The Complete Yes Minister

[Sir Mark Spencer was the Managing Director of a well-known and popular multiple chain-store, a byword for efficiency and productivity, who had been brought into Number Ten by the PM to advise personally on economies and increased administrative productivity. So far, it seems, he was still struggling with the problem of getting a decent office. Presumably, if it were not for the PM’s personal interest in his work, he would have been found an office in Walthamstow – Ed.]

I’d only met Sir Mark once before. He is a big fellow, highly intelligent and with a kindly soft-spoken manner. He welcomed me warmly.

‘Ah, come in, Jim. Scotch?’

I thanked him.

‘How are things going?’ he enquired gently, as he brought me my drink.

I told him things were fine. Absolutely fine. I told him that it was a bit of a shock, having Rhodes’s book thrown at us out of the blue, but that now the whole situation was under control. ‘Humphrey and I will be getting together this evening. We’ll be able to explain everything. Nothing for the PM to worry about.’

I hoped that I was being sufficiently reassuring to Sir Mark. As I heard myself speak, however, I rather sounded as though I were reassuring myself.

I paused. But Sir Mark said nothing. He just sat still, looking at me.

I found myself continuing, and making more excuses. ‘What beats me is how Malcolm Rhodes got all that information. Most of it happened outside his division. And I wouldn’t mind knowing who got those advance proofs to Betty Oldham. The PM must be livid. But it’s certainly no fault of mine.’

I paused again. In fact, I had really nothing left to say on the subject. Sir Mark obviously sensed this, because he finally spoke.

‘What makes you think the PM is livid?’ he asked, in a slightly puzzled tone.

I hadn’t expected this question. I thought it was obvious. Why else was I there at Number Ten? I stared at him.

‘Let’s try and look at this situation logically, shall we?’ suggested Sir Mark.

‘Of course,’ I agreed.

Then he asked me a series of questions. At first I simply couldn’t see what he was driving at.

‘What has the PM been trying to achieve, in public expenditure?’

‘Cuts, obviously.’

Sir Mark nodded. ‘And why has there been so little success?’

Again the answer was obvious. ‘Because of Civil Service obstruction.’

‘And are all the Cabinet committed to this policy of cutting public expenditure?’

I wasn’t sure if this was an attack on me. ‘I think so, yes. I certainly am.’

He stared at me. He seemed unconvinced. Then he said: ‘If that is so, why have virtually no Ministers achieved any real cuts?’

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.’

‘Wrong. It’s because the Ministers have gone native.’

‘Oh I don’t think . . .’ I paused again. I had been about to disagree. But what had I just said to Sir Mark? Rome wasn’t built in a day. The standard Civil Service answer when pressed for results. But surely I’ve not gone native?

‘The Civil Service has house-trained the lot of you,’ he said with a little sad smile.

‘Well, some of us, perhaps. But I certainly haven’t been . . .’

He interrupted me. ‘Look, if a Minister were really trying to cut expenditure, how would he react to a book exposing massive government waste?’

‘Well, he’d, he’d er . . . oh!’ I realised I had no immediate answer. ‘It would depend on . . . er . . .’ I was stuck. So I asked him precisely what he was trying to say.

He didn’t answer. That is to say, he answered obliquely. ‘Do you know what the Civil Service is saying about you?’

I shook my head nervously.

‘That you’re a pleasure to work with.’ A rush of mixed emotions overwhelmed me. First relief. Then pleasure and pride. Then, suddenly, a dreadful realisation of the awfulness of what he had just revealed!

‘That’s what Barbara Woodhouse says about her prize-winning spaniels,’ he added.

I just sat there, struggling to grasp all the implications. My head was in a whirl.

Sir Mark continued destroying me, in that kindly voice of his. ‘I’ve even heard Sir Humphrey Appleby say of you that you’re worth your weight in gold. What does that suggest to you?’

It was only too clear what it suggested. I felt deeply miserable. ‘You mean . . . I’ve failed utterly,’ I said.

Sir Mark stood up, picked up my empty glass, and observed that I looked as if I needed another Scotch.

He returned it to me, I sipped it. Then he waited for me to speak again.

‘And now,’ I mumbled, ‘I suppose the PM is not pleased with my performance at the Select Committee because I failed to cover up the failure?’