The Complete Yes Minister

hasn’t got a clue what’s going on.’

Humphrey just stared at me. He said nothing. So I tried to spell it out for him.

‘Humphrey,’ I said, resisting the temptation to tear out my hair. Or his hair. ‘Will you please answer one simple question?’

‘Certainly Minister,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know!’ I yelled. ‘You tell me and I’ll ask it!’

March 10th

Today seemed to last an eternity. Ruin stared me in the face.

It began with another meeting with Humphrey. The atmosphere was distinctly frosty – Frank Weisel was there too, wanting to discuss his new paper about quangos.

I wasn’t a bit interested in discussing quangos today, which seem to have no immediate relevance to my current problems, though it was full of stuff about ‘ending the scandal of ministerial patronage’ and ‘jobs for the boys’. Humphrey described it as ‘most imaginative’ which Frank interpreted as a sign of approval. Frank hasn’t yet learned that ‘original’ and ‘imaginative’ are two of Humphrey’s most damning criticisms.

Frank’s scheme was to hand over all quango appointments to a Select Committee of Parliament. ‘Get the best men for the jobs instead of old chums, party hacks, and you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours,’ he explained with his usual charm.

It seemed to me that it was a good plan, and I suggested we put it forward for legislation.

‘It’s certainly a novel proposal,’ remarked Humphrey. ‘Novel’ – that’s the other killer!

But Humphrey went on to explain his view that there was no sense in upsetting the current system when it is working smoothly.

Smoothly? I’d never heard such nonsense. Only this morning I’d received a proposal for the Chairmanship of the new Industrial Co-partnership Commission, the latest quango. And whose name was being put up? Sir Desmond Glazebrook, of all people. ‘He’s never worked in industry,’ I said to Humphrey, ‘he’s never met a trades unionist, and he’s said a whole lot of nasty things about this government – is this the kind of suggestion a smoothly working system comes up with?’

‘But he would be an excellent Chairman,’ said Sir Humphrey.

‘He’s an ignorant buffoon,’ I explained carefully.

‘Nonetheless,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘an excellent Chairman.’

I told Humphrey that I drew the line at Glazebrook. I absolutely refused to appoint him. Over my dead body, I declared.

There was silence in the office for some moments. Then Sir Humphrey said, ‘Minister, before you make your final decision I think there is something that you ought to see.’

And he produced a Ministry file. On the cover was written SOLIHULL PROJECT – TOP SECRET. Why top secret? I opened it. I saw why. Bradley, our Department’s partner, owed ?7? million, was going bankrupt, and the entire project was in imminent danger of collapse.

I was aghast. Absolutely aghast. I asked Humphrey why I hadn’t been told any of this and he wittered on idiotically about how he was deeply conscious of the heavy burdens of my office. It seems to me that he’s made them quite a lot heavier in the last few days.

‘If this comes out,’ I said weakly, ‘it will be all over the front pages. A public scandal. A disaster.’

‘Appalling,’ added Bernard. He’s always such a comfort!

Then for a moment, Frank gave me a tiny ray of hope. ‘Hold on, Jim.’ He grabbed the file. ‘Look, this report is dated before the election. You’re in the clear.’

‘Unfortunately,’ murmured Humphrey, ‘under the convention of Ministerial responsibility, the blame must fall . . .’

Frank interrupted him. ‘But everyone will know it wasn’t Jim.’

‘Quite so.’ Sir Humphrey shook his head mournfully. ‘But the principle of democratic accountability requires the occasional human sacrifice – Crichel Down and all that.² When the pack is baying for blood . . . isn’t that so, Minister?’

I couldn’t speak.

Frank was undeterred. ‘Surely he has only to point to the dates?’

‘Ah, well,’ Sir Humphrey put on his most pious expression, ‘a lesser man might try to wriggle out of it. But there is only one honourable course. As the Minister is well aware.’ He gazed at me sorrowfully and shook his head again. I felt I was at my own funeral.

‘Don’t you think Frank might have a point?’ I asked, determined to fight to the last.

‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘except that in that broadcast, which goes out . . .’

‘Today,’ I interjected.

‘. . . today,’ continued Bernard, ‘you publicly identified yourself with the success of the project. In fact, it’ll be on the air any minute now.’

We all gaped at each other. Then Bernard rushed for the radio.

I shouted, ‘Bernard, get on to the BBC and stop it.’