The Complete Yes Minister

He smiled. ‘With the administration in Brussels and the Parliament in Strasbourg?’ It’s like having London as the capital with the House of Commons in Swindon and the Civil Service in Kettering.’

‘If this were true,’ I said doggedly, ‘the other countries wouldn’t have been trying to join.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, take the Greeks.’

Sir Humphrey settled back reflectively in his chair. ‘Actually,’ he mused, ‘I find it difficult to take the Greeks. Open-minded as I am about foreigners, as well you know.’ (His total lack of self-awareness took my breath away!) ‘But what will the Greeks want out of it? – an olive mountain and a retsina lake.’ He looked at my face, and added apologetically: ‘Sorry, I suppose some of your best friends are Greek.’

I could stand no more of this cynical rubbish. I tried to broaden the discussion, to look at the real problems of the community.

‘The trouble with Brussels,’ I began, ‘is not internationalism. It’s too much bureaucracy.’

I got no further. Humphrey interrupted me again.

‘But don’t you see,’ he insisted, ‘that the bureaucracy is a consequence of the internationalism? Why else would an English Commissioner have a French Director-General immediately below him, an Italian Chef-du-Division reporting to the Frenchman, and so on down the line?’

I was forced to agree. ‘I agree,’ I said.

‘It’s the Tower of Babel,’ he said.

I was forced to agree again.

‘I agree,’ I said.

‘In fact, it’s even worse than that – it’s like the United Nations,’ he added.

I could not but agree for the third time. ‘I agree,’ I said.

We both stopped talking and gazed at each other. Where had we reached? What had we decided? What next?

Bernard tried to help out. ‘Then, perhaps, if I may interject, perhaps you are in fact in agreement.’

‘No we’re not!’ we said, in unison.

That much was certain!

‘Brussels is a shambles,’ I said, pursuing my theme of how the bureaucracy destroys the bonds between nations. I reminded Humphrey that the typical Common Market official is said to have the organising capacity of the Italians, the flexibility of the Germans and the modesty of the French. He tops all that up with the imagination of the Belgians, the generosity of the Dutch, and the intelligence of the Irish. Finally, for good measure, he has the European spirit of Mr Anthony Wedgwood Benn.¹

‘And now,’ I concluded, ‘they are all trying to screw up our excellent word-processing plan which is wholly in Britain’s interest and my interest.’

‘Which are, of course,’ added Humphrey, ‘one and the same thing.’

I stared at him, and enquired if he was being sarcastic. He denied it. I accepted his denial (though doubtfully) and continued to explore my theory of what’s wrong with Brussels.

‘The reason that Brussels bureaucrats are so hopeless is not just because of the difficulty of running an international organisation – it’s because it’s a gravy train.’

‘A what?’ asked Bernard.

‘A gravy train,’ I repeated, warming to my theme. ‘They all live off claret and caviar. Crates of booze in every office. Air-conditioned Mercedes and private planes. Every one of those bureaucrats has got his snout in the trough and most of them have got their front trotters in as well.’

Humphrey, as always, sprang to the defence of the bureaucrats. ‘I beg to differ, Minister,’ he said reproachfully. ‘Brussels is full of hard-working public servants who have to endure a lot of exhausting travel and tedious entertainment.’

Terribly tedious, I thought to myself, working through all that smoked salmon and forcing down all that champagne.

‘And in any case, Minister,’ continued Humphrey, ‘you’re blaming the wrong people.’

What was he talking about? I’d lost track.

‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that it was one of your Cabinet colleagues who gave Brussels early warning of your plan for the bulk-buying of word-processors, which is why they have brought this directive out so quickly.’

No wonder I’d lost track. He’d gone back to the point of our conversation. He really is a confusing man to talk to.

And that was it, was it? Betrayed again! By a Cabinet colleague!

[Who else? – Ed.] No prizes for guessing who it was – Basil Corbett! Bloody Basil Corbett! When I think about Basil Corbett I really warm to Judas Iscariot. [Basil Corbett was another tall, patrician, lisping politician with staring eyes, usually seen smoking a pipe so that people would feel he was ‘sound’ – Ed.]

‘Corbett?’ I asked, though I knew.

Humphrey inclined his head slightly, to indicate that it was indeed the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry who had put the boot in.

I couldn’t contain my anger. ‘He’s a treacherous, disloyal, arrogant, opinionated, publicity-seeking creep.’ Humphrey gazed at me and said nothing. I mistook his attitude. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Humphrey,’ I added.