The Complete Yes Minister

‘Read this, Minister,’ he said dramatically, and thrust one of the brown envelopes at my chest.

I was thoroughly irritated. Bernard is endlessly pushing paper at me. I already had four red boxes on my bunk.

I thrust the envelope back at him. ‘No I won’t,’ I said.

‘You must,’ he said, and back it came as though we were playing pass the parcel. ‘This is top priority.’

‘You always say that about everything,’ I pointed out, and carried on removing my trousers.

Bernard informed me that he was offering me an advance copy of President Selim’s speech for tomorrow (today now — oh my God!) which had been sent around by the Burandan Embassy.

I wasn’t interested. These speeches are always the same: happy to be here, thanks for the gracious welcome, ties between our two countries, bonds of shared experience, happy and fruitful co-operation in the future, and all the usual drivel.

Bernard agreed that all of that rubbish was in the speech, but insisted that I read the important bits at once — bits he’d underlined in red ink. He then said he was distributing copies around the train. Round the train? I thought he’d gone completely crackers — but he explained that Sir Humphrey and the Foreign Secretary and the Perm. Sec. to the Foreign Sec. and our press officer and assorted other dignitaries were on the train. I hadn’t realised.

I opened the envelope and saw the most appalling sight. A speech that we cannot allow to be delivered.

Then Sir Humphrey came in, wearing, incidentally, a rather startling gold silk dressing gown with a red Chinese dragon all over it. I would never have thought of Humphrey in such a garment. Perhaps I wasn’t all that impressive, in my shirt-tails and socks.

‘Well Minister,’ Sir Humphrey began, ‘we appear to have been caught with our trousers down.’ He went on to say that he didn’t like to say that he’d told me so, but he’d told me so.

‘We’re going to have egg all over our faces,’ I said.

‘Not egg, Minister,’ he replied suavely, ‘just imperialist yoke.’

I asked him if he was trying to be funny. Because I certainly can’t see anything funny about this situation. I think he said, ‘No, just my little yoke,’ but because of the noise of the train I’m not absolutely sure.

I reiterated that something had to be done. Three Scottish by-elections hang in the balance, not counting the effects on Ulster! ‘This is a catastrophe,’ I whispered.

Sir Humphrey did not exactly seem to be at pains to minimise the situation. ‘It is indeed,’ he agreed solemnly, piling on the agony. ‘A catastrophe. A tragedy. A cataclysmic, apocalyptic, monumental calamity.’ He paused for breath, and then added bluntly: ‘And you did it.’

This was not exactly helping. ‘Humphrey,’ I reproached him. ‘You’re paid to advise me. Advise me!’

‘All in all,’ replied Sir Humphrey, ‘this is not unlike trying to advise the Captain of the Titanic after he has struck the iceberg.’

‘Come on,’ I said, ‘there must be something we can do.’

‘We could sing Abide with Me.’

There was more knocking on the door and Bernard popped in. ‘Minister, the Foreign Secretary would like a word.’

Martin came in.

‘Ah, Foreign Secretary.’ Sir Humphrey was being obsequious now.

‘Yes,’ said Martin. He knew who he was. ‘You’ve read the speech?’

Before I could reply, Sir Humphrey interrupted: ‘Yes, my Minister is concerned that the government will have egg all over its face. Scotch egg, presumably.’

I’m getting a bit tired of Humphrey’s stupid puns. I asked Martin why Selim Mohammed would want to make such a speech here. Martin reckons it’s for home consumption, to show the other African readers that he is a pukka anti-colonialist.

Bernard popped his head round the door, and suggested that we draft a statement in response to the speech. I thought that was a good idea. Whereupon he announced that he had brought along Bill Pritchard from the press office.

We had me and Humphrey and Martin and Bernard already in my sleeper. Bill Pritchard turned out to have the build of a rugger front-row forward. ‘Room for a little ’un?’ he enquired jovially, and knocked Humphrey forward onto the bunk, face first.

I asked Humphrey if a statement was a good idea.

‘Well Minister,’ he replied carefully as he stood up, still the mandarin in spite of his silly Chinese dressing gown. ‘In practical terms we have, in fact, the usual six options. One, do nothing. Two, issue a statement deploring the speech. Three, lodge an official protest. Four, cut off aid. Five, break off diplomatic relations. Six, declare war.’

This sounded like rather a lot of options. I was pleased. I asked him which we should do.