The Complete Yes Minister

Then Sir Humphrey came in, wearing, incidentally, a rather startling gold silk dressing gown with a red Chinese dragon all over it. I would never have thought of Humphrey in such a garment. Perhaps I wasn’t all that impressive, in my shirt-tails and socks.

‘Well Minister,’ Sir Humphrey began, ‘we appear to have been caught with our trousers down.’ He went on to say that he didn’t like to say that he’d told me so, but he’d told me so.

‘We’re going to have egg all over our faces,’ I said.

‘Not egg, Minister,’ he replied suavely, ‘just imperialist yoke.’

I asked him if he was trying to be funny. Because I certainly can’t see anything funny about this situation. I think he said, ‘No, just my little yoke,’ but because of the noise of the train I’m not absolutely sure.

I reiterated that something had to be done. Three Scottish by-elections hang in the balance, not counting the effects on Ulster! ‘This is a catastrophe,’ I whispered.

Sir Humphrey did not exactly seem to be at pains to minimise the situation. ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed solemnly, piling on the agony. ‘A catastrophe. A tragedy. A cataclysmic, apocalyptic, monumental calamity.’ He paused for breath, and then added bluntly: ‘And you did it.’

This was not exactly helping. ‘Humphrey,’ I reproached him. ‘You’re paid to advise me. Advise me!’

‘All in all,’ replied Sir Humphrey, ‘this is not unlike trying to advise the Captain of the Titanic after he has struck the iceberg.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there must be something we can do.’

‘We could sing Abide with Me.’

There was more knocking on the door and Bernard popped in. ‘Minister, the Foreign Secretary would like a word.’

Martin came in.

‘Ah, Foreign Secretary.’ Sir Humphrey was being obsequious now.

‘Yes,’ said Martin. He knew who he was. ‘You’ve read the speech?’

Before I could reply, Sir Humphrey interrupted: ‘Yes, my Minister is concerned that the government will have egg all over its face. Scotch egg, presumably.’

I’m getting a bit tired of Humphrey’s stupid puns. I asked Martin why Selim Mohammed would want to make such a speech here. Martin reckons it’s for home consumption, to show the other African readers that he is a pukka anti-colonialist.

Bernard popped his head round the door, and suggested that we draft a statement in response to the speech. I thought that was a good idea. Whereupon he announced that he had brought along Bill Pritchard from the press office.

We had me and Humphrey and Martin and Bernard already in my sleeper. Bill Pritchard turned out to have the build of a rugger front-row forward. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he enquired jovially, and knocked Humphrey forward onto the bunk, face first.

I asked Humphrey if a statement was a good idea.

‘Well Minister,’ he replied carefully as he stood up, still the mandarin in spite of his silly Chinese dressing gown. ‘In practical terms we have, in fact, the usual six options. One, do nothing. Two, issue a statement deploring the speech. Three, lodge an official protest. Four, cut off aid. Five, break off diplomatic relations. Six, declare war.’

This sounded like rather a lot of options. I was pleased. I asked him which we should do.

‘One: if we do nothing we implicitly agree with the speech. Two: if we issue a statement we just look foolish. Three: if we lodge a protest it will be ignored. Four: we can’t cut off aid because we don’t give them any. Five: if we break off diplomatic relations we cannot negotiate the oil rig contracts. Six: if we declare war it just might look as if we were over-reacting.’ He paused. ‘Of course, in the old days we’d have sent in a gunboat.’

I was desperate by this time. I said, ‘I suppose that is absolutely out of the question?’

They all gazed at me in horror. Clearly it is out of the question.

Bernard had absented himself during Humphrey’s resume of the possibilities. Now he squeezed back into the compartment.

‘The Permanent Under-Secretary to the Foreign and Commonwealth Office is coming down the corridor,’ he announced.

‘Oh terrific,’ muttered Bill Pritchard. ‘It’ll be like the Black Hole of Calcutta in here.’

Then I saw what he meant. Sir Frederick Stewart, Perm. Sec. of the FCO, known as ‘Jumbo’ to his friends, burst open the door. It smashed Bernard up against the wall. Martin went flying up against the washbasin, and Humphrey fell flat on his face on the bunk. The mighty mountain of lard spoke:

‘May I come in, Minister?’ He had a surprisingly small high voice.

‘You can try,’ I said.

‘This is all we needed,’ groaned Bill Pritchard as the quivering mass of flesh forced its way into the tiny room, pressing Bill up against the mirror and me against the window. We were all standing extremely close together.

‘Welcome to the Standing Committee,’ said Humphrey as he propped himself precariously upright.

‘What do we do about this hideous thing? This hideous speech, I mean,’ I added nervously, in case Jumbo took offence. His bald head shone, reflecting the overhead lamp.

‘Well now,’ began Jumbo, ‘I think we know what’s behind this, don’t we Humpy?’

Humpy? Is this his nickname? I looked at him with new eyes. He clearly thought I was awaiting a