The Complete Yes Minister

Happily, this is not my problem – and, when I mentioned it to my spies, both Bernard and Roy agreed (independently) that Sir Humphrey would not be left destitute. Apart from his massive indexlinked pension, a former Permanent Secretary is always fixed up with a job if he wants it – Canals and Waterways, or something.

As for Bernard, I have recently been impressed with his loyalty to me. He seems to be giving me all the help he possibly can without putting his own career at risk. In fact, I am almost becoming concerned about the amount of rapport, decency and goodwill that exists between us – if he exhibits a great deal more of these qualities he will almost certainly be moved elsewhere. There may come a time when the Department feels that the more use he is to me the less use he is to them.

March 29th

I was sitting at my desk this afternoon going through some letters when Bernard sidled in holding something behind his back.

‘Excuse me, Minister,’ he said. ‘There’s something in the press about you that I think you ought to see.’

I was pleased. ‘About me? That’s nice.’

Bernard looked bleak. ‘Well . . .’ he swallowed, ‘I’m afraid it’s in Private Eye.’

Trembling, I took the offending rag and held it away from me with my forefinger and thumb. I didn’t have the courage to open it. Normally the press officer brings you your own press cuttings. If he’d given his job to Bernard, it meant terrible news. No prizes for guessing which, in the case of Private Eye.

‘They’re . . . um . . . exposing something,’ said Bernard.

Panic thoughts flashed through my mind. In that instant my whole life passed before me. Was it that IOS Consultancy, I wondered? Or that character reference I wrote for Dr Savundra? Or that wretched party at John Poulson’s?

I didn’t even dare mention them to Bernard. So I put a good face on it. ‘Well,’ I said, chin up, ‘what have they made up about me to put in their squalid little rag?’

‘Perhaps you’d better read it yourself,’ he said.

So I did.

It was acutely embarrassing.

I sent for Humphrey at once. I had to establish whether or not this lie was true.

One aspect of this squalid little story puzzled me in particular – ‘What does egregious mean?’ I asked Bernard.

‘I think it means “outstanding” . . . in one way or another,’ he explained.

That’s okay, if that’s what it means, but it seems a little too generous for Private Eye. I must remember to look it up sometime.

Humphrey arrived, was shown the piece, and actually had the temerity to laugh at the bugger joke.

‘Is this true?’ I demanded.

‘Oh absolutely not, Minister,’ he replied firmly. I was relieved for a moment, until he went on, ‘It’s only one of their little jokes. I don’t think that anyone actually supposes that you are a bu . . . I mean . . . that is . . .’

I exploded. ‘Humphrey, I’m not talking about that tasteless little joke. I’m asking you if the gist of this story is true – was I once under surveillance and am I now responsible for the bugging equipment?’

‘Surely . . .’ said Humphrey evasively, and how well I recognise the tactics by now! ‘Surely you don’t believe what you read in that squalid little rag?’

[‘Squalid little rag’ was clearly Whitehall general slang usage for Private Eye at about this time – Ed.]

I asked him again. Was it accurate?

Sir Humphrey again declined to give a straight answer. ‘I don’t think we should take it too seriously, Minister,’ he replied suavely.

I saw red. I told him that I regard this as an outrageous and intolerable intrusion into my privacy. If he didn’t see anything wrong with it, I certainly did. And I propose to take it very seriously indeed. I reminded Humphrey that the article stated that I, a free citizen, and furthermore an MP, have been under total surveillance. Surveillance is an attack on democracy. I asked Humphrey if he was aware that it contravenes the European Convention on Human Rights.

He remained calm. ‘Surveillance,’ he said, ‘is an indispensable weapon in the battle against organised crime.’

I was incredulous. That’s no reason for bugging me, a politician. ‘Humphrey,’ I asked, ‘are you describing politicians as organised crime?’

He smiled. ‘Well . . . disorganised crime too,’ he joked. I was not amused. He realised that he was going too far, and hastily started to repair the damage. ‘No, seriously, Minister . . .’

I cut him short. I reminded Humphrey of my own track record, one which made this situation particularly awkward for me.

‘While I was editor of Reform I wrote a leader criticising this kind of intrusion. Furthermore, I started a nationwide petition against bureaucratic busybodies snooping and phone-tapping. And now I learn,’ I continued angrily, ‘– from Private Eye, please note, and not from you – that I, of all people, am in charge of the whole technical side of it.’ It was all profoundly embarrassing.

Sir Humphrey merely nodded.