The Complete Yes Minister

Bernard’s official brief said nothing. Amazing! Amazing how little the FCO has been able to find out. Perhaps they were hoping it would all be on the car radio. All the brief says is that Colonel Selim Mohammed was converted to Islam some years ago, they didn’t know his original name, and therefore knew little of his background.

I was able to tell Humphrey and Bernard all about his background. Charlie was a red-hot political economist, I informed them. Got the top first. Wiped the floor with everyone.

Bernard seemed relieved. ‘Well that’s all right then.’

‘Why?’ I enquired.

‘I think Bernard means,’ said Sir Humphrey helpfully, ‘that he’ll know how to behave if he was at an English University. Even if it was the LSE.’ I never know whether or not Humphrey is insulting me intentionally.

Humphrey was concerned about Charlie’s political colour. ‘When you said he was red-hot, were you speaking politically?’

In a way I was. ‘The thing about Charlie is that you never quite know where you are with him. He’s the sort of chap who follows you into a revolving door and comes out in front.’

‘No deeply held convictions?’ asked Sir Humphrey.

‘No. The only thing Charlie was deeply committed to was Charlie.’

‘Ah, I see. A politician, Minister.’

This was definitely one of Humphrey’s little jokes. He’d never be so rude otherwise. Though sometimes I suspect that Humphrey says things he really means and excuses himself by saying ‘only joking’. Nonetheless, I was able to put him down by patronising him with his own inimitable phrase. ‘Very droll, Humphrey,’ I said cuttingly. And I pointed out that as Charlie was only here for a couple of days he couldn’t do much harm anyway.

Sir Humphrey still seemed concerned. ‘Just remember, Minister,’ he said, ‘you wanted him here, not me.’

‘If you’ll excuse me, Humphrey, I must get on with my letters,’ I said, trying to hide my irritation.

‘Just before you do,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I’d be most grateful if you would glance at this brief on African politics.’ He handed me a very bulky file. More paper. I declined to read it.

‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘I think I’m all right on all that.’

‘Oh good,’ he said cheerfully, ‘because one wouldn’t want to upset the delicate power balance between FROLINAT and FRETELIN, would one?’

I think he could see that he’d got me there. So he pressed home his advantage. ‘I mean, if the new President is more sympathetic to ZIPRA than ZANLA, not to mention ZAPU and ZANU, then CARECOM and COREPER might want to bring in GRAPO, and of course that would mean going back over all that old business with ECOSOC and UNIDO and then the whole IBRD — OECD row could blow up again… and what would HMG do if that happened?’[4]

The only initials I understood in that whole thing were HMG [Her Majesty’s Government — Ed.]. As he had predicted, I said — as casually as I could — that I might as well glance through it.

‘I’ll see you on the train,’ he said, and departed smoothly. I’m afraid he won a small moral victory there.

Bernard then tried to hurry me along to the House. But the huge pile of correspondence in my in-tray was now multiplying horrifyingly and apparently reproducing itself. ‘What about all this,’ I said helplessly. ‘What can I do?’

‘Well, Minister…’ began Bernard, and his eyes flickered almost imperceptibly across to the out-tray a couple of times. I realised that I had very little choice. I picked up the whole pile of letters and moved them solemnly from the in-tray to the out-tray.

It was a funny feeling. I felt both guilty and relieved.

Bernard seemed to think I’d done the right thing. The inevitable thing, perhaps. ‘That’s right, Minister,’ he said in a kindly tone, ‘better out than in.’

November 27th

Last night was a horrendous experience, one that I do not intend to repeat in a hurry.

And today a massive crisis has yet to be solved. And it’s all my fault. And I don’t know if I can carry it off. Oh God!

I am sitting up in bed in a first-class sleeper, writing this diary, and dreading what the day has in store for me.

To begin at the beginning. Roy drove me from the House to King’s Cross. I was there in plenty of time. I found my sleeper, ordered my morning tea and biscuits, the train was just pulling out of the station and my trousers were half off when there was a panic-stricken knocking on the door.

‘Who is it?’ I called.

‘Bernard,’ said Bernard’s voice. It was Bernard. I let him in. He was breathless and sweating. I’d never seen him in such a state. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen any civil servant in such a state. They all seem so frightfully calm and controlled most of the time, in a funny way it’s rather reassuring to see that they sometimes panic just like the rest of the human race, and that when they do they just run around like headless chickens.

Bernard was clutching a pile of large brown manila envelopes.

‘Come in, Bernard,’ I said soothingly. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’