The Complete Yes Minister

I told him: ‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps. But you’ve solved nothing. The day after tomorrow we’ll be sitting there, side by side, getting the third degree from the Committee. We must have proper answers – or, at the very least, the same answers.’

Humphrey said that we must begin by establishing what our position is.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘What are the facts?’

He got very impatient with me. ‘I’m discussing our position, Minister – the facts are neither here nor there.’

Fair enough. So I asked him to outline our position.

He suggested that we choose one of the Civil Service’s five standard excuses, to deal with each of their allegations. A different one for each if possible.

I had never before heard of the five standard excuses. Humphrey must be quite anxious about the situation if he’s prepared to reveal his techniques to me so openly.

I made notes. I have called each excuse by the name of a famous example of its use.

The Anthony Blunt excuse

There is a perfectly satisfactory explanation for everything, but security prevents its disclosure

The Comprehensive Schools excuse

It’s only gone wrong because of heavy cuts in staff and budget which have stretched supervisory resources beyond the limit

The Concorde excuse

It was a worthwhile experiment now abandoned, but not before it provided much valuable data and considerable employment

The Munich Agreement excuse

It occurred before important facts were known, and cannot happen again

(The important facts in question were that Hitler wanted to conquer Europe. This was actually known; but not to the Foreign Office, of course)

The Charge of the Light Brigade excuse

It was an unfortunate lapse by an individual which has now been dealt with under internal disciplinary procedures

According to Sir Humphrey, these excuses have covered everything so far. Even wars. Small wars, anyway.

I finished making notes, and contemplated the list. It seemed okay, if we could carry it off. But I knew I couldn’t manage it without Humphrey.

I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘so it’s real teamwork from now on, eh, Humphrey?’

‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ he replied, with a distinctly optimistic air.

I was about to start going through the list to see which excuse we could apply to which allegation, when Bernard reminded me that I had to be at the House in ten minutes for a committee meeting. ‘And,’ he added nervously, ‘Number Ten’s been on the phone. Sir Mark Spencer [the Prime Minister’s special political adviser – Ed.] wonders if you could pop in for a drink sometime tomorrow. I suggested 5.30.’

I pointed out to Sir Humphrey that this was not a good sign. Clearly the PM wants me to account for our feeble explanations to the Select Committee.

‘Perhaps it is just for a drink,’ said Sir Humphrey, with more optimism than sense.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You don’t get invited to drinks at Number Ten because you’re thirsty.’ I agreed to meet Humphrey tomorrow, and cook up a story.

‘Agree our position, Minister,’ he corrected me.

‘That’s what I said,’ I replied, ‘cook up a story.’

October 14th

I am very confused this evening.

At 5.30 I went to see Sir Mark Spencer at Number Ten.

Going to Number Ten is a very weird experience. From the outside it just looks like an ordinary terraced Georgian house – big, but not that big. But when you step inside the front door and walk along a big wide hall that seems a hundred yards long, you realise that you’re actually in a palace.

It’s so English, so extremely discreet on the outside. The secret of the house is that it’s three or four houses knocked together, and built onto at the back as well. As a result it’s pretty hard to find your own way round Number Ten. You go up and down funny little stairs, crossing from one house to another, and in no time you don’t even know which floor you’re on.

This, according to the drivers’ grapevine, is put to creative use by the civil servants, who know the plan of the building inside out and who therefore situate their own offices in the key rooms from which they can monitor and control all comings and goings within the building. Also these are usually the nicest rooms. In fact, there is a persistent rumour that the battle for rooms goes on through every administration, with political staff fighting for the rooms nearest to the PM’s office – and fighting also to get the civil servants further away. But it seems that as soon as the government changes, the civil servants move swiftly and smoothly to reoccupy all the lost ground before the new Prime Minister’s staff arrive.

I was escorted up to Sir Mark Spencer’s office. It was a small, poky, sparse little room, under-furnished, exactly the sort of office in which the permanent civil servants would put a temporary part-time adviser.