The Complete Yes Minister

And today I had my first encounter with the Civil Service, and I must say I am very impressed.

I got the call from Number Ten at about 9 a.m., after a sleepless night, and immediately Frank Weisel and I caught the London train. I got a taxi to Number Ten, where I was asked by the PM to take over the Department of Administrative Affairs.

This is an important post. In the Cabinet ranking, about eighth or ninth I should think. On the other hand, Martin reminded me (when he phoned to congratulate me) that the DAA is a political graveyard, a bit like the Home Office, and the PM may have over-promoted me – a vengeful move. I am determined to get a grip on the DAA and prove to the PM that I’m not so easily taken care of.

I was expecting to be Minister of Agriculture, as I’ve shadowed Agriculture for seven years, and have many good ideas about it, but for some inexplicable reason the PM decided against this.

[We found a memo from Sir Andrew Donnelly, Permanent Secretary of Agriculture, to Sir Arnold Robinson, Secretary to the Cabinet, imploring Sir Arnold to make sure that Hacker did not get Agriculture as he was too ‘genned up’ on it. Cabinet Papers show that Sir Arnold managed to convey to the PM that it would be better for Hacker not to go to Agriculture because ‘he’s been thinking about it rather too long and is perhaps in a bit of a rut’ – Ed.]

An official car met me as I came out of Number Ten, and I was driven straight to the DAA. I was met on the front steps by Bernard Woolley, who is to be my Private Secretary, and his assistant. He seems a likeable enough chap.

To my surprise he instantly knew who Frank Weisel was, as we got out of the car, though he pronounced his name ‘Weasel’, which always infuriates Frank.

We walked down miles of corridors. When we got to my office Frank had disappeared with the Assistant Private Secretary. Bernard assured me that Frank was being taken care of. They really are awfully nice and helpful.

My office is large, with a big desk, a conference table with lots of chairs around it, and a few armchairs arranged around a coffee table to form a conversation area. Otherwise, rather characterless. Bernard immediately went to the drinks cupboard.

‘A drink, Minister?’

I nodded. ‘Jim,’ I said, as I want us to be on first-name terms.

‘Gin?’ he said, mishearing me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘Jim. Call me Jim.’

Bernard said: ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather call you Minister, Minister.’

‘Minister, Minister?’ It reminded me of Major Major in Catch-22. Then I realised what he meant. I asked him, ‘Does that mean I have to call you Private Secretary, Private Secretary?’

Bernard said I was to call him Bernard. I’m sure that in the course of time I’ll persuade him to call me Jim.

A moment later Sir Humphrey Appleby arrived. He is the Permanent Secretary of the DAA, the Civil Service Head of the Department. He is in his early fifties I should think, but – somehow – ageless. He is charming and intelligent, a typical mandarin. He welcomed me to the Department.

‘I believe you’ve met before,’ Bernard remarked. I was struck for the second time how well-informed this young man is.

Sir Humphrey said, ‘Yes, we did cross swords when the Minister gave me a grilling over the Estimates in the Public Accounts Committee last year. He asked me all the questions I hoped nobody would ask.’

This is splendid. Sir Humphrey clearly admires me. I tried to brush it off. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Opposition’s about asking awkward questions.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and government is about not answering them.’

I was surprised. ‘But you answered all my questions, didn’t you,’ I commented.

‘I’m glad you thought so, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. I didn’t quite know what he meant by that. I decided to ask him who else was in the Department.

‘Briefly, sir, I am the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, known as the Permanent Secretary. Woolley here is your Principal Private Secretary. I, too, have a Principal Private Secretary, and he is the Principal Private Secretary to the Permanent Secretary. Directly responsible to me are ten Deputy Secretaries, eighty-seven Under-Secretaries and two hundred and nineteen Assistant Secretaries. Directly responsible to the Principal Private Secretaries are plain Private Secretaries. The Prime Minister will be appointing two Parliamentary Under-Secretaries and you will be appointing your own Parliamentary Private Secretary.’

‘Can they all type?’ I joked.

‘None of us can type, Minister,’ replied Sir Humphrey smoothly. ‘Mrs McKay types – she is your secretary.’

I couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. ‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘We could have opened an agency.’

Sir Humphrey and Bernard laughed. ‘Very droll, sir,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘Most amusing, sir,’ said Bernard. Were they genuinely amused at my wit, or just being rather patronising? ‘I suppose they all say that, do they?’ I ventured.

Sir Humphrey reassured me on that. ‘Certainly not, Minister,’ he replied. ‘Not quite all.’

I decided to take charge at once. I sat behind my desk and to my dismay I found it had a swivel chair. I don’t like swivel chairs. But Bernard immediately assured me that everything in the office can be changed at my command – furniture, decor, paintings, office routine. I am unquestionably the boss!

Bernard then told me that they have two types of chair in stock, to go with two kinds of Minister – ‘One sort folds up instantly and the other sort goes round and round in circles.’ On second thoughts, perhaps that was another of Bernard’s little jokes.

I decided that the time had come to be blunt and to tell them what’s what. ‘Frankly,’ I said, ‘this Department has got to cut a great swathe through the whole of the stuffy Whitehall bureaucracy. We need a new broom. We are going to throw open the windows and let in a bit of fresh air. We are going to cut through the red tape and