacuum yet.

  I believe that it was at this moment that my future was assured. From then on I was earmarked as a future head of the Home Civil Service.

  [Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

  September 8th

  I feel rather guilty and not a little stupid this evening. Also, somewhat concerned for my future. I just hope that Vic Gould [the Chief Whip — Ed.] presents me in a favourable light to the PM next time my name is put forward for anything.

  I think that Vic owes me a big favour after today. But he’s a strange fellow and he may not see it that way.

  I wasn’t expecting to see him at all. My appointment was with the PM, at the House. When I got to the PM’s office I found Vic Gould waiting there.

  Vic is a tall imposing figure, with the white hair of an elder statesman, a face like a vulture and a manner that shifts at lightning speed from charm and soft soap to vulgar abuse. A party man to his fingertips.

  He was a bit casual, I thought. He said that the PM was rather busy today and had asked him to see me instead.

  I felt slightly insulted. I don’t report to Vic. He may be responsible for party discipline but he’s one of my colleagues, an equal member of this government. Actually, I had no idea that he was so close to the PM. Or maybe he isn’t — maybe it’s just that he persuaded the PM (who didn’t know why I wanted the appointment) that it was a party matter rather than a political one. But what I can’t work out is how did Vic know what I wanted? And how did the PM arrive at the decision that Vic should see me instead? Sometimes I really do feel a little paranoid.

  As it turned out perhaps it’s all for the best, if Vic can be believed. But can he? Can anybody?

  Anyway, when Vic greeted me I refused to tell him what I’d come about. I couldn’t see that arms sales to Italian terrorists was a matter for the Chief Whip.

  He refused to take no for an answer. ‘The PM has asked me to have a preliminary conversation with you, and write a background note. Save time later.’

  I couldn’t argue with that. So I told Vic that I’d been given this pretty dramatic information. And I told him the whole story of Italian Red Terrorists being supplied with top-secret bomb detonators made in this country. In a government factory!

  ‘And you feel you should tell the PM?’

  I was astonished by the question. The PM is in charge of security. I could see no choice.

  But Vic disagreed. ‘I don’t think it’s something to burden the PM with. Let’s hold it over, shall we?’

  I asked if he actually meant to do nothing about it. He nodded, and said yes, that was his recommendation.

  I refused to accept this, and insisted that the PM had to be told.

  ‘If the PM were to be told,’ said Vic carefully, ‘there’d have to be an enquiry.’

  That was my point. That was what I wanted.

  But it was not what Vic wanted. He explained why. ‘An enquiry might perhaps reveal that all sorts of undesirable and even hostile governments
had been supplied with British-made arms.’

  This remark shocked me. Not so much on account of its factual content, but because of the assumption that such matters should not be looked into.

  ‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

  ‘I said perhaps. Which would — perhaps — be highly embarrassing to some of our Cabinet colleagues. Foreign Secretary, Defence Secretary, Trade Secretary. And to the PM personally.’

  I stuck to my guns. ‘Doing what’s right can be embarrassing. But that’s not an argument for not doing it.’

  Vic ignored that. ‘You know we already sell arms to places like Syria, Chile and Iran?’

  I did know. ‘That’s officially approved,’ I explained, meaning that it was therefore beside the point.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Vic. ‘And you’re happy about what they do with them?’

  I hesitated. ‘Well, obviously not entirely…’

  ‘Either you’re in the arms business or you’re not,’ said Vic with relentless logic.

  At that point I became emotional. A big mistake. It’s all right to pretend to be emotional, especially in front of the public (or even with the House if it’s the right ploy for the moment), but with one’s colleagues — especially a cold fish like Vic — it cuts no ice at all.

  ‘If being in the arms business means being among criminals and murderers, then we should get out. It’s immoral.’

  Vic lost his temper. He glowered at me with a mixture of anger and contempt. ‘Oh great. Great!’

  I felt he really despised me. I could see him wondering how a boy scout like me had ever been allowed into the Cabinet. Or even into politics. ‘And is it moral to put a hundred thousand British workers out of a job? And what about the exports? Two billion pounds a year down the tube for starters. And what about the votes? Where do you think the government places all these weapons contracts?’

  ‘Marginal constituencies, obviously.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. QED, he implied.

  But I still couldn’t quite leave it alone. I tried again. ‘Look Vic, all I’m saying is that now I know this is happening I have to tell the PM.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ I couldn’t understand the question. It seemed self-evident to me.

  ‘Just because you’ve caught something nasty,’ said Vic, ‘why do you have to wander about breathing over everyone?’