The Complete Yes Minister

He insisted that it was. I asked him, again, to tell me who they all are. And he told me. There’s a small delegation from the FCO because, although it’s a DAA mission, the FCO doesn’t like any of us to go abroad except under their supervision. I can’t really understand that, foreign policy is not at issue on this trip, all we are doing is ratifying a contract that has already been fully negotiated between the Government of Qumran and British Electronic Systems Ltd.

Anyway, apart from the FCO delegation, there is one from the Department of Trade, and one from Industry. Also a small group from Energy, because we’re going to an oil sheikhdom. (If you ask me, that’s completely irrelevant – I reckon the Department of Energy would still demand the right to send a delegation if we were going to Switzerland – they’d probably argue that chocolate gives you energy!) Then there’s a Dep. Sec. leading a team from the Cabinet Office, a group from the COI.¹ And finally, the whole of the DAA mission: my press office, half my private office, liaison with other departments, secretaries, those from the legal department who did the contract, those who supervised the contract . . . the list is endless.

One thing’s certain: it’s certainly not been pared to the bone. I reminded Humphrey (who is sitting next to me but has nodded off after going at the free champagne like a pig with his snout in the trough) that when we were going to meet the Qumranis in Middlesbrough there were only going to be seven people coming with us.

‘Yes Minister,’ he had nodded understandingly. ‘But Teesside is perhaps not quite so diplomatically significant as Qumran.’

‘Teesside returns four MPs,’ I remarked.

‘Qumran controls Shell and BP.’

Then, suddenly, a most interesting question occurred to me.

‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

‘Purely my sense of duty free,’ is what I thought he had replied. I interrupted gleefully. ‘Duty free?’

He held up his hand, asking to be allowed to finish what he was saying. ‘Duty, free from any personal considerations.’

Then, changing the subject suspiciously quickly, he handed me a document headed Final Communiqué, and asked me to approve it.

I was still silently fuming about over a hundred Civil Service freeloaders on this trip. The whole lot of them with their trip paid for, and getting paid for coming. Whereas when I’d asked if Annie could come too I’d been told that a special dispensation would be needed from the King of Qumran before she could attend any public functions with me – and that, in any case, I’d have to pay for her fares, hotel bill, everything.

These bloody civil servants have got it all completely sewn up to their own advantage. This trip is costing me hundreds of pounds because Annie really wanted to come. She’s sitting opposite, chatting to Bernard, looking as though she’s having a thoroughly good time. That’s nice, anyway.

Anyway, I digress. I suddenly realised what was in my hand. Humphrey had written a final communiqué before the meeting. I told him he couldn’t possibly do that.

‘On the contrary, Minister, you can’t write the communiqué after the meeting. We have had to get agreement from half a dozen other departments, from the EEC Commission, from Washington, from the Qumrani Embassy – you can’t do that in a few hours in the middle of the desert.’

So I glanced at it. Then I pointed out that it was useless, hypothetical, sheer guesswork – it may bear no relation to what we actually say.

Sir Humphrey smiled calmly. ‘No communiqué ever bears any relation to what you actually say.’

‘So why do we have one?’

‘It’s just a sort of exit visa. Gets you past the press corps.’ Oh, I forgot to mention, the back third of this mighty aeroplane is stuffed with drunken hacks from Fleet Street, all on freebies too. Everyone except my wife, for whom I have to pay! ‘The journalists need it,’ Sir Humphrey was saying, ‘to justify their huge expenses for a futile non-event.’

I wasn’t sure that I liked my trade mission to Qumran being described as a futile non-event. He obviously saw my face fall, for he added: ‘I mean, a great triumph for you. Which is why it’s a futile non-event for the press.’

He’s right about that. Journalists hate reporting successes. ‘Yes, what they really want is for me to get drunk at the official reception.’

‘Not much hope of that.’

I asked why not, and then realised I’d asked a rather self-incriminating question. But Humphrey seemed not to notice. Instead, he replied gloomily, ‘Qumran is dry.’

‘Well, it is in the desert, isn’t it?’ I said and then I suddenly grasped what he meant. Islamic Law! Why hadn’t I realised? Why hadn’t I asked? Why hadn’t he told me?

It seems that we can get a drink or two at our own Embassy. But the official reception and dinner are at the Palace. For five solid hours. Five hours without a single drinkie.

I asked Humphrey if we could manage with hip flasks.

He shook his head. ‘Too risky. We have to grin and bear it.’