The Complete Yes Minister

‘He’s a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep,’ I said, trying to be fair.

She was puzzled. ‘How is he so successful?’

‘Because,’ I explained, ‘he’s a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep.’

Also he’s got a good television manner, a lot of grassroots party support (though all the MPs hate him), and he has somehow conned the public into believing he’s sincere.

His biggest and best weapon is elbows. I’ve got to elbow Corbett out of the way, or else he’ll elbow me. I explained to Annie that elbows are the most important weapon in a politician’s armoury.

‘Other than integrity,’ she said.

I’m afraid I laughed till I cried. Tears rolled down my face. It took me five minutes to get my breath back – what made it even funnier was Annie staring at me, uncomprehending, as if I’d gone mad.

I didn’t really get my breath back till the phone rang. To my enormous surprise it was Gaston Larousse – from Brussels.

‘Good evening, Commissionaire,’ I said. Perhaps I should have just said Commissioner.

He was calling me to enquire if I’d let my name go forward as a commissioner of the EEC. I told him I was honoured, that I’d have to think about it, thanked him for thinking of me, etc. I asked him if Number Ten knew about it. He was evasive, but eventually said yes.

[Notes of this phone call discovered many years later among Gaston Larousse’s papers suggest that he was not intentionally evasive. Hacker, presumably in an attempt to show that he was a linguist, enquired if Numéro Dix knew about the offer. Larousse did not initially equate Numéro Dix with Number Ten Downing Street – Ed.]

What does this mean?

I discussed it with Annie. Obviously, it would mean living in Brussels, as she pointed out.

But what does it mean? Really mean? Is it a plot by Number Ten to ease me out? Or is it a coincidence? Is it a hint? Is the PM giving me a face-saving exit? If so, why hasn’t Number Ten told me? Or is it nothing to do with the PM? Was the vacancy coming up anyway? And it’s a great honour – isn’t it? Why is my life always so full of unanswerable questions?

Then Annie thought of yet another question. ‘Is it a good job?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s a terrible job. It would be curtains for me as far as British politics is concerned. Worse than getting a peerage. Complete failure. You’re reduced to forming a new party to try and get back.’

Annie asked what the job involved.

I began to list it all. ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘you’re right in the heart of that ghastly European bureaucracy. It’s one big gravy train: fifty thousand a year salary, twenty thousand pounds expense account. All champagne and lobsters. Banquets. Overseas visits. Luxury hotels. Limousines and chauffeurs and private aircraft and siestas after lunch and weekends on the beach at Knokke-le-Zoute . . .’ I suddenly realised what I was saying. It’s strange how you can talk and talk and not hear yourself – not hear the implications of what you’re saying.

‘Perhaps,’ I finished, ‘we should go over there and have a look.’

Annie looked hopeful. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think we deserve a bit of failure.’

July 12th

Had an interesting conversation with Roy⁴ this morning. Of course, he knew all about the reshuffle.

I assumed he’d read it in the Standard like me – but no, he first heard of it a couple of weeks ago. (Why didn’t he tell me? He knows that I rely on him to keep me fully informed.)

But it seems he assumed I knew. All the drivers knew. They knew it from the PM’s driver and the Cabinet Secretary’s driver – apparently it’s been an open secret.

Casually, I asked him what he’d heard – trying thereby to suggest that I had also heard things. Which I haven’t, of course.

‘Just the usual, sir,’ he replied. ‘Corbett’s in line for promotion, the PM can’t overlook him. And apparently old Fred – sorry guv, I mean the Employment Secretary – he’s going to get the push. Kicked upstairs.’

He seemed utterly confident about this. I asked him how he knew.

‘His driver’s been reassigned.’

‘And what’s the gossip about me?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

Nothing! Was he telling the truth? There must be some gossip about me. I’m in the bloody Cabinet, for God’s sake.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Roy. ‘My mates and I haven’t known what to make of that.’ He gave me a sly look in the rear-view mirror. ‘’Course, you’ll know what’s happening to you, won’t you sir?’

He knew bloody well I’ve not the faintest idea. Or else he was trying to find out. More information to barter in the transport pool.