The Complete Yes Minister

out of work. Queues of unemployed judges. In silly wigs.’

I remember that argument well because the idea of unemployed judges in silly wigs richly appealed to me, as it would to anyone who has had contact with the higher and more self-satisfied reaches of the legal profession. In fact, I have always been struck by the absurdity of judges ticking people off in court about their unsuitable appearance – women in trousers, for instance – while the judges themselves are in fancy dress.

Be that as it may, Hacker continued in the cringing self-pitying lachrymose manner that he only exhibited when completely sloshed.

‘Anyway, it’s easy for the judges,’ he whined, ‘they don’t have to suck up to television producers. Don’t have to lie to journalists. Don’t have to pretend to like their Cabinet colleagues. Do you know something?’ he cracked another walnut and a piece of deadly flying shell struck the Bursar just below the left eye. ‘If judges had to put up with some of my Cabinet colleagues we’d have the death penalty back tomorrow. Good job too.’

By this time old Sir Humphrey was trying to stem the flow – but to no avail.

For Hacker pointed accusingly at Sir Humphrey. ‘And I’ll tell you another thing,’ he said, sublimely unaware that nobody at the table wanted to hear another thing, ‘I can’t send you to prison.’

Humphrey was flummoxed by this remark.

Hacker looked around the table. ‘I can’t send him to prison,’ he said, as if he had revealed a new extraordinary anomaly in the law. ‘But if I were a judge, I could whiz old Humphrey off to the Scrubs, no trouble, feet wouldn’t touch the ground, clang bang, see you in three years’ time, one-third remission for good conduct.’

Everyone was now staring at Hacker, open-mouthed, as he paused for breath, slurped at his glass and some Fonseca 1927 dribbled slowly down his chin. Being academics, they had hardly ever seen a politician in action late at night. [Hacker’s behaviour, of course, would have passed unnoticed at the House of Commons, where it would have been accepted as quite normal – possibly, even better than average – Ed.]

Hacker was still talking. Now he was unstoppable. ‘But I can’t do that to old Humphrey,’ he raved incoherently. ‘I have to listen to him – Oh God!’ He looked at the ceiling, and seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘He goes on and on. Do you know, his sentences are longer than Judge Jeffreys’?’ He guffawed. We stared at him. ‘No, no, to sum up, politicians are much more deserving, you don’t want to give your donorary hoctorates to judges . . . definitely not.’

Finally he ground to a halt. The Master hastily pulled himself together and tried to rearrange his features so that they expressed friendliness rather than disgust. He was only partially successful.

Nevertheless he managed to tell Hacker that he had argued the proposition beautifully, and that he now realised that the honour couldn’t possibly go to a judge.

There were mutters of agreement all round, as the dons continued their embarrassing flattery of Hacker. No one really understands the true nature of fawning servility until he has seen an academic who has glimpsed the prospect of money. Or personal publicity.

They went on to say how wonderful it would be to see Hacker standing there, in the Sheldonian, wearing magnificent crimson robes, receiving the doctorate in front of a packed assembly of eminent scholars such as himself. Hacker belched, alcoholic fumes emanated from his mouth, his eyes went glassy, he clutched his chair so that he wouldn’t fall on to the floor, and he smiled beatifically.

I have always remembered that night. I took one more step towards maturity as I realised that even the most rigorous academics have their price – and it’s not as high as you’d think.

[Hacker’s diary continues – Ed.]

May 5th

Had rather a headache this morning. I don’t know why, it can’t be a hangover as I didn’t drink all that much last night. I couldn’t have done or I wouldn’t have been such a success.

We were due to have yet another meeting to examine the possibility of administrative cuts. But the outcome was sure to be the same as last time.

Humphrey popped into my office five minutes early, for a private word. Very good news. Apparently the Master of Baillie took Humphrey aside last night and asked him to sound me out, to see if I’d be interested in accepting an honorary doctorate of Law from the University.

I feigned surprise. In fact I wasn’t at all surprised, as I knew what an impression I’d made on them last night.

Humphrey was at pains to point out that it was not an actual offer. Apparently, according to Humphrey, the Council of the Senate or somebody or other is now trying to square the honorary doctorate with my well-known hostility to honours.

This was a bit of a blow. I had to squash this nonsense at once. ‘Don’t be silly, Humphrey, that’s quite different,’ I explained.

‘Not entirely, Minister,’ he replied. ‘It is a matter of accepting a doctorate without having done anything to earn it, as you yourself might put it in your refreshingly blunt fashion.’

‘I’m a Cabinet Minister,’ I responded with some indignation.

‘Isn’t that what you’re paid for?’ Smooth treacherous bugger.

‘The point is,’ I told him, ‘one can’t really refuse an honorary doctorate. I should have thought anyone could see that I would be insulting the DAA if I refused – because clearly I’ve been offered it as a sort of vote of confidence in the Department because I am, in fact, the titular head.’

Humphrey fell silent, having indicated again that it was not yet an offer. Clearly he had some sort of deal in mind. I waited. And waited.

Then the penny dropped. ‘By the way, Humphrey,’ I said breezily. ‘Changing the subject entirely, I would like to do what I can to help Baillie College over this overseas student problem.’

Now it was Humphrey’s turn to feign surprise. ‘Oh, good,’ he said, and smiled.