The Complete Yes Minister

She asked me how you found out the value. I said that you get a valuation. And then she flattered me in a way that I found irresistible. She asked me to get a valuation, said that it would be ‘wonderful’ if it were less than fifty pounds, because it was ‘awfully pretty’, and then told me that I was absolutely wonderful and she didn’t know what they would do without me.

Regrettably, I fell for it, and promised that I would see what I could do.

Meanwhile I was being sent on errands by Hacker. He returned from one of his many trips to the temporary Communications Centre which we’d set up, telling me loudly that there was a message for me from Mr John Walker. From the Scotch Office. Aware that we could easily be overheard, I asked if he meant the Scottish Office.

As I left very much in need of some whisky, Mrs Hacker asked if there was a message for her.

‘Of course there is, darling,’ the Minister replied hospitably. ‘Bernard will collect it for you if you give him your glass.’ I shot him a meaningful look and he continued, ‘if you give him your glass he’ll get you some orange juice too.’

I stayed close to the Minister’s side for most of the evening which was just as well because he continually made tactless remarks. At one point he was looking for Sir Humphrey and I led him across to where Sir Humphrey and a man named Ross (from the FCO) were talking to Prince Mohammed.

Unfortunately both Ross and Sir Humphrey looked like Qumranis when approached from behind, as they were both dressed in full Arab robes and headdresses. In spite of Prince Mohammed’s presence, Hacker was unable to disguise his shock as Sir Humphrey turned. He asked Humphrey why on earth he was dressed up like that.

Prince Mohammed and Sir Humphrey Appleby – kindly lent by the Trustees of the Archives of the Anglo-Arabian Friendship League

Sir Humphrey explained that this was a traditional Foreign Office courtesy to our hosts. Ross confirmed that this was spot on, and Prince Mohammed said that indeed he regarded it as a most warm and gracious compliment. Nonetheless Hacker took Sir Humphrey aside and, in a voice that had not been lowered sufficiently, said: ‘I can’t believe my eyes. What have you come as? Ali Baba?’

I really did find it most awfully funny. Old Humphrey began to explain that when in Rome . . . and so forth. Hacker wasn’t having any truck with that.

‘This is not Rome, Humphrey,’ he said severely. ‘You look ridiculous.’ This was undeniably true, but Humphrey found it rather wounding to be told. Hacker didn’t let it go at that, either. ‘If you were in Fiji, would you wear a grass skirt?’

Humphrey replied pompously that the Foreign Office took the view that, as the Arab nations are very sensitive people, we should show them whose side we’re on.

Hacker remarked: ‘It may come as a surprise to the Foreign Office, but you are supposed to be on our side.’

I decided that their conversation should continue in private, so I interrupted them and told Sir Humphrey that the Soviet Embassy was on the line – a Mr Smirnoff. And then I told Hacker, who was looking distinctly thirsty, that there was a message for him from the British Embassy Compound. The school. A delegation of Teachers.

He brightened up immediately, and, hurrying off, made some dreadful pun about going to greet the Teachers at once, before the Bell’s goes.

Prince Mohammed sidled up to me, and observed softly that we were all receiving a great many urgent messages. There was no twinkle in his eye, no hint that he had spotted that all the British orange juice was turning steadily browner – and yet, I wondered if he realised what was going on. To this day, of course, I still don’t know.

Unwilling to prolong the conversation, I edged away. And I found myself face to face with a smiling Arab who had been close to me earlier in the evening when I was talking to Annie Hacker about the rosewater jar. This next conversation, with its fateful consequences, is the first reason why this whole evening is etched forever on my memory.

Although dressed in traditional Arab style, the smiling Arab spoke perfect English and clearly knew the West only too well.

‘Excuse me, Effendi,’ he began, ‘but I could not help overhearing your conversation about valuing the gift. Perhaps I can help.’

I was surprised. And grateful. And I asked if he had any idea how much it was worth.

He smiled. ‘Of course. An original seventeenth-century rosewater jar is very valuable.’

‘Oh dear,’ I said, thinking of Annie Hacker’s disappointment.

‘You are not pleased?’ Naturally, he was a little surprised.

I hastened to explain. ‘Yes – and no. I mean if it is too valuable, the Minister is not allowed to keep it. So I was hoping it wasn’t.’

He understood immediately, and smiled even more. ‘Ah yes. Well, as I was saying, an original seventeenth- century rosewater jar is very valuable but this copy, though excellently done, is not of the same order.’

‘Oh good. How much?’

He was a very shrewd fellow. He eyed me for a moment, and then said, ‘I should be interested to hear your guess.’

‘A little under fifty pounds?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Brilliant,’ he replied without hesitation. ‘Quite a connoisseur!’

I asked him if he could sign a valuation certificate. He agreed, but added that our English customs are very strange. ‘You are so strict about a little gift. And yet your electronics company pays our Finance Minister a million dollars for his co-operation in securing this contract. Is that not strange?’