The Complete Yes Minister

I feel rather guilty and not a little stupid this evening. Also, somewhat concerned for my future. I just hope that Vic Gould [the Chief Whip – Ed.] presents me in a favourable light to the PM next time my name is put forward for anything.

I think that Vic owes me a big favour after today. But he’s a strange fellow and he may not see it that way.

I wasn’t expecting to see him at all. My appointment was with the PM, at the House. When I got to the PM’s office I found Vic Gould waiting there.

Vic is a tall imposing figure, with the white hair of an elder statesman, a face like a vulture and a manner that shifts at lightning speed from charm and soft soap to vulgar abuse. A party man to his fingertips.

He was a bit casual, I thought. He said that the PM was rather busy today and had asked him to see me instead.

I felt slightly insulted. I don’t report to Vic. He may be responsible for party discipline but he’s one of my colleagues, an equal member of this government. Actually, I had no idea that he was so close to the PM. Or maybe he isn’t – maybe it’s just that he persuaded the PM (who didn’t know why I wanted the appointment) that it was a party matter rather than a political one. But what I can’t work out is how did Vic know what I wanted? And how did the PM arrive at the decision that Vic should see me instead? Sometimes I really do feel a little paranoid.

As it turned out perhaps it’s all for the best, if Vic can be believed. But can he? Can anybody?

Anyway, when Vic greeted me I refused to tell him what I’d come about. I couldn’t see that arms sales to Italian terrorists was a matter for the Chief Whip.

He refused to take no for an answer. ‘The PM has asked me to have a preliminary conversation with you, and write a background note. Save time later.’

I couldn’t argue with that. So I told Vic that I’d been given this pretty dramatic information. And I told him the whole story of Italian Red Terrorists being supplied with top-secret bomb detonators made in this country. In a government factory!

‘And you feel you should tell the PM?’

I was astonished by the question. The PM is in charge of security. I could see no choice.

But Vic disagreed. ‘I don’t think it’s something to burden the PM with. Let’s hold it over, shall we?’

I asked if he actually meant to do nothing about it. He nodded, and said yes, that was his recommendation.

I refused to accept this, and insisted that the PM had to be told.

‘If the PM were to be told,’ said Vic carefully, ‘there’d have to be an enquiry.’

That was my point. That was what I wanted.

But it was not what Vic wanted. He explained why. ‘An enquiry might perhaps reveal that all sorts of undesirable and even hostile governments had been supplied with British-made arms.’

This remark shocked me. Not so much on account of its factual content, but because of the assumption that such matters should not be looked into.

‘Are you serious?’ I asked.

‘I said perhaps. Which would – perhaps – be highly embarrassing to some of our Cabinet colleagues. Foreign Secretary, Defence Secretary, Trade Secretary. And to the PM personally.’

I stuck to my guns. ‘Doing what’s right can be embarrassing. But that’s not an argument for not doing it.’

Vic ignored that. ‘You know we already sell arms to places like Syria, Chile and Iran?’

I did know. ‘That’s officially approved,’ I explained, meaning that it was therefore beside the point.

‘Quite,’ agreed Vic. ‘And you’re happy about what they do with them?’

I hesitated. ‘Well, obviously not entirely . . .’

‘Either you’re in the arms business or you’re not,’ said Vic with relentless logic.

At that point I became emotional. A big mistake. It’s all right to pretend to be emotional, especially in front of the public (or even with the House if it’s the right ploy for the moment), but with one’s colleagues – especially a cold fish like Vic – it cuts no ice at all.

‘If being in the arms business means being among criminals and murderers, then we should get out. It’s immoral.’

Vic lost his temper. He glowered at me with a mixture of anger and contempt. ‘Oh great. Great!’

I felt he really despised me. I could see him wondering how a boy scout like me had ever been allowed into the Cabinet. Or even into politics. ‘And is it moral to put a hundred thousand British workers out of a job? And what about the exports? Two billion pounds a year down the tube for starters. And what about the votes? Where do you think the government places all these weapons contracts?’

‘Marginal constituencies, obviously.’

‘Exactly,’ he said. QED, he implied.

But I still couldn’t quite leave it alone. I tried again. ‘Look Vic, all I’m saying is that now I know this is happening I have to tell the PM.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ I couldn’t understand the question. It seemed self-evident to me.

‘Just because you’ve caught something nasty,’ said Vic, ‘why do you have to wander about breathing over everyone?’