The Complete Yes Minister

Humphrey said, ‘I wish you luck, Minister, but – well, you know what the BBC are like.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but surely in a case like this, a crisis, an emergency, a scandal . . .’

‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘if you put it like that, they might move it to peak listening time. And then repeat it. And film it for Panorama.’

‘I’ll order them to cancel it,’ I said.

‘MINISTER TRIES TO CENSOR BBC,’ said Humphrey, gloomily dreaming up headlines again.

I could see his point, of course. It was obviously hopeless. I was just about to suggest asking them very, very nicely when Bernard hurried in holding a transistor, and out of it came my voice saying all those dreadful things about government money and private investment in a real partnership, and how I took such a great personal interest in the Solihull project and how it is symbolic of everything this government is working for – concrete proof that our policy really works in practice.

I switched it off. I couldn’t bear to listen to it. We gazed at each other, bleakly, in silence.

I waited. Nobody spoke.

Eventually I did.

‘Humphrey,’ I asked quietly, ‘why did you let me say all that?’

‘Minister,’ he assumed his I’m-just-a-humble-civil-servant manner, ‘I can only advise. I did advise. I advised most strongly. But when an adviser’s advice is unheeded . . .’

He petered out, only too aware that he’d kept some rather vital information back from me.

‘Advise me now,’ I said coldly.

‘Certainly Minister.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Now, it is possible Bartletts Bank will take over from Sloane Enterprises, and all will be well.’

The bank! I’d never thought of that. It seemed too good to be true!

‘But . . .’ said Humphrey.

Clearly it was too good to be true.

‘But . . . the bank is hesitant. However, the Director in charge is retiring next year and is anxious for some appointment. The Chairmanship of a quango, for instance.’

I could see no problem at all. ‘Give him one,’ I said immediately. ‘Give him that one you were proposing that fool Desmond Glaze-brook for. Who is the Director in charge, anyway?’

‘Desmond Glazebrook,’ explained Humphrey.

Suddenly it all became clear.

I felt I had to leave a decent pause before I said that actually he’s not such a bad chap really.

Frank was extraordinarily slow on the uptake. ‘He’s always attacking the government,’ he said angrily.

I explained to Frank that it does us good to appoint our opponents occasionally. It’s democratic – statesmanlike.

Frank seemed unimpressed with this point of view, and he argued and argued till finally I just told him to shut up.

I asked Humphrey who else knew about this wretched Solihull Report. Only Joe Morgan, Humphrey told me – which suddenly explained his confident claim for a Birmingham Allowance. Blackmail!

And it occurred to me at that moment that Desmond Glazebrook might need a Deputy Chairman, one with real experience of industry. A trades unionist, perhaps. I mentioned it to Humphrey, who thought it was an awfully good idea, and he immediately suggested Joe Morgan. I thought that was an awfully good idea.

‘It takes two to quango, Minister,’ smiled Humphrey, and we got them both on the phone right away.

Frank watched us in silence, and when we’d had brief chats with Desmond and Joe he had an absolutely amazing outburst – ‘This is exactly what I’ve been talking about,’ he shouted, even louder than usual. ‘This is what’s wrong with the system. Jobs for the boys. Quid pro quo. Corruption.’ I couldn’t believe my ears, Frank accusing me of corruption. What an idea! He’s obviously going off his rocker.

‘What about my quango abolition paper?’ he yelled, going red in the face.

‘Very good Frank,’ I said smoothly. ‘Imaginative. Ingenious.’

‘Novel,’ added Humphrey.

Then Frank announced that he wouldn’t let me suppress it. As if I would do such a thing! Me, suppress papers? I’m a democrat, a believer in open government. Frank must be raving mad.

‘I’ll get it to Cabinet through someone else,’ he threatened at the top of his not inconsiderable voice. ‘I’ll get it adopted as party policy. You’ll see.’

He marched to the door. Then he stopped, and turned. He had a beatific smile on his face. I didn’t like the look of it one bit. Whenever Frank smiles you know that something very nasty is about to happen. ‘The press,’ he said softly. ‘The press. If the press were to get hold of this . . .’

And suddenly, I had a brainwave. ‘Frank,’ I said gently, ‘I’ve been thinking. Changing the subject completely, of course, but have you ever thought about serving on a quango?’

‘Oh no,’ he replied, smiling his most unpleasant smile, ‘you’re not corrupting me!’

I explained patiently that nothing could be further from my thoughts. My idea is that, even better than