The Complete Yes Minister

Ministers worry whenever you do anything that is bold. Anything that makes business sense. Anything that is necessary, in fact. If I had never done anything to worry any of those lily-livered, vote-grubbing, baby-kissing jellies the BCC would have gone down the tube ten years earlier than it did.

Appleby said that the Minister’s worries centred on the fact that Propanol contained Metadioxin. [Dioxin was the chemical released in the accident at Seveso, Italy, some years earlier. It was believed to cause damage to the foetus – Ed.] This was typical. Metadioxin is completely different, an inert compound. It had a clean bill of health from the FDA [Food and Drugs Administration – Ed.] in Washington. And the Henderson Committee was about to approve it.

Nonetheless, I could see that Appleby, in all his ignorance of chemistry, was still a little worried. Or else he was reflecting Hacker’s worries.

I added that the name metadioxin was now not in the proposal. The chemical was simply called Propanol, making it politically safe.

Our meeting concluded with Appleby offering assurances that the Minister was unlikely to raise any objections, as long as the matter was handled with tact. I offered to go along myself, and have a tactful word with Hacker, and persuade that egotistical blancmange that there could be no argument on the matter.

Appleby declined my offer, and answered that he would be able to manage without what he generously called my unique and refreshing brand of tact.

I was not so sure. And, again, I was locked out of the crucial meeting.

Why do governments continually hire experts to run nationalised industries on business lines, and then interfere every time you try to make a business decision?

[Hacker’s diary continues – Ed.]

June 4th

This morning Humphrey gave me some wonderful news. Or what appeared to be wonderful news.

He handed me a paper which summarised a new industrial scheme for Merseyside. In a nutshell, the plan is to turn a run-down chemical plant into one of the most profitable units in the British Chemical Corporation. Overnight it will make the BCC into the largest manufacturer of Propanol in Europe.

The benefits would be immense: capital equipment to be made in British factories, additional rateable income for the Local Authority, new jobs on Merseyside, foreign exchange from the exports, it all seemed too good to be true.

I said so.

‘But it is true, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey, beaming.

How could it be, I asked myself. Then I asked myself, what’s the point of asking myself? So I asked Humphrey.

‘How could it be?’ I asked. ‘What’s the snag?’

‘The snag?’ repeated Humphrey.

‘Yes,’ I repeated. ‘The snag. What is the snag?’

I knew there must be some snag.

‘I don’t think I quite follow what you mean, precisely?’ Humphrey was playing for time, I could tell.

I formulated my worries even as I voiced them. ‘Well . . . what I mean is, this Propanol stuff is an Italian product. So why don’t they produce it in Italy?’ Humphrey was silent. This was indeed suspicious. ‘Why are they making us such a generous present?’

‘There’s no snag about this, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘It’s wonderful news.’

I could see that if it were wonderful news, it would indeed be wonderful news.

‘Yes,’ I agreed cautiously. ‘It is wonderful news. Wonderful news, isn’t it?’ I said to Bernard, who was taking the minutes on my right.

He flashed a glance at Humphrey, then replied warily, ‘Yes, wonderful news,’ but he didn’t sound at all carefree.

I knew I’d find out nothing more, just by asking in a generalised fashion about snags. So I thought hard, I tried to find the right question. Humphrey would never actually lie to me [Well, hardly ever – Ed.] and will give me the right answers if I can only think of the right questions.

‘Good old Propanol,’ I said playing for time. Then, quite suddenly, it came to me. ‘What is Propanol?’ I asked.

‘It’s rather interesting,’ said Humphrey promptly. ‘It used to be made with dioxin, until the Seveso explosion in Northern Italy. Then they had to stop making it. Now they’ve developed a safe compound called metadioxin, but of course the Italian factory is still sealed off. So they’ve asked the BCC to make it for them.’

‘Ah,’ the fog was beginning to lift. ‘An ill wind, eh?’

‘Quite so,’ he agreed contentedly.

‘But is this new stuff perfectly safe?’

‘Perfectly,’ he replied.

‘Good,’ I said. So I was no nearer. Or was I?

‘Humphrey, are you givng me a categorical and absolute assurance that this stuff is not only safe, but one hundred per cent safe?’

‘Yes, Minister.’

Okay, so what’s up? Why do I smell danger somewhere in all this unequivocally good news? ‘Have you anything else to add, Humphrey, which you might regret later if you don’t say it now?’