The Complete Yes Minister

Drivers are one of the most useful sources of information in Whitehall. Their passengers are frequently indiscreet, forgetting that everything they say in the back seat can be overheard in the front. Furthermore, Ministers tend to forget confidential documents, and leave them behind in the car.

Information is Whitehall’s most valuable currency. Drivers barter information — Ed.]

[The following series of memos between Sir Humphrey Appleby and Sir Frederick Stewart were found in a Ministry file — Ed.]

A note from Sir Frederick Stewart, Permanent Secretary to the FCO:

A reply from Sir Humphrey to sir Frederick Stewart:

A reply from Sir Frederick:

A reply from Sir Humphrey:

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

December 15th

Today we had the big meeting on expenditure cuts. Frank has been ferreting for a couple of weeks. The meeting didn’t actually end the way I thought it would, but we do now have a real programme of action, though not the one I expected.

At the meeting were Sir Humphrey, Bernard, and Frank who had come up with what seemed to be some astounding revelations about wastage in our midst. I told Sir Humphrey that he would be pretty surprised by it all, and that the new facts seemed to be a frightening indictment of bureaucratic sloppiness and self-indulgence.

Sir Humphrey seemed very concerned and intrigued, and was eager to learn where there might be scope for dramatic economies.

Frank had prepared two files, one on Manpower and one on Buildings. I decided to look at Buildings first.

‘Chadwick House,’ I began. ‘West Audley Street.’

‘A huge building,’ said Frank, ‘with only a handful of people working there.’

Sir Humphrey said he happened to know about Chadwick House. ‘It is certainly underused at the moment, but it is the designated office for the new Commission on the Environment. We’re actually wondering if it’ll be big enough when all the staff move in.’

This seemed fair enough. So I went on to Ladysmith Buildings, Walthamstow. It is totally empty.

‘Of course,’ said Sir Humphrey.

I asked him what he meant.

‘Security, Minister, I can say no more.’

‘Do you mean M16?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey shook his head, and said nothing. So I asked him what he did mean.

‘We do not admit that M16 exists,’ he replied.

I’ve never heard anything so daft. I pointed out that absolutely everyone knows that it exists.

‘Nevertheless, we do not admit it. Not everyone around this table has been vetted.’

Vetted is such a silly expression. I remarked that it sounds like something you do to cats.

‘Yes, but not ferrets, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey sharply, eyeing Frank. ‘Ladysmith Buildings is top secret.’

‘How,’ I asked sarcastically, ‘can a seven-storey building in Walthamstow be a secret?’

‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ replied Humphrey, with (I think) a twinkle in his eye. It was all quite amicable, but I could see that he had no intention of discussing anything that was remotely to do with security while Frank was present. I had no intention of asking Frank to leave, so, reluctantly, I was forced to move on to the next two white elephants.

‘Wellington House, Hyde Park Road. Estimated value, seven and a half million pounds. Westminster Old Hall, Sackville Square, estimated value, eleven million pounds. Both buildings with a tiny staff, and entirely full of filing cabinets.’

‘May I ask the source of these valuations?’ Sir Humphrey enquired.

‘Going rate for office property in the area,’ said Frank.

‘Ah. Unfortunately,’ said Sir Humphrey in his most helpful tone, ‘neither building would actually fetch the going rate.’

I asked why not.

‘Wellington House has no fire escape or fire doors and the fabric of the building would not stand the alteration, so it can’t be sold as offices.’

‘Then how can we use it?’ enquired Frank aggressively.

‘Government buildings do not need fire safety clearance.’

‘Why?’ demanded Frank.

‘Perhaps,’ Humphrey offered, ‘because Her Majesty’s Civil Servants are not easily inflamed.’ This time he chuckled. Another of his little jokes. He seemed to be increasingly pleased with himself. I don’t care for this.