The Complete Yes Minister

‘The award committee meets in six weeks,’ said Martin, ‘and so obviously the PM doesn’t want to rock the boat until it’s in the bag.’

I think I caught Bernard mumbling to himself that you don’t put boats in bags, but it was very quiet, I might have misheard, and he refused to repeat what he’d said which makes me think I didn’t mishear at all.

‘And,’ said Martin, reaching the point at last, ‘once the prize is won, the PM will obviously dump the Europass.’

I had this wonderful idea. I couldn’t quite articulate it. It was slowly forming in the back of my mind. But first I needed some answers.

‘Martin,’ I asked. ‘How many people know about the winner of the Napoleon Prize?’

‘It’s top secret,’ he said. Naturally, I was disappointed. Top secret means that everyone knows.

But not this time, apparently. ‘Top secret, top secret,’ said Martin.

I was now so excited that I was becoming incoherent. ‘Don’t you see?’ I said. ‘Backbenchers… leaks…’

A puzzled Humphrey asked me if I were referring to the Welsh Nationalist Party.

And at that moment God was on my side. The door opened, and in stepped Dr Donald Hughes. He apologised, and said he’d return later, but I stopped him. I told him that he was the very man I wanted to see, that I wanted his advice, and invited him to take a pew.

He pretended that he was eager to help me. But he warned that if it were a case of shutting stable doors after horses have bolted, even he would be powerless to help. I said, flatteringly, that I’m sure that he would not be powerless. I put it to him that I was in a serious moral dilemma — which, of course, I invented at that very moment.

My dilemma was this, I said. I told Hughes that I knew that a backbencher was planning to table a question to the PM about whether or not the Europass is to be adopted by Britain.

Hughes was immediately jumpy. ‘Which backbencher? The Europass is top secret.’

‘Like the winner of the Napoleon Prize?’ I asked.

We eyed each other carefully — I wasn’t entirely sure of my next move, but thankfully Bernard stepped in with an inspirational reply. ‘I think the Minister means a hypothetical backbencher,’ he said. Good old Bernard.

Hughes said that it was highly improbable that such a question would be asked.

I ignored that, and explained that if the question were to be asked, there were only two possible replies: if the PM says yes it would be damaging to the government in the country — but if the PM says no it would be even more damaging to the government in Europe. And to the PM personally — in view of the Napoleon Prize.

Hughes nodded, and waited. So I continued. ‘Suppose a hypothetical Minister got wind of this hypothetical backbencher’s question, in advance, what should he do?’

‘The only responsible course for a loyal minister,’ he said carefully, ‘would be to see that the question was not tabled. That must be obvious.’

‘It’s a serious business trying to suppress an MP’s question,’ I said. Of course, he and I both knew that, as yet, there was no question and no such backbencher — but that there could be, if I chose to set it up.

‘The only way to stop him,’ I offered, ‘might be to let the backbencher table a question asking the PM to squash rumours about the closure of the Department of Administrative Affairs.’

There it was. My offer of a deal. Out in the open. Hughes paused to consider, just for a few moments, in case he could see a way out. But there was none.

And, to his credit, he handled it superbly. At once out came all the appropriate phrases: ‘But I’m sure… whatever made you think?… no question of anything but the fullest support…’ etc.

Then Humphrey, who’d got the idea at last, moved in for the kill. ‘But you said only a few days ago that the plan to abolish the Department had been put up and the PM was smiling on it.’

‘Smiling at it,’ said Donald Hughes smoothly. ‘Smiling at it, not on it. The idea was ridiculous, laughable, out of the question. A joke.’ Beautifully done — I take my hat off to him.

So I asked him for a minute from the PM’s office, to be circulated to all departments within twenty-four hours, scotching the rumour. So that we could all share the joke.

‘Do you really think it’s necessary?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ replied Humphrey, Bernard, Frank, Martin and I. In unison.

Hughes said that in that case, he was sure it could be arranged, that it would be a pleasure, how much he’d enjoyed chatting to us all, excused himself and left. Presumably he hurried straight to Number Ten.

Game, set and match. One of my most brilliant performances. I am exceedingly pleased with myself.

Bernard asked, after Donald Hughes had gone, if Hughes can really fix it for us. ‘Don’t Prime Ministers have a mind of their own?’ he asked.

‘Certainly,’ I said to Bernard. ‘But in the words of Chuck Colson, President Nixon’s henchman, when you’ve got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow.’

6 The Right to Know

February 9th