The Complete Yes Minister

She flounced out and, thank God, stayed out for the rest of the day.

[Meanwhile, Bernard Woolley was becoming increasingly uneasy about keeping secrets from the Minister. He was finding it difficult to accustom himself to the idea that civil servants apply the ‘need to know’ principle that is the basis of all security activities. Finally he sent a memo to Sir Humphrey, asking for a further explanation as to why the Minister should not be allowed to know whatever he wants to know. The reply is printed below – Ed.]

[It is worth examining Sir Humphrey Appleby’s choice of words in this memo. The phrase ‘the common ground’, for example, was much used by senior civil servants after two changes in government in the first four years of the 1970s. It seemed to mean policies that the Civil Service can pursue without disturbance to the party in power. ‘Courageous’ as used in this context is an even more damning word than ‘controversial’. ‘Controversial’ only means ‘this will lose you votes’. ‘Courageous’ means ‘this will lose you the election’ – Ed.]

February 22nd

[The above letter was found by Bernard Woolley when he opened Hacker’s boxes in the office on Monday 22 February. The envelope was addressed to ‘Daddy’ but rules state that Private Secretaries open every letter of every classification up to and including TOP SECRET, unless specifically marked PERSONAL. This was a letter not marked PERSONAL. Hacker’s diary continues – Ed.]

This afternoon seemed to last an eternity. I think I’ve more or less got over the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but it was one of the worst afternoons of my political life so far. However, I shall relate it from the start. Firstly, there was Jak’s cartoon in the Standard.

Then, on my return from cabinet Committee after lunch, Bernard and Humphrey edged into the office looking extremely anxious. I asked if anything was wrong.

For the next four minutes they appeared to speak in riddles.

‘Shall we say, a slight embarrassment,’ said Sir Humphrey.

‘How slight?’ I asked.

First he rambled on about not wishing to overstate the case or suggest that there was any cause for under alarm, but nevertheless . . . etc. etc. I told him to get on with it, he told me he had a confession to make, and I told him to make a clean breast of it.

‘Not the happiest of phrases, in the circumstances,’ he replied engimatically. I still hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about, although it was soon to become only too clear.

But Humphrey couldn’t find a way to tell me the bad news. Extraordinary. First he said there was to be a twenty-four-hour protest vigil in Hayward’s Spinney, conducted by a girl student and her boyfriend. I could see no problem in two irresponsible layabouts trying – and failing – to attract attention to themselves.

And like an idiot, I said so. (If there’s one lesson I learned today it is not to shoot from the hip. Wait until you know the full facts before giving any response, if you don’t want to finish up looking like a proper Charlie.)

But I got an attack of verbal diarrhoea. ‘Nobody’s interested,’ I said. ‘Everyone’s fed up with these ghastly students. They’re just exhibitionists, you know.’

‘In this case,’ remarked Sir Humphrey, suddenly becoming less enigmatic, ‘they seem to have something to exhibit. It is to be a nude protest vigil.’

This did seem to present a problem. It would clearly attract considerable press interest, and could even get onto the front pages of the tabloids. Regrettably, however, Humphrey hadn’t given me the full picture, so I went on and on talking, making myself seem more idiotic every minute. ‘Really, I don’t know what gets into these students. Appalling. Quite shameless. And it’s their parents’ fault. Don’t bring them up properly, let them run wild and feed them all this trendy middle-class anti-establishment nonsense.’ Then I wittered on about the lack of authority nowadays, and how all this student anarchy is a shocking indictment of their parents’ lack of discipline.

At this point Humphrey was kind enough to reveal to me that the student’s name was Miss Hacker. For a moment I thought it was a coincidence. And then the penny dropped. I’ve never felt so foolish in my whole life. I’m sure (at least I think I’m sure) that Humphrey didn’t intend to make any humiliation as complete as possible. But he succeeded. And I’ll get him for it one day!

After I picked myself up off the floor, I expressed the hope that the press might not think it worth going all the way to Warwickshire. Even as I spoke I knew I was talking rubbish – for a story like this the press would go all the way to the South Pole.

Humphrey and Bernard just looked pityingly at me, and then showed me the letter.

I noted that Lucy was giving out the press release at five p.m. Very professional. Misses the evening papers, which not too many people read, and therefore makes all the dailies. She’s learned something from being a politician’s daughter.

Then Bernard said that he thought he’d better mention that Lucy was ringing up in ten minutes, from a call-box, for an answer.

I asked how we could kill the story. Silence from them both. ‘Advise me,’ I said.

‘What about a bit of parental authority and discipline?’ suggested Sir Humphrey. I told him not to be silly.

‘If you could make her listen to reason . . .’ volunteered Bernard.

I explained to him that she is a sociology student.

‘Oh I see,’ he said sadly.