A Very Courageous Decision

by Graham McCann

  The BBC, in their absence, was still trying to find a way to bring the show back. Caught, typically, between a rock and a hard place, it was wary of finding the extra funds for the writers, as the tabloids could be trusted to use such a move as an excuse to condemn the Corporation for its supposed profligacy, and it was even more fearful of losing the sitcom for good, as, in that case, the tabloids would exploit the failure to come up with the extra cash as a reason to judge the Corporation for its excessive frugality. John Howard Davies, however, was determined to find a way to resolve the situation – ‘There was no way on my watch that we were going to let it just fade away’11 – and, as a stopgap measure that would at least keep the show in circulation, he and his colleagues persuaded Jay and Lynn to allow the BBC to reuse some of the existing scripts for radio.

  Produced and adapted by Pete Atkin (yet another former member of the Cambridge Footlights and an occasional collaborator with Clive James), the first series was recorded at the Paris Theatre, Lower Regent Street, London in April and May of 1983 and broadcast on BBC Radio 4 during October and November, with a second run being transmitted the following year.12 Featuring most of the original cast (with Eddington and Hawthorne, on modest radio rates, finally achieving parity with £125 each per episode, and Fowlds lower, as usual, on £8013), with the one notable addition of Bill Nighy replacing Neil Fitzwiliam as Frank Weisel (for £65 per episode14), the recording sessions were very happy affairs and the finished programmes were, in their own way, as polished as their television equivalents.15 Attracting more media coverage than was expected for a radio series, let alone for what was basically a set of edited repeats of old television shows, the success of the venture helped John Howard Davies and others in their campaign to persuade their colleagues that the return of the show to the screen would merit the extra expense involved.

  Something else happened, however, at the start of the following year, that would suddenly bring Yes Minister right back into the public consciousness. Its most powerful fan demanded that it return.

  The cue came at the start of 1984 courtesy of Mary Whitehouse, when her noisy mouthpiece, The National Viewers’ and Listeners’ Association, announced its intention to honour Yes Minister at its annual awards ceremony for exemplifying ‘wholesome television’ (a previous recipient had been Jim’ll Fix It). As if this was not a big enough ‘treat’ in itself, Whitehouse also took it upon herself to invite none other than the Prime Minister, Margaret Thatcher, to present the award to the team. (There is no doubt that Whitehouse, as a staunch Tory, saw the party political capital to be generated from such an event, as her letter assured the Prime Minister that, while she would not be required to make a formal speech, ‘you would, needless to say, be more than welcome to use the occasion as you saw fit’.16)

  Inside Number Ten, Thatcher accepted the invitation enthusiastically, and then discussed with her Press Officer, Bernard Ingham, how best to exploit the occasion. It was Ingham who hit upon the idea that she should perform a special Yes Minister sketch alongside Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne (Derek Fowlds was on tour at the time in The Norman Conquests and was thus unavailable).17 Rather than ask Jay and Lynn to write it, Thatcher asked Ingham himself to conjure something up.

  ‘I wrote the script,’ he later confirmed. ‘Number Ten honed it. We rehearsed it endlessly in Mrs Thatcher’s study. She played herself, of course. Sir Robin Butler [her Principal Private Secretary] played Jim Hacker, not I fear to Mr Eddington’s standards, and myself a pathetic Sir Humphrey. Mrs Thatcher was determined to get every inflection right. It was like writing a speech for her, an endless operation.’18 The aim, he would say, was ‘to demonstrate that perhaps she was not devoid of a sense of humour after all’.19

  All of this was going on without the knowledge of either of the real writers, or any of the real actors. The first that Jay and Lynn knew of the award was a few weeks before the event was due to happen. While neither of them was particularly pleased to hear that their show would be receiving the Mary Whitehouse stamp of approval, they thought it would be petty to protest, so they greeted the news as graciously as they could manage.

  It was only a little later that they were informed that Margaret Thatcher was going to present the award, and that the ceremony would be broadcast live on BBC Radio 4’s The World at One programme. Then, a mere two days before it was set to take place, the call came from Number Ten revealing that Thatcher would be joining Eddington and Hawthorne to perform a short sketch that, it was said, she had written.

  Both writers were shocked. For Antony Jay it came as a pleasant surprise: ‘I was delighted,’ he later admitted. ‘To actually get the accolade of the Prime Minister being keen enough on the programme to show the world that she would like to be in it! As far as I was concerned it kind of put the crown on the programme as far as public political acceptance was concerned.’20 Jonathan Lynn, in contrast, was (in spite of his earlier fan letter to Thatcher) horrified, regarding it as nothing more than a cynical PR stunt by Number Ten’s Press Office (‘My first thought was: “What the hell is she doing writing sketches when she ought to be running the country – somewhat better than she’s running it at the moment!”’21).

  The two actors, who were the last of all to know, were even more alarmed and appalled. During the evening before the ceremony, Paul Eddington was resting in his dressing room at the Albery Theatre when he received a call from the BBC bearing the news that Mary Whitehouse would not be presenting the award. Having dreaded being pictured with her in public, he sank back in his chair and breathed a huge sigh of relief. He was then told that Margaret Thatcher would be doing it instead, causing him to leap up and gasp with distress. Then came the additional news that she would also be ‘acting’ alongside him and Nigel Hawthorne.

  Now he was apoplectic. This, he shouted, was an outrage. This was going to turn a tribute to Yes Minister into a cheap photo opportunity for Number Ten. Worse still, after all the efforts, over the years, to keep the sitcom clear of associations with any particular political party, here would be the Leader of the Conservative Party practically pinning a big blue rosette on the show.

  He immediately picked up the telephone and called his co-star, who was relaxing that evening at his home at Burnt Farm Ride in Enfield, and spluttered his indignation at this cynical imposition, telling Hawthorne that, ‘as a matter of principle’, he must refuse to do it.22 Hawthorne, however, while feeling similarly shocked and queasy about the imminent event (the news of which he had, at first, taken to be a hoax), understandably questioned why Eddington expected him to do the dirty work, and – in a classic bit of theatrical buck-passing – suggested that it was really Eddington’s responsibility to refuse, as it was his name that came first in the credits.

  Panicking, each man called Jonathan Lynn, and begged him to help extricate them from this embarrassment. Lynn, however, pointed out that neither he nor Jay had been consulted about any of this, and, as it was the actors who had been invited, it was up to the actors to say ‘yea’ or ‘nay’.

  Neither Eddington nor Hawthorne, when push came to shove, felt brave enough to snub the Prime Minister publicly, feeling that it would cause more trouble than it would be worth, and so, with great reluctance, they received their scripts the following morning, gazed aghast at the clumsy, tin-eared dialogue, bit their lips hard and then set off grimly to face their ordeal. ‘A mixture of nervousness and vanity,’ Eddington would say, ‘eventually won the day.’23

  It was thus at lunchtime on Friday, 20 January 1984, in the chilly crypt of All Souls Church in Langham Place, beside Broadcasting House, that Yes Minister met the Prime Minister. Jay and Lynn joined Eddington and Hawthorne at the event, and it was immediately obvious, upon their arrival, how expertly Bernard Ingham had choreographed the whole occasion, timing it perfectly not only for live radio coverage but also for inclusion in London’s Evening Standard, the forthcoming television news bulletins and the following morning’s papers.

  Inside, as an acutel
y awkward-looking Eddington and Hawthorne sat clutching their scripts on a couple of fold-up wooden chairs, Margaret Thatcher (who by this time had rehearsed the sketch no fewer than twenty-three times with her staff, and had then gone over it once again in the car on the way to the location) made her rapid, pigeon-toed way over to the assembled wall of lights, microphones and cameras and announced brightly that this was ‘the world premiere of Yes, Prime Minister’.24 Then, taking her place beside the two actors, the sketch commenced:

  THATCHER:

  Ah, good morning, Jim, Sir Humphrey. Do come in and sit down. How’s your wife? Is she well?

  HACKER:

  [Puzzled] Oh yes, fine, Prime Minister. Fine. Thank you. Yes, fine.

  THATCHER:

  Good. So pleased. I’ve been meaning to have a word with you for some time. I’ve got an idea.

  HACKER:

  [Brightening visibly] An idea, Prime Minister? Oh good.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Guardedly] An idea, Prime Minister?

  THATCHER:

  Well, not really an idea. It’s gone beyond that, actually. I’ve given it quite a bit of thought and I’m sure you, Jim, are the right man to carry it out. It’s got to do with a kind of institution and you are sort of responsible for institutions, aren’t you?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Cautiously] Institutions, Prime Minister?

  HACKER:

  [Decisively] Oh yes, institutions fall to me. Most definitely. And you want me to set one up, I suppose?

  THATCHER:

  Set one up? Certainly not! I want you to get rid of one.

  HACKER:

  [Astonished] Get rid of one, Prime Minister?

  THATCHER:

  Yes. It’s all very simple. I want you to abolish economists.

  HACKER:

  [Mouth open] Abolish economists, Prime Minister?

  THATCHER:

  Yes, abolish economists … and quickly.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Silkily] All of them, Prime Minister?

  THATCHER:

  Yes, all of them. They never agree on anything. They just fill the heads of politicians with all sorts of curious notions, like the more you spend, the richer you get.

  HACKER:

  [Coming around to the idea] I see your point, Prime Minister. Can’t have the nation’s time wasted on curious notions, can we? No.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Sternly] Minister!

  THATCHER:

  Quite right, Jim. Absolute waste of time. Simply got to go.

  HACKER:

  [Uncertain] Simply got to go?

  THATCHER:

  [Motherly] Yes, Jim. Don’t worry. If it all goes wrong I shall get the blame. But if it goes right – as it will – then you’ll get the credit for redeploying a lot of underused and misapplied resources. Probably get promotion, too.

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Indignantly] Resources? Resources, Prime Minister? We’re talking about economists!

  THATCHER:

  Were, Sir Humphrey. Were.

  HACKER:

  [Decisively] Yes Humphrey, were. We’re going to get rid of them.

  THATCHER:

  Well, it’s all settled, then. I’ll look forward to receiving your plan for abolition soon. Tomorrow, shall we say? I’d like you to announce it before it all leaks.

  HACKER:

  [Brightly] Tomorrow then, Prime Minister.

  THATCHER:

  Yes. Well, go and sort it out. Now, Sir Humphrey … what did you say your degree was?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Innocently] Degree, Prime Minister?

  THATCHER:

  [Firmly] Yes, Sir Humphrey, degree. Your degree. You have one, I take it – most Permanent Secretaries do, or perhaps two?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Modestly] Er, well actually, Prime Minister, a Double First.

  THATCHER:

  Congratulations, Sir Humphrey, but what in?

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Weakly] Politics … er … and, er … Economics.

  THATCHER:

  [Soothingly] Capital, my dear Sir Humphrey, capital. You’ll know exactly where to start!

  SIR HUMPHREY:

  [Bleakly] Yes, Prime Minister.

  [Exit Jim Hacker and Sir Humphrey]

  More Hi-de-Hayek than Yes Minister, it was comical only in its awkwardness, with Thatcher, far from demonstrating a hitherto well-hidden sense of humour, actually looking and sounding more robotic than ever. So eerily reminiscent of Dame Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell that one half expected her to screech ‘A handbag?’ at Hacker, she slowly over-enunciated her way through her lines while Eddington and Hawthorne, pale-faced and anxious, resembled hostages being forced to record an ‘all’s well’ message to their families.

  When it was over, Thatcher acknowledged the forced applause, and then Jonathan Lynn was presented with the award. Sensing that this was the only chance he and the team would have to leave a scratch or two on the Government’s gleaming PR machine, he stepped up to the microphone and said: ‘I’d like to thank Mrs Mary Whitehouse for this award, and I should also like to thank Mrs Thatcher for finally taking her rightful place in the field of situation comedy.’25

  There followed, he would say, ‘a brief but audible gasp’ from the assembled reporters, and then ‘a volcanic eruption, one of the biggest laughs I ever got in my career’.26 There was only one person in the room who was not laughing. It was Margaret Thatcher.

  The slight failed to spoil the stunt, as the subsequent coverage was more or less what Bernard Ingham had expected: broad, fawning and favourable (it was even shown, in full, on that evening’s TV news). It did, nonetheless, make the Yes Minister team feel a little less aggrieved about having had to endure the whole sorry affair.

  Eddington and Hawthorne were then teased remorselessly about their involvement by the otherwise engaged Derek Fowlds. ‘I found it hilarious,’ he later recalled, ‘because they were clearly so uncomfortable. They were both very left wing, so of course I called them up, shouting, “Hypocrites! You two – acting with Maggie Thatcher? How dare you?” I would have loved to have been there. I think Paul and Nigel missed me propping them up!’27

  What would come to seem most ironic about the experience was the fact that, as everyone reflected on the encounter during the months that followed, the sense of irritation that it engendered started to reignite the old passion for the show. Paul Eddington summed up the feeling when he said: ‘When we started, we set out to annoy absolutely everybody. Then Mrs Whitehouse gave us an award – presumably for the cleanest show on the air – and Mrs Thatcher insisted on making the presentation. So clearly we had failed’.28

  That feeling, that niggling sense of frustration, planted a seed. Fail again, fail better. Maybe they did have unfinished business, after all, with Yes Minister.

  It was around this time, serendipitously, that Bill Cotton, the BBC’s newly appointed Director of Television, greatly encouraged by all of the fresh media coverage of the sitcom, decided to make Jay and Lynn a new and improved offer. ‘I loved the show,’ he would say, ‘and as soon as I took over I made bringing it back one of my top priorities.’29

  Inviting the two writers to a meeting in his office at Television Centre, they talked through what was desirable and what was practicable, acknowledged not only market forces but also the limited size of the Light Entertainment department’s budget and eventually agreed on a compromise: Cotton would pay them the full sum they had demanded, but, in return, they would have to commit to writing sixteen more episodes, broken up into two series, and also a Christmas special.30

  Jay and Lynn had one more condition. They agreed they could and would go back, but only by going forward. Hacker would have to be moved, and Sir Humphrey and Woolley would have to move with him. Cotton agreed, they shook hands and the show was recommissioned.

  It would be, Jay and Lynn still felt, quite a big artistic gamble. They could not be sure that it would work, or that
the audience would welcome it, and believe in it, so they concentrated on writing the Christmas special. If that elicited the right reaction, and everyone involved was happy, then they could look forward with confidence to creating another couple of series.

  The usual in-depth research began, exploring themes and issues and individual cases. Contacts were sounded out, discreet briefings were held and the careful plotting commenced.

  When they were finished, at the end of November, they brought the actors back and had them read through the script. The response was uniformly positive. It worked, everyone agreed; it was clever and coherent and funny. There was a logic to the changes, and a renewed sense of life in the characters, as well as a precision and an acidity about the wit. On every level this script represented real progress.

  There was only one problem: the actors said that they wanted to make it without the presence of a studio audience. Paul Eddington, in particular, felt that some programmes in the past had been spoiled by the need for him and, especially, Nigel Hawthorne to keep pausing during very complicated exchanges in order to ensure that their lines were not drowned out by the great waves of audience laughter. It had also rattled him that some people seemed to think, completely erroneously, that the laughs were so loud they must be ‘canned’. The time was right, he argued, for the show to rise above the old sitcom traditions and trust the viewers at home to respond appropriately without any audible prompts.

  Jay and Lynn were having none of it. If that was what the actors wanted, they declared, then they would not be writing any more shows.