The Complete Yes Minister

12 The Devil You Know

July 1st

The EEC is really intolerably difficult to deal with. For months I have been working with the DAA to get the whole of the Civil Service to place one big central order for word-processing machines. This would replace the present nonsensical practice of every separate department in Whitehall ordering all different sorts of word-processors in dribs and drabs.

If we at the DAA placed one big central order for everyone, the sum of money would be so large it would enable UK manufacturers to make the right sort of investment in systems development.

For days now, we have been on the verge of success. Months of patient negotiations were about to pay off. I was all ready to make a major press announcement: I could see the headlines: HACKER’S MASSIVE INVESTMENT IN MODERN TECHNOLOGY. JIM’S VOTE OF CONFIDENCE IN BRITISH INDUSTRY. BRITAIN CAN MAKE IT, SAYS JIM.

And then, this morning, we got another bloody directive from the bloody EEC in bloody Brussels, saying that all EEC members must work to some niggling European word-processing standards. And therefore, we must postpone everything in order to agree plans with a whole mass of European Word Processing Committees at the forthcoming European Word Processing Conference in Brussels.

I called a meeting to discuss all this. I went through the whole story so far, and Sir Humphrey and Bernard just sat there saying, ‘Yes Minister,’ and ‘Quite so Minister,’ at regular intervals. Some help.

Finally, I got tired of the sound of my own voice. [Was this a first? — Ed.] I demanded that Humphrey contribute something to the discussion.

He sighed. ‘Well, Minister, I’m afraid that this is the penalty we have to pay for trying to pretend that we are Europeans. Believe me, I fully understand your hostility to Europe.’

As so often happens, Humphrey completely missed the point. I tried to explain again.

‘Humphrey,’ I said slowly and patiently, ‘I’m not like you. I am pro-Europe. I’m just anti-Brussels. You seem to be anti-Europe and pro-Brussels.’

He dodged the issue, and pretended that he had no opinions on the EEC. Duplicitous creep. ‘Minister, I am neither pro nor anti anything. I am merely a Humble Vessel into which Ministers pour the fruits of their deliberations. But it can certainly be argued that, given the absurdity of the whole European idea, Brussels is in fact doing its best to defend the indefensible and make the unworkable work.’

I told Humphrey that he was talking through his hat and that although I didn’t want to sound pompous the European ideal is our best hope of overcoming narrow national self-interest.

He told me that I didn’t sound pompous — merely inaccurate.

So I explained yet again to the Humble Vessel that Europe is a community of nations united by a common goal.

He chuckled, and I asked if Bernard and I might share the joke.

He was laughing at the idea that the community was united. ‘Look at it objectively,’ he said. ‘The game is played for national interests, and always was.’

I disagreed. I reminded him that we went into the EEC to strengthen the international brotherhood of free nations.

Humphrey chuckled again. It really was most disconcerting. Then he began to tell me his interpretation — which was even more disconcerting.

‘We went in,’ he said, ‘to screw the French by splitting them off from the Germans. The French went in to protect their inefficient farmers from commercial competition. The Germans went in to cleanse themselves of genocide and apply for readmission to the human race.’

I told Humphrey that I was quite shocked by his appalling cynicism. I couldn’t actually argue with what he said because I feel, somewhat uneasily, that there is a ring of truth about it. I said: ‘At least the little nations are in it for selfless reasons.’

‘Ah yes,’ he replied. ‘Luxembourg is in it for the perks — all that foreign money pouring into the capital of the EEC.’

‘Nonetheless, it’s a very sensible location for the capital,’ I argued.

He smiled. ‘With the administration in Brussels and the Parliament in Strasbourg?’ It’s like having London as the capital with the House of Commons in Swindon and the Civil Service in Kettering.’

‘If this were true,’ I said doggedly, ‘the other countries wouldn’t have been trying to join.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, take the Greeks.’

Sir Humphrey settled back reflectively in his chair. ‘Actually,’ he mused, ‘I find it difficult to take the Greeks. Open-minded as I am about foreigners, as well you know.’ (His total lack of self-awareness took my breath away!) ‘But what will the Greeks want out of it? — an olive mountain and a retsina lake.’ He looked at my face, and added apologetically: ‘Sorry, I suppose some of your best friends are Greek.’

I could stand no more of this cynical rubbish. I tried to broaden the discussion, to look at the real problems of the community.

‘The trouble with Brussels,’ I began, ‘is not internationalism. It’s too much bureaucracy.’

I got no further. Humphrey interrupted me again.

‘But don’t you see,’ he insisted, ‘that the bureaucracy is a consequence of the internationalism? Why else would an English Commissioner have a French Director-General immediately below him, an Italian Chef-du-Division reporting to the Frenchman, and so on down the line?’

I was forced to agree. ‘I agree,’ I said.

‘It’s the Tower of Babel,’ he said.

I was forced to agree again.

‘I agree,’ I said.

‘In fact, it’s even worse than that — it’s like the United Nations,’ he added.

I could not but agree for the third time. ‘I agree,’ I said.

We both stopped talking and gazed at each other. Where had we reached? What had we decided? What next?

Bernard tried to help out. ‘Then, perhaps, if I may interject, perhaps you are in fact in agreement.’

‘No we’re not!’ we said, in unison.

That much was certain!

‘Brussels is a shambles,’ I said, pursuing my theme of how the bureaucracy destroys the bonds between nations. I reminded Humphrey that the typical Common Market official is said to have the organising capacity of the Italians, the flexibility of the Germans and the modesty of the French. He tops all that up with the imagination of the Belgians, the generosity of the Dutch, and the intelligence of the Irish. Finally, for good measure, he has the European spirit of Mr Anthony Wedgwood Benn.[30]

‘And now,’ I concluded, ‘they are all trying to screw up our excellent word-processing plan which is wholly in Britain’s interest and my interest.’

‘Which are, of course,’ added Humphrey, ‘one and the same thing.’

I stared at him, and enquired if he was being sarcastic. He denied it. I accepted his denial (though doubtfully) and continued to explore my theory of what’s wrong with Brussels.

‘The reason that Brussels bureaucrats are so hopeless is not just because of the difficulty of running an international organisation — it’s because it’s a gravy train.’

‘A what?’ asked Bernard.

‘A gravy train,’ I repeated, warming to my theme. ‘They all live off claret and caviar. Crates of booze in every office. Air-conditioned Mercedes and private planes. Every one of those bureaucrats has got his snout in the trough and most of them have got their front trotters in as well.’

Humphrey, as always, sprang to the defence of the bureaucrats. ‘I beg to differ, Minister,’ he said reproachfully. ‘Brussels is full of hard-working public servants who have to endure a lot of exhausting travel and tedious entertainment.’

Terribly tedious, I thought to myself, working through all that smoked salmon and forcing down all that champagne.

‘And in any case, Minister,’ continued Humphrey, ‘you’re blaming the wrong people.’

What was he talking about? I’d lost track.

‘I understand,’ he went on, ‘that it was one of your Cabinet colleagues who gave Brussels early warning of your plan for the bulk-buying of word-processors, which is why they have brought this directive out so quickly.’

No wonder I’d lost track. He’d gone back to the point of our conversation. He really is a confusing man to talk to.

And that was it, was it? Betrayed again! By a Cabinet colleague!

[Who else? — Ed.] No prizes for guessing who it was — Basil Corbett! Bloody Basil Corbett! When I think about Basil Corbett I really warm to Judas Iscariot. [Basil Corbett was another tall, patrician, lisping politician with staring eyes, usually seen smoking a pipe so that people would feel he was ‘sound’ — Ed.]

‘Corbett?’ I asked, though I knew.

Humphrey inclined his head slightly, to indicate that it was indeed the Secretary of State for Trade and Industry who had put the boot in.

I couldn’t contain my anger. ‘He’s a treacherous, disloyal, arrogant, opinionated, publicity-seeking creep.’ Humphrey gazed at me and said nothing. I mistook his attitude. ‘I’m sorry if that sounds harsh, Humphrey,’ I added.

‘On the contrary, Minister,’ replied Humphrey, ‘compared with what his Permanent Secretary says, that ranks as a generous tribute.’

I wonder why Corbett did this to me — ah well, time will tell, no doubt.

July 2nd

I didn’t have to wait long for the answer. Today’s Standard contained significant and potentially worrying news.

Basil Corbett again. Every time that man comes anywhere near me I get a sharp stabbing pain in the back.

And how come I didn’t know about this impending reshuffle? How did they know? I asked Humphrey if it was true.

He was evasive, of course. ‘Minister, I am only a humble civil servant. I do not move in such exalted circles as Cabinet Ministers and journalists.’

I persisted. ‘Is this rumour true?’

‘Yes.’

A straight answer! I was somewhat taken aback. ‘How do you know,’ I asked, ‘if you don’t move in such exalted circles?’

‘I mean,’ he explained, ‘it is true that it is rumoured.’

I was worried and anxious. I still am. A reshuffle. This is full of all sorts of implications. I have hardly started on all the things that I planned to do when I got the DAA.

I started to explain this to Humphrey, who pointed out that I may not be moved in a reshuffle. I think he meant to be reassuring, but perhaps he was trying to tell me that my career is not moving forward — which it ought to be.

I asked him if that’s what he meant. Again he was evasive. ‘At least it wouldn’t be moving backwards,’ he said.

Backwards? I’d never even considered moving backwards! Perhaps he wasn’t being evasive after all.

‘Look,’ I ventured cautiously. ‘Tell me. I mean, I’m doing all right, aren’t I?’

‘Yes indeed, Minister,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You’re doing all right.’

I couldn’t quarrel with his words — well, my words, really! — but there seemed to be an air of doubt in his delivery of them.

So I turned to Bernard and said, more positively: ‘We’re doing all right, aren’t we Bernard?’

‘Yes Minister.’

That was all. No other words of encouragement seemed to be forthcoming.

I felt I had to justify myself. God knows why! ‘Yes’ I said. ‘Yes. I mean, perhaps I’m not the outstanding success of the government, but I’m not a failure, am I?’

‘No Minister,’ said Bernard, a shade dutifully, I thought. I waited. I was damned if I was going to ask for any compliments. Eventually Bernard said, ‘Um — you’re doing… all right.’

But did he mean it?

And if so, what did he mean?

I seemed to be in the throes of an attack of verbal diarrhoea. ‘After all,’ I said, ‘in some ways I’ve been rather successful. And if Martin goes to the Treasury there’s an outside chance I might get the Foreign Office.’

I paused. Nobody spoke. After an eternity Humphrey said, with unmistakable doubt this time, ‘Perhaps you might.’

‘You don’t sound very certain,’ I accused him.

To his credit he stuck up for himself. ‘I’m not certain, Minister,’ he replied, looking me straight in the eye.

I panicked. ‘Why not? What have you heard?’

He remained as unperturbed as ever. ‘Nothing, Minister, I assure you. That’s why I’m not certain.’

I picked up the offending newspaper, stared at it again, and cast it down to the floor.

‘Well,’ I asked bitterly, ‘how does Bob Carver in the Standard know all about this reshuffle, if we don’t?’

‘Perhaps,’ speculated Humphrey, ‘he has the PM’s ear.’

That’s the obvious answer — I was forced to agree. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Everyone knows that he’s in the PM’s pocket.’

Bernard perked up. ‘Then the PM must have a rather large ear,’ he said.

I gave him another withering glance.

I decided not to worry about it any further. I will say no more about it.

It’s pointless to worry about it. There’s nothing to worry about, anyway.

Yet.

So I briefly discussed the Word Processing Conference in Brussels. Humphrey wants us to go. But it might be before the reshuffle.

I asked Humphrey if he knew when the reshuffle would be. After all, it considerably affects the plans I might want to make.

Humphrey’s reply was as little help as usual. Something like: ‘I’m not privy to the Prime Minister’s plans for the projected reshuffle, if indeed there is to be a reshuffle, and I am therefore unaware of any projected date, if indeed there is such a date, and so I think you must proceed on the assumption that the reshuffle will not have happened and make plans for you or your successor accordingly, if indeed you are to have a successor, which of course you may not.’

I decided to decline the invitation. Just in case. I’ve seen this happen before. This is no time to go on an idiotic foreign junket. One day you’re out of your office, the next day you’re out of office.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[31]

I well remember that rather tense discussion. Hacker told us no less than six or seven times that he would not worry about the reshuffle, that it was pointless to worry about it and the matter was closed.

Then he bit his fingernails a lot.

As he left the office on the way to the Commons, I advised him not to let the reshuffle prey on his mind.

He was most indignant. ‘It’s not preying on my mind,’ he said. ‘I’ve stopped thinking about it.’

And as he left he stopped, turned to me and said: ‘Bernard, I’ll see you at six o’clock in the House of Shuffles — er, Cards — er, Commons.’

[During the following week a meeting took place at the Athenaeum Club between Sir Humphrey Appleby, Sir Arnold Robinson (the Cabinet Secretary) and — joining them later — Bernard Woolley. Sir Humphrey wrote a memo, which we found in the DAA Personnel Files at Walthamstow — Ed.]

Had a meeting with Arnold, who claimed he was unable to give me any details about the impending reshuffle. He said he was merely Cabinet Secretary, not the Political Editor of the New Standard.

However, he revealed that Brussels have asked if Hacker would be available for the next Commissionership. It seems it’s his if he wants it. A good European and all that.

B.W. [Bernard Woolley — Ed.] joined us for coffee. Arnold asked how he felt about having a new Minister. To my astonishment, B.W. said he would be sorry.

Of course, Private Secretaries often feel a certain loyalty to their Ministers, but these feelings must be kept strictly under control. Admitting these sentiments to Sir Arnold is not good for B.W.’s career.

Then, compounding his error, he said that we would all miss Hacker because he was beginning to get a grip on the job.

I sent him home at once.

Subsequently I explained, in confidence, the following essential points on the subject of reshuffles. I told him to commit them to memory.

1) Ministers with a grip on the job are a nuisance because:

(a) they argue

(b) they start to learn the facts

(c) they ask if you have carried out instructions they gave you six months ago

(d) if you tell them something is impossible, they may dig out an old submission in which you said it was easy

2) When Ministers have gone, we can wipe the slate clean and start again with a new boy

3) Prime Ministers like reshuffles — keeps everyone on the hop

4) Ministers are the only people who are frightened of them

B.W. suggested that it would be interesting if Ministers were fixed and Permanent Secretaries were shuffled around. I think he only does it to annoy. He must realise that such a plan strikes at the very heart of the system that has made Britain what she is today.

Just to be safe I instructed B.W. to memorise the following three points:

Power goes with permanence

Impermanence is impotence

Rotation is castration

Talking of which, I think that perhaps Bernard should be given a new posting before too long.

[The following day, Sir Humphrey received a crucial piece of information in a note from Sir Arnold — Ed.]

[Hacker was naturally in complete ignorance of the above information. His diaries continue below — Ed.]

July 9th

Still no news of the reshuffle.

I’ve been sitting up till late, doing my boxes. Three of them, tonight.

The papers were still full of rumours about the reshuffle. Annie asked me tonight if they’re true.

I told her I didn’t know.

She was surprised. She thought I was bound to know, as I’m in the Cabinet. But that’s the whole point — we’ll be the last to know.

Annie suggested I ask the PM. But obviously I can’t — it would make me look as though I were insecure.

The trouble is, I don’t know whether it’ll be good news. I explained this to Annie. ‘I don’t know whether I’ll be going up or down.’

‘Or just round and round, as usual,’ she said.

I asked her if, quite seriously, she thought I’d been a success. Or a failure.

She said: ‘I think you’ve done all right.’

‘But is that good enough?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Is it?’

‘I don’t know,’ I replied. ‘Is it?’

We sat and looked at each other. It’s so hard to tell. I had a sudden thought.

‘Perhaps the PM might think I’m becoming too successful. A possible challenge to the leadership.’

Annie looked up from her book, and blinked. ‘You?’ she asked.

I hadn’t actually meant me, as such, though I wasn’t all that pleased that she was so surprised.

‘No,’ I explained, ‘Martin. But with my support. So if the PM is trying to repel boarders and if Martin can’t be got rid of safely, which he can’t, not the Foreign Secretary, then… I’m the obvious one to be demoted. Do you see? Isolate Martin.’

She asked where I could be sent. ‘That’s easy. Lord President, Lord Privy Seal, Minister for the Arts, Minister for Sport in charge of Floods and Droughts — there’s no shortage of useless non-jobs. And Basil Corbett is out to get me,’ I reminded Annie.

‘He’s out to get everyone,’ she pointed out. That’s true.

‘He’s a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep,’ I said, trying to be fair.

She was puzzled. ‘How is he so successful?’

‘Because,’ I explained, ‘he’s a smooth-tongued, cold-eyed, hard-nosed, two-faced creep.’

Also he’s got a good television manner, a lot of grassroots party support (though all the MPs hate him), and he has somehow conned the public into believing he’s sincere.

His biggest and best weapon is elbows. I’ve got to elbow Corbett out of the way, or else he’ll elbow me. I explained to Annie that elbows are the most important weapon in a politician’s armoury.

‘Other than integrity,’ she said.

I’m afraid I laughed till I cried. Tears rolled down my face. It took me five minutes to get my breath back — what made it even funnier was Annie staring at me, uncomprehending, as if I’d gone mad.

I didn’t really get my breath back till the phone rang. To my enormous surprise it was Gaston Larousse — from Brussels.

‘Good evening, Commissionaire,’ I said. Perhaps I should have just said Commissioner.

He was calling me to enquire if I’d let my name go forward as a commissioner of the EEC. I told him I was honoured, that I’d have to think about it, thanked him for thinking of me, etc. I asked him if Number Ten knew about it. He was evasive, but eventually said yes.

[Notes of this phone call discovered many years later among Gaston Larousse’s papers suggest that he was not intentionally evasive. Hacker, presumably in an attempt to show that he was a linguist, enquired if Numéro Dix knew about the offer. Larousse did not initially equate Numéro Dix with Number Ten Downing Street — Ed.]

What does this mean?

I discussed it with Annie. Obviously, it would mean living in Brussels, as she pointed out.

But what does it mean? Really mean? Is it a plot by Number Ten to ease me out? Or is it a coincidence? Is it a hint? Is the PM giving me a face-saving exit? If so, why hasn’t Number Ten told me? Or is it nothing to do with the PM? Was the vacancy coming up anyway? And it’s a great honour — isn’t it? Why is my life always so full of unanswerable questions?

Then Annie thought of yet another question. ‘Is it a good job?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s a terrible job. It would be curtains for me as far as British politics is concerned. Worse than getting a peerage. Complete failure. You’re reduced to forming a new party to try and get back.’

Annie asked what the job involved.

I began to list it all. ‘Well,’ I told her, ‘you’re right in the heart of that ghastly European bureaucracy. It’s one big gravy train: fifty thousand a year salary, twenty thousand pounds expense account. All champagne and lobsters. Banquets. Overseas visits. Luxury hotels. Limousines and chauffeurs and private aircraft and siestas after lunch and weekends on the beach at Knokke-le-Zoute…’ I suddenly realised what I was saying. It’s strange how you can talk and talk and not hear yourself — not hear the implications of what you’re saying.

‘Perhaps,’ I finished, ‘we should go over there and have a look.’

Annie looked hopeful. ‘Why not?’ she said. ‘Sometimes I think we deserve a bit of failure.’

July 12th

Had an interesting conversation with Roy[32] this morning. Of course, he knew all about the reshuffle.

I assumed he’d read it in the Standard like me — but no, he first heard of it a couple of weeks ago. (Why didn’t he tell me? He knows that I rely on him to keep me fully informed.)

But it seems he assumed I knew. All the drivers knew. They knew it from the PM’s driver and the Cabinet Secretary’s driver — apparently it’s been an open secret.

Casually, I asked him what he’d heard — trying thereby to suggest that I had also heard things. Which I haven’t, of course.

‘Just the usual, sir,’ he replied. ‘Corbett’s in line for promotion, the PM can’t overlook him. And apparently old Fred — sorry guv, I mean the Employment Secretary — he’s going to get the push. Kicked upstairs.’

He seemed utterly confident about this. I asked him how he knew.

‘His driver’s been reassigned.’

‘And what’s the gossip about me?’

‘Nothing, sir.’

Nothing! Was he telling the truth? There must be some gossip about me. I’m in the bloody Cabinet, for God’s sake.

‘Funny, isn’t it?’ said Roy. ‘My mates and I haven’t known what to make of that.’ He gave me a sly look in the rear-view mirror. ‘’Course, you’ll know what’s happening to you, won’t you sir?’

He knew bloody well I’ve not the faintest idea. Or else he was trying to find out. More information to barter in the transport pool.

‘Yes, of course,’ I replied, vaguely. I should have left it at that, but it was like picking at a scab. ‘’Course, it’s hard to tell about oneself sometimes — you know, whether one’s a success, or…’ He didn’t come to the rescue. I tried again. ‘Do your mates, er…’

He interrupted me, somewhat patronisingly.

‘They all think you’ve done all right, sir.’

Again!

July 14th

Yesterday was full of meetings. Cabinet, Cabinet Committee, three-line whip in the house — I got very little time with Bernard. Not enough for a real conversation.

But Bernard’s always given me loyal support, he’s a bright fellow, and I decided to seek his advice.

I told him, over a cup of tea this afternoon, that I’m in a bit of a quandary.

‘There’s this reshuffle on the cards,’ I began.

He chuckled. I couldn’t see why. Then he apologised. ‘I’m so sorry, Minister, I thought you were making a… do go on.’

‘To complicate matters, and I tell you this in complete confidence, Bernard, I’ve been approached about becoming one of Britain’s EEC Commissioners in Brussels.’

‘How very nice,’ said Bernard. ‘It’s always a help to have an ace up one’s sleeve in a shuffle.’

‘But is it nice?’ I seized upon his reply. ‘That’s my dilemma.’ He said nothing. I asked him if he really thought that, as Minister at the DAA, I’d done all right.

I suppose I was hoping for high praise. ‘Superbly’ would have been a nice answer. As it was, Bernard nodded and said, ‘Yes, you’ve done all right.’

It seems that no one is prepared to commit themselves further than that on the subject of my performance. It really is rather discouraging. And it’s not my fault I’ve not been a glittering success, Humphrey has blocked me on so many issues, he’s never really been on my side. ‘Look, let’s be honest,’ I said to Bernard. ‘All right isn’t good enough, is it?’

‘Well… it’s all right,’ he replied carefully.

So I asked him if he’d heard any rumours on the grapevine. About me.

He replied, ‘Nothing, really.’ And then he added: ‘Only that the British Commissioner in Europe sent a telegram to the FCO [Foreign and Commonwealth Office — Ed.] and to the Cabinet Committee on Europe, that the idea for you to be a Commissioner came from Brussels but that it is — at the end of the day — a Prime Ministerial appointment. The Prime Minister has in fact discussed it extensively with the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs and the Secretary to the Cabinet, and cleared the way for you to be sounded out on the subject. As it is believed at Number Ten that you might well accept such an honour, a colleague of yours has been sounded out about becoming our Minister here at the DAA.’ He paused, then added apologetically, ‘I’m afraid that’s all I know.’

‘No more than that?’ I asked with heavy irony.

I then asked which colleague had been sounded out to replace me at the DAA. Bernard didn’t know.

But I was really getting nowhere with my basic problem. Which is, if I don’t go to Europe will I be pushed up, or down — or out!

July 15th

Rumours suggest that the reshuffle is imminent. The papers are full of it. Still no mention of me, which means the lobby correspondents have been told nothing one way or the other.

It’s all very nerve-racking. I’m quite unable to think about any of my ministerial duties. I’m becoming obsessed with my future — or lack of it. And I must decide soon whether to accept or decline Europe.

I had a meeting with Sir Humphrey today. It was supposed to be on the subject of the Word Processing Conference in Brussels.

I opened it up by telling Humphrey that I’d changed my mind. ‘I’ve decided to go to Brussels,’ I said. I meant go and have a look, as I’d arranged with Annie. But Humphrey misunderstood me.

‘You’re not resigning from the Department of Administrative Affairs?’ he asked. He seemed shocked. I was rather pleased. Perhaps he has a higher opinion of me than I realised.

I put him out of his misery. ‘Certainly not. I’m talking about this Word Processing Conference.’

He visibly relaxed. Then I added, ‘But I would like to see Brussels for myself.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Why not?’ I asked him.

‘Why not indeed?’ he asked me. ‘But why?’

I told him I was curious. He agreed.

Then I told him, preparing the ground for my possible permanent departure across the Channel, that I felt on reflection that I’d been a bit hasty in my criticisms of Brussels and that I’d found Humphrey’s defence of it thoroughly convincing.

This didn’t please him as much as I’d expected. He told me that he had been reflecting on my views, that he had found much truth and wisdom in my criticism of Brussels. (Was this Humphrey speaking? I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.)

‘You implied it was corrupt, and indeed you have opened my eyes,’ he said.

‘No, no, no,’ I said hastily.

‘Yes, yes,’ he replied firmly.

I couldn’t allow Humphrey to think that I’d said it was corrupt. I had said it, actually, but now I’m not so sure. [We are not sure whether Hacker was not sure that he wanted to be quoted or not sure that Brussels was corrupt — Ed.] I told Humphrey that he had persuaded me. I can now see, quite clearly, that Brussels is full of dedicated men carrying a heavy burden of travel and entertainment — they need all that luxury and the odd drinkie.

‘Champagne and caviar?’ enquired Sir Humphrey. ‘Private planes, air-conditioned Mercedes?’

I reminded Humphrey that these little luxuries oil the diplomatic wheels.

‘Snouts in the trough,’ remarked Humphrey, to no one in particular.

I reproved him. ‘That is not an attractive phrase,’ I said coldly.

‘I’m so sorry’, he said. ‘I can’t think where I picked it up.’

I drew the discussion to a close by stating that we would all go to Brussels next week to attend this conference, as he had originally requested.

As he got up to leave, Humphrey asked me if my change of heart about Brussels was entirely the result of his arguments.

Naturally, I told him yes.

He didn’t believe me. ‘It wouldn’t be anything to do with rumours of your being offered a post in Brussels?’

I couldn’t let him know that he was right. ‘The thought is not worthy of you, Humphrey,’ I said. And, thinking of Annie and trying not to laugh, I added solemnly: ‘There is such a thing as integrity.’

Humphrey looked confused.

[Later that day Sir Humphrey had lunch with Sir Arnold Robinson, Secretary to the Cabinet, at their club. He made the following note in his private diary — Ed.]

I told Arnold that I was most concerned about letting Corbett loose on the DAA. I would regard it as a disaster of the utmost magnitude.

Arnold said that he was unable to stop the move. The Prime Minister appoints the Cabinet. I refused to accept this explanation — we all know perfectly well that the Cabinet Secretary arranges reshuffles. I said as much.

Arnold acknowledged this fact but insisted that, if the PM is really set on making a particular appointment, the Cabinet Secretary must reluctantly acquiesce.

I remain convinced that Arnold keeps a hand on the tiller.

[The matter rested there until Sir Humphrey Appleby received a memo from Sir Arnold Robinson, see below — Ed.]

A memo from Sir Arnold Robinson to Sir Humphrey Appleby:

A reply from Sir Humphrey Appleby:

A reply from Sir Arnold:

A reply from Sir Humphrey:

A reply from Sir Arnold:

July 22nd

I was still paralysed with indecision as today began.

At my morning meeting with Humphrey I asked if he had any news. He denied it. I know he had lunch with the Cabinet Secretary one day last week — is it conceivable that Arnold Robinson told him nothing?

‘You must know something?’ I said firmly.

Slight pause.

‘All I know, Minister, is that the reshuffle will definitely be announced on Monday. Have you any news?’

I couldn’t think what he meant.

‘Of Brussels,’ he added. ‘Are you accepting the Commissionership?’

I tried to explain my ambivalence. ‘Speaking with my Parliamentary hat on, I think it would be a bad idea. On the other hand, with my Cabinet hat on, I can see that it might be quite a good idea. But there again, with my European hat on, I can see that there are arguments on both sides.’

I couldn’t believe the rubbish I could hear myself talking. Humphrey and Bernard might well have wondered which hat I was talking through at the moment.

They simply gazed at me, silent and baffled.

Humphrey then sought elucidation.

‘Minister, does that mean you have decided you want to go to Brussels?’

‘Well…’ I replied, ‘yes and no.’

I found that I was enjoying myself for the first time for days.

Humphrey tried to help me clarify my mind.

He asked me to list the pros and cons.

This threw me into instant confusion again. I told him I didn’t really know what I think, thought, because — and I don’t know if I’d mentioned this to Humphrey before, I think I might have — it all rather depends on whether or not I’ve done all right. So I asked Humphrey how he thought I’d done.

Humphrey said he thought I’d done all right.

So I was no further on. I’m going round and round in circles. If I’ve done all right, I mean really all right, then I’ll stay because I’ll be all right. But if I’ve only done all right, I mean only just all right, then I think to stay here wouldn’t be right — it would be wrong, right?

Humphrey then appeared to make a positive suggestion. ‘Minister,’ he volunteered, ‘I think that, to be on the safe side, you need a big personal success.’

Great, I thought! Yes indeed.

‘A triumph, in fact,’ said Humphrey.

‘Like what?’ I asked.

‘I mean,’ said Humphrey, ‘some great personal publicity for a great personal and political achievement.’

I was getting rather excited. I waited expectantly. But suddenly Humphrey fell silent.

‘Well…’ I repeated, ‘what have you in mind?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I’m trying to think of something.’

That was a great help!

I asked what the purpose would be of this hypothetical triumph. He told me that Sir Arnold indicated that the PM would be unable to move me downwards if I had a triumph before the reshuffle.

That’s obvious. What’s even more worrying is the implication that there was no possibility of the PM moving me upwards.

I mentioned this. Humphrey replied that, alas! one must be a realist. I don’t think he realised just how insulting he was being.

I told Humphrey I’d take Brussels, and brought the meeting to a close. I decided I’d call Brussels tonight and accept the post, and thus avoid the humiliation of being demoted in the Cabinet by pre-empting the PM.

I told Humphrey he could go, and instructed Bernard to bring me details of the European Word Processing standardisation plans, to which I would now be fully committed.

Then Humphrey had an idea.

He stood up, excitedly.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said, ‘I have an idea. Supposing you were to ignore the EEC and publish your own plan for word-processing equipment, and place huge contracts with British manufacturers, immediately, today, tomorrow, well before Monday, thus ensuring more jobs in Britain, more investment, more export orders…’

He looked at me.

I tried to readjust my thoughts. Weren’t we back at square one? This is what I’d been about to do before we got the directive from Brussels a couple of weeks ago. And Humphrey had told me that we had to comply with a Brussels directive.

‘It’s not a directive,’ he now explained. ‘It hasn’t been ratified by the Conference. It’s a request.’

I wondered, aloud, if we could really stab our partners in the back, and spit in their faces.

Bernard intervened. ‘You can’t stab anyone in the back while you spit in their face.’ I suppose he was trying to be helpful.

The more I thought about it, the more I realised that Humphrey’s scheme had a touch of real genius about it. Defying Brussels would be very popular in the country. It would be a big story. And it would prove that I had elbows.

I told Humphrey that it was a good idea.

‘You’ll do it?’ he asked.

I didn’t want to be rushed. ‘Let me think about it,’ I said. ‘After all, it would mean giving up…’ I didn’t know how to put it.

‘The trough?’ he offered.

‘No, that’s not what I meant,’ I replied coldly, though actually it was what I meant.

He knew it was anyway, because he said: ‘When it comes to it, Minister, one must put one’s country first.’

On the whole, I suppose I agree with that.

July 23rd

My repudiation of the EEC request had indeed proved to be a big story. A triumph, in fact. Especially as I accompanied it with a rather jingoistic anti-Brussels speech. The popular press loved it, but I’m afraid that I’ve irrevocably burned my boats — I don’t think I’ll be offered a Commissionership again in a hurry.

Let’s hope it does the trick.

July 26th

The reshuffle was announced today. Fred was indeed kicked upstairs, Basil Corbett went to Employment, and I stayed where I am — at the DAA.

Humphrey popped in first thing, and told me how delighted he was that I was staying.

‘I know I probably shouldn’t say this, but I personally would have been deeply sorry to lose you.’ He told me that he meant it most sincerely.

‘Yes,’ I said benignly, ‘we’ve grown quite fond of each other really, haven’t we, like a terrorist and a hostage.’

He nodded.

‘Which of you is the terrorist?’ asked Bernard.

‘He is,’ Humphrey and I said in unison, each pointing at the other.

Then we all laughed.

‘By the way,’ I asked, ‘who would have had my job if I’d gone to Brussels?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Humphrey.

But Bernard said: ‘Didn’t you tell me it was to be Basil Corbett, Sir Humphrey?’

A bucket of cold water had been thrown over our temporary spirit of bonhomie. Humphrey looked more embarrassed than I’ve ever seen him. No wonder he would have been so sorry to lose me.

I looked at him for confirmation.

‘Basil Corbett?’ I asked.

‘Yes Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. And he blushed.

³ Basil Corbett.