The Complete Yes Minister

‘Well, Minister, it’s good party stuff but it places the PM in a very difficult position, personally.’ That, in Sir Arnold’s language, is about the most threatening thing that has ever been said to me.

‘But . . . what about our commitment to Open Government?’ I finally managed to ask.

‘This,’ replied Sir Arnold drily, ‘seems to be the closed season for Open Government.’

Then Sir Humphrey voiced my worst fears by murmuring quietly: ‘Do you want to give thought to a draft letter of resignation? Just in case, of course.’

I know that Humphrey was just trying to be helpful, but he really doesn’t give much moral support in a crisis.

I could see that there was only one possibility left. ‘Can’t we hush it up?’ I said suddenly.

Humphrey, to his credit, was completely baffled by this suggestion. He didn’t even seem to understand what I meant. These civil servants really are rather naive.

‘Hush it up?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hush it up.’

‘You mean,’ Humphrey was apparently getting the idea at last, ‘suppress it?’

I didn’t exactly care for the word ‘suppress’, but I had to agree that that was exactly what I did mean.

Humphrey then said something like: ‘I see. What you’re suggesting is that, within the framework of the guidelines about Open Government which you have laid down, we should adopt a more flexible posture.’ Civil servants have an extraordinary genius for wrapping up a simple idea to make it sound extremely complicated.

On second thoughts, this is a real talent which I should learn to cultivate. His phrasing might help me look as though I am not changing my posture at all.

However, we were saved by the bell as the US Cavalry galloped over the horizon in the shape of Bernard Woolley hurrying into the ante-room.

‘About the press release,’ he began breathlessly. ‘There appears to have been a development which could precipitate a reappraisal of our position.’

At first I didn’t quite grasp what that meant. But he then went on to say that the Department had failed to rescind the interdepartmental clearance procedure, which meant that the supplementary stop-order came into effect, which meant that it was all all right!

In other words, my speech didn’t go out to the press after all. By an amazing stroke of good luck, it had only been sent to the Prime Minister’s Private Office. The Duty Office at the DDA had never received instructions to send it out before it was cleared with the PM and the FCO. Because of the American reference.

This wonderfully fortunate oversight seems to have saved my bacon. Of course, I didn’t let Humphrey see my great sense of relief. In fact, he apologised.

‘The fault is entirely mine, Minister,’ he said. ‘This procedure for holding up press releases dates back to before the era of Open Government. I unaccountably omitted to rescind it. I do hope you will forgive this lapse.’

In the circumstances, I felt that the less said the better. I decided to be magnanimous. ‘That’s quite all right Humphrey,’ I said, ‘after all, we all make mistakes.’

‘Yes Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey.

¹ ‘Hacker’s constituency party Chairman.

² Frank Weisel.

2

The Official Visit

November 10th

I am finding that it is impossible to get through all the work. The diary is always full, speeches constantly have to be written and delivered, and red boxes full of papers, documents, memos, minutes, submissions and letters have to be read carefully every night. And this is only part of my work.

Here I am, attempting to function as a sort of managing director of a very large and important business and I have no previous experience either of the Department’s work or, in fact, of management of any kind. A career in politics is no preparation for government.

And, as if becoming managing director of a huge corporation were not enough, I am also attempting to do it part-time. I constantly have to leave the DAA to attend debates in the House, to vote, to go to Cabinet and Cabinet committees and party executive meetings and I now see that it is not possible to do this job properly or even adequately. I am rather depressed.

Can anyone seriously imagine the chairman of a company leaping like a dervish out of a meeting in his office every time a bell rings, no matter when, at any time of the afternoon or evening, racing like Steve Ovett to a building eight minutes down the street, rushing through a lobby, and running back to his office to continue the meeting. This is what I have to do every time the Division Bell rings. Sometimes six or seven times in one night. And do I have any idea at all what I’m voting for? Of course I don’t. How could I?

Today I arrived in the office and was immediately cast down by the sight of my in-tray. Full to overflowing. The out-tray was completely empty.

Bernard was patiently waiting for me to read some piece of impenetrable prose that he had dug up, in answer to the question I had asked him yesterday: what are my actual powers in various far-flung parts of the UK, such as Scotland and Northern Ireland?

He proudly offered me a document. It said: ‘Notwithstanding the provisions of subsection 3 of Section A of Clause 214 of the Administrative Procedures (Scotland) Act 1978, it has been agreed that, insofar as the implementation of the statutory provisions is concerned, the resolution of anomalies and uncertainties between responsible departments shall fall within the purview of the Minister for Administrative Affairs.’

I gazed blankly at it for what seemed an eternity. My mind just seemed to cloud over, as it used to at school