The Complete Yes Minister

‘Oh no?’ enquired Sir Humphrey. ‘So how do you expect the DOI² to find a decent replacement when we’ve forced his predecessor to resign for taking a sound commercial decision which we blocked for political reasons?’

I could see no point in going through all that again. ‘I have no choice,’ I said simply.

Sir Humphrey tried flattery. ‘Minister,’ he wheedled. ‘A Minister can do what he likes.’

‘No,’ I explained. ‘It’s the people’s will. I am their leader. I must follow them. I have no guilty conscience. My hands are clean.’

Sir Humphrey stood up, coldly. ‘I should have thought,’ he remarked, ‘that it was frightfully difficult to keep one’s hands clean while climbing the greasy pole.’

Then he stalked out.

I really was winning friends and influencing people this morning.

I was left with good old faithful Bernard.

We sat and contemplated the various possibilities that could arise from the morning’s débâcle. Clearly we had to avoid Wally making a public fuss. We had to stop him giving interviews on Panorama or making press statements accusing me of political interference.

I am really on the horns of a dilemma. If I stop the scheme, The Times and The Daily Telegraph will say that I’m a contemptible political coward. But if I let it go ahead the Daily Mirror and the Sun will say I’m murdering unborn babies. I can’t win!

The only way out is if the Henderson Report had any doubt about the safety of metadioxin. But it hasn’t. I’ve read it very carefully.

On the other hand – I’ve suddenly realised – no one else has read it. Because it’s not quite finished. It’s still only a draft report.

Tomorrow I’ll talk to Bernard about this matter. Perhaps the answer is to meet Professor Henderson while there’s still time.

June 15th

This morning, at our daily diary session, I asked Bernard if Professor Henderson is a Cambridge man.

Bernard nodded.

‘Which college is he at?’ I asked casually.

‘King’s,’ said Bernard. ‘Why?’

I brushed it aside. ‘Just curious – wondered if it was my old college.’

Mistake! ‘Weren’t you at LSE?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes, so I was,’ I found myself saying. Feeble! I really must do better than that!

I asked Bernard to give me his file, and I asked for a Cambridge telephone directory.

Bernard spoke up bravely. ‘Minister . . .’ he began nervously, ‘. . . you do realise that . . . not that you have any such intention, of course . . . but, well, it would be most improper to try to influence an independent report of this nature.’

I agreed wholeheartedly that it would be most improper. Unthinkable, in fact. ‘But I just thought that we might go and have tea with my old friend R. A. Crichton, Provost of King’s.’ I told Bernard to get him on the phone.

Bernard did so.

‘And,’ I added, ‘who knows? Professor Henderson might easily drop in for tea with his Provost. That would be a happy coincidence, wouldn’t it?’

Bernard thought for a split second, and agreed that it would be perfectly natural, if they were both at the same college.

‘There’s nothing improper about a coincidence, is there, Bernard?’

Deadpan, he replied: ‘How can a coincidence be improper, Minister? Impropriety postulates intention, which coincidence precludes.’

Memo: I must learn to use longer words.

June 18th

I had a most satisfactory day up in Cambridge.

Tea with Crichton, my old friend at King’s. Now a peer, and very relaxed in academic life.

I asked him how it felt, going from the Commons to the Lords.

‘It’s like being moved from the animals to the vegetables,’ he replied.

By a strange coincidence Professor Henderson had been invited for tea. Crichton introduced us.

Henderson seemed slightly taken aback. ‘I must say, I didn’t expect to see the Minister,’ he said. We both agreed that it was a remarkable coincidence.

Crichton looked astonished and asked if we knew each other. I explained that we’d never met, but that Henderson was writing a report for my Department.

Crichton said that this was quite a coincidence, and Henderson and I both agreed that it was an amazing coincidence.

After that we all settled down a bit and, over the Earl Grey, Henderson remarked that I must have been very happy with the draft of his report.

I assured him that I was delighted, absolutely delighted, and I complimented him on his hard work. He, with modesty – and truth – admitted that most of the hard work had been done by the FDA in Washington.

I asked him if he’d ever done a government report before. He said he hadn’t. So I explained that his name will be attached to it forever. THE HENDERSON REPORT.

‘A kind of immortality, really,’ I added.

He seemed pleased. He smiled, and said he’d never thought of it like that before.

Then I went straight for the jugular. ‘But,’ I said casually, ‘if anything were to go wrong . . .’ And I paused.

He was instantly perturbed. ‘Go wrong?’ His little academic eyes blinked behind his big academic hornrims.