The Complete Yes Minister

In fact, the point about making your own phone calls is crucial. The whole system is designed to prevent you from doing anything yourself. As far as the Civil Service is concerned, you must never make a phone call, or sort out a problem. Woe betide any Minister who lifts the phone to try to sort out a foreign trade deal, for instance. Civil servants will come at you from all sides mouthing phrases like, ‘it’s an FCO matter . . . correct channels . . . policy hangs by a thread . . . you do realise, don’t you? . . . what if something were to go wrong? . . . on your head be it, Minister!’ and many others.

This is all very squashing to the morale of an important public figure such as myself. If you’re not careful they’ll eventually have you in such a state that you’ll be frightened to phone Potters Bar.

Furthermore, everything that one does is carefully watched and supervised. Bernard listens in to all my phone calls, except the ones that I make on the private line. The theory is that he can make useful notes on my behalf, and is fully informed about my views and activities – true! But, as we know, information is a double-edged sword. [It’s no accident that most of the really powerful offices in the world are called ‘Secretary’ – Secretary of State, Permanent Secretary, General Secretary, Party Secretary, etc. ‘Secretary’ means the person who is entrusted with the secrets, the information no one else knows – the élite – Ed.]

I must say, though, that I find it an invaluable way to pass on criticism of my permanent officials, knowing that Bernard is listening in to my every word!

Tonight, in one of my red boxes, there is a third redraft of a report to the Think-Tank on Civil Service overmanning. [‘Think-Tank’ was the colloquial name of the Central Policy Review Staff – Ed.] I’m still not pleased with it. I shall have a lot of questions to ask about it tomorrow morning.

January 19th

We had a meeting about the Think-Tank report. I told Humphrey that I still wasn’t happy with it, and he obligingly offered to redraft it.

This hardly seems to be the answer. I pointed out that he had redrafted it three times already.

Bernard argued about this. ‘That’s not quite correct, Minister.’

I told him I could count. And that this was the third draft. ‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘It has been drafted once and redrafted twice.’ A typical piece of boring pedantic quibbling. Bernard has an idiotic obsession about using language with accuracy – it’s fortunate he’s not in politics.

I told him not to quibble, and Humphrey said placatingly he would be happy to redraft the report a third time. Of course he would. And a fourth time, and a fifth no doubt. ‘And a sixth,’ I went on. ‘But it still won’t say what I want it to say, it will say what you want it to say. And I want it to say what I want it to say.’

‘What do you want it to say?’ asked Bernard.

‘We want it to say what you want it to say,’ murmured Humphrey soothingly.

‘I’m sure,’ wittered Bernard, ‘that the Department doesn’t want you to say something that you don’t want to say.’

I tried again. For the fourth time in as many weeks I explained the position. ‘Six weeks ago the Think-Tank asked for our evidence on Civil Service overmanning. Three times I have briefed a group of civil servants in words of one syllable – and each time I get back a totally unintelligible draft which says the exact opposite of what I have told them to say.’

‘With respect, Minister,’ countered Sir Humphrey (untruthfully), ‘how do you know it says the opposite if it is totally unintelligible?’ He really is the master of the irrelevant question-begging answer.

‘All I want to say,’ I explained plaintively, ‘is that the Civil Service is grossly overmanned and must be slimmed down.’

‘I’m sure we all want to say that,’ lied my Permanent Secretary. ‘And that is what the report says.’

‘No it doesn’t.’

‘Yes it does.’