The Complete Yes Minister

14 A Question of Loyalty

September 27th

I’m due to go to Washington tomorrow for an official visit. I should have thought that it wasn’t strictly necessary for me to be away for a whole week but Sir Humphrey insists that it’s of enormous value if I stay there for an appreciable time so as to get the maximum diplomatic benefit from it all.

I’m to address a conference on administration. One of the Assistant Secretaries, Peter Wilkinson, has written me an excellent speech. It contains phrases like ‘British Government Administration is a model of loyalty, integrity and efficiency. There is a ruthless war on waste. We are cutting bureaucracy to the bone. A lesson that Britain can teach the world.’ Good dynamic stuff.

However, I asked Humphrey yesterday if we could prove that all of this is true. He replied that a good speech isn’t one where we can prove that we’re telling the truth — it’s one where nobody else can prove we’re lying.

Good thinking!

I hope the speech is fully reported in the London papers.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[36]

I well remember that Sir Humphrey Appleby was extremely keen for Hacker to go off on some official junket somewhere. Anywhere.

He felt that Hacker was beginning to get too much of a grip on the job. This pleased me because it made my job easier, but caused great anxiety to Sir Humphrey.

I was actually rather sorry to have missed the Washington junket, but Sir Humphrey had insisted that Hacker take one of the Assistant Private Secretaries, who needed to be given some experience of responsibility.

When he’d been away for five or six days I was summoned to Sir Humphrey’s office. He asked me how I was enjoying having my Minister out of the office for a week, and I — rather naïvely — remarked that it made things a little difficult.

It was instantly clear that I had blotted my copybook. That afternoon I received a memo in Sir Humphrey’s handwriting, informing me of the benefits of ministerial absence and asking me to commit them to memory.

[Fortunately Sir Bernard kept this memo among his personal papers, and we reproduce it here, written on Sir Humphrey’s margin-shaped notepaper — Ed.]

Bernard

A Minister’s absence is desirable because it enables you to do the job properly.

(i) No silly questions

(ii) No bright ideas

(iii) No fussing about what the papers are saying.

One week’s absence, plus briefing beforehand and debriefing and catching up on the backlog on his return, means that he can be kept out of the Department’s hair for virtually a fortnight

Furthermore, a Minister’s absence is the best cover for not informing the Minister when it is not desirable to do so — and for the next six months, if he complains of not having been informed about something, tell him it came up while he was away

[Sir Bernard continued — Ed.]

Anyway, the reason behind the increasing number of summit conferences that took place during the 1970s and 1980s was that the Civil Service felt that this was the only way that the country worked. Concentrate all the power at Number Ten and then send the Prime Minister away — to EEC summits, NATO summits, Commonwealth summits, anywhere! Then the Cabinet Secretary could get on with the task of running the country properly.

At the same meeting we discussed the speech that Peter had written for the Minister to deliver in Washington.

I suggested that, although Peter was a frightfully good chap and had probably done a frightfully good job on it in one way, there was a danger that the speech might prove frightfully boring for the audience.

Sir Humphrey agreed instantly. He thought that it would bore the pants off the audience, and it must have been ghastly to have to sit through it.

Nonetheless, he explained to me that it was an excellent speech. I learned that speeches are not written for the audience to which they are delivered. Delivering the speech is merely the formality that has to be gone through in order to get the press release into the newspapers.

‘We can’t worry about entertaining people,’ he explained to me. ‘We’re not scriptwriters for a comedian — well, not a professional comedian, anyway.’

He emphasised that the value of the speech was that it said the correct things. In public. Once that speech has been reported in print, the Minister is committed to defending the Civil Service in front of Select Committees.

I sprang to the Minister’s defence, and said that he defends us anyway. Sir Humphrey looked at me with pity and remarked that he certainly does so when it suits him — but, when things go wrong, a Minister’s first instinct is to rat on his department.

Therefore, the Civil Service when drafting a Minister’s speech is primarily concerned with making him nail his trousers to the mast. Not his colours, but his trousers — then he can’t climb down!

As always, Sir Humphrey’s reasoning proved to be correct — but, as was so often the case, he reckoned without Hacker’s gift for low cunning.

[Hacker’s diary continues — Ed.]

October 4th

I got back from Washington today. The visit was quite a success on the whole though I must say my speech didn’t exactly thrill them. I mustn’t leave speeches to the Department — they give me very worthy things to say but they’re always so bloody boring.

I’ve been met by a huge backlog of work, piles of red boxes, half a ton of cabinet papers, hundreds of memos and minutes and submissions to catch up on.

And I doubt if I can ever really catch up on it because tomorrow I go in front of a Select Committee and I’ve got to try to read the redrafted paper on Establishment levels beforehand. Not only read it, but understand it. And not only understand it, but remember it. And it’s been written by an Under-Secretary — therefore it’s not in English, but in Under-Secretaryese.

Still, at least the press did report my speech, so that’s all right.

Sir Humphrey popped in to welcome me home, and to brief me about the Select Committee.

‘You do realise the importance of this hearing, don’t you Minister?’

‘Of course I do, Humphrey. The press will be there,’ I explained.

[Like many politicians, Hacker did not seem to believe in his own existence unless he was reading about himself in the newspapers — Ed.]

‘It’s not just a question of the press,’ he said. ‘This is a scrutiny of the Department’s future operation. If we were to emerge from the hearing as extravagant or incompetent…’

I interrupted him with a penetrating question. ‘Are we extravagant or incompetent?’

‘Of course not,’ he replied with considerable indignation. ‘But there are hostile MPs on the Committee. Especially the member for Derbyshire East.’

I hadn’t realised that Betty Oldham was on the Committee.

Humphrey handed me a thick folder full of papers, with red and yellow and blue tags. ‘I urge you to master this brief, Minister,’ he said, and told me to ask if I found any problems.

I was fed up. I’m tired and jet-lagged today. I told him that I didn’t want another brief on the Select Committee, I only just mastered one on the plane.

‘What was in it?’ he asked.

That was a bit embarrassing. I couldn’t quite remember. I explained that it’s rather hard to concentrate on the plane, as they keep trying to serve you drinks and show you movies and wake you up.

‘I’m sure it’s frightfully difficult to concentrate if you keep being woken up, Minister,’ he said sympathetically. He added that this was the first and only brief containing possible questions from the Committee, all with the appropriate answers carefully presented to give the Department’s position.

‘Are they all absolutely accurate?’ I wanted to know.

‘It is carefully presented to give the Department’s position,’ he replied carefully.

‘Humphrey,’ I explained equally carefully. ‘These Select Committees are very important. I can’t be seen to mislead them.’

‘You will not be seen to mislead them.’

I wasn’t satisfied. I began to suspect that the brief was not strictly honest. I pressed him further.

‘Is it the truth?’

‘The truth and nothing but the truth,’ he assured me.

‘And the whole truth?’

‘Of course not, Minister,’ he replied with some impatience.

I was confused. ‘So we tell them we’re keeping some things secret, do we?’

He shook his head and smiled. ‘Indeed not.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

Sir Humphrey rose from his chair and announced magisterially: ‘He that would keep a secret must keep it secret that he hath a secret to keep.’ Then he left the room.

I was interested in the quotation, which struck me as rather profound. ‘Who said that?’ I asked Bernard.

Bernard looked puzzled. He stared at me, and then stared at the doorway through which Sir Humphrey had just walked.

‘It was Sir Humphrey,’ he said.

[It is significant that Hacker was not at all shocked at the suggestion that he should conceal information from the Select Committee, or indeed tell lies to it. Such lies would be regarded in government circles as white lies. There are a number of issues about which a Minister automatically tells lies, and he would be regarded as foolish or incompetent if he told the truth. For instance, he would always deny an impending devaluation, or a run on the pound. And he would always give the impression that the UK had adequate and credible defences — Ed.]

I sat at my desk feeling utterly washed out after a night with British Airways and a day with the Civil Service, and gazed at the enormous brief that I had to master in one day.

‘Why,’ I wondered aloud, ‘are Ministers never allowed to go anywhere without their briefs?’

‘It’s in case they get caught with their trousers down,’ Bernard replied rather wittily. At least, I think it was wit, but it might just have been a lucky chance.

He had kept my diary free for the whole day, so we were not interrupted. It emerged, as we went through it, that the submission that I’d read on the plane was a rehash of the report the Department produced last year. And the year before. And the year before that. Ever since 1867 probably. I pointed out to Bernard that the first sentence was enough to cure anybody of any desire to read the thing: ‘The function of the DAA is to support and service the administrative work of all government departments.’

‘Oh no,’ he said, ‘that bit’s fascinating.’

I asked him how anyone could be fascinated by it.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘if you look back to the first report in 1868, when Gladstone set up this Department’s predecessor, you find that the first sentence is, ‘The Department is responsible for the economic and efficient administration of government.’

‘Ah,’ I said, ‘is that what it was for?’

‘Yes,’ said Bernard, ‘but it proved a tough remit. They were responsible for every bit of waste and inefficiency. I suppose Gladstone meant them to be. So when it got too hot they did the usual.’

‘What is “the usual”?’ I asked.

It emerged that ‘the usual’ in Civil Service terms is to secure your budget, staff and premises and then quietly change your remit. In 1906 they changed the first sentence to ‘The Department exists to further the efficient and economic administration of Government.’ This removed the responsibility.

In 1931 they got it down to ‘The Department exists to support all government departments in their pursuit of economic and efficient administration’ which pushed the responsibility on to other departments. And by 1972 they had got rid of the embarrassing notions of economy and efficiency, and since then it has said ‘The purpose of the DAA is to support and service the administrative work of all government departments.’ The last vestige of the Department’s real purpose removed in a mere one hundred and four years, and the Department itself one hundred and six times its original size.

I now see why Bernard is fascinated, but I still could hardly stay awake to the end of paragraph one. Perhaps it was just the jet-lag. Anyway, Bernard reminded me that the press will be there tomorrow — so I had no choice but to get down to it.

October 5th

I had my first experience of being grilled by a Select Committee today and I didn’t like it one bit.

It all happens in a committee room at the House, a large gloomy Gothic room with an air of Greyfriars school about it. I was made to feel a bit like Billy Bunter caught with his hands in someone else’s tuckbox.

Along one side of a long table sit about nine MPs with the Chairman in the middle. On the Chairman’s right is the secretary, a civil servant, who takes minutes. There are a few seats for the public and the press.

I was allowed to have Bernard with me, sitting slightly behind me of course, plus Peter Wilkinson and Gillian something-or-other from the Department. (Assistant Secretaries — Ed.)

I was allowed to make an opening statement. I’d done my homework well, and I reiterated everything that Sir Humphrey said in his submission: namely that the Department of Administrative Affairs is run to a high standard of efficiency and does indeed support and service the administrative work of all government departments.

Mrs Betty Oldham began the questioning. She tossed her red hair and smiled a thin, mirthless smile. Then she asked me if I’d heard of Malcolm Rhodes.

I hadn’t. I said so.

She went on to inform me that he is an ex-Assistant Secretary from the DAA. I started to explain that as there are twenty-three thousand people working for the DAA I can hardly be expected to know them all, when she shouted me down (well, spoke over me really) and said that he was eased out, became a management consultant in America and has written a book.

She waved a pile of galley proofs at me.

‘This is an advance proof,’ she announced, with a glance at the press seats, ‘in which Mr Rhodes makes a number of astounding allegations of waste of public money in the British Civil Service, particularly your Department.’

I was stumped. I really didn’t know how to reply. I asked for a quick private word with my officials.

I turned to Bernard. ‘Do we know anything about this?’ I whispered urgently.

Peter said, ‘I didn’t know Rhodes had written a book.’

Gillian just said: ‘Oh my God, oh my God!’ That really filled me with confidence.

I asked who he was. Gillian said, ‘A troublemaker, Minister.’ Peter said he wasn’t sound, the ultimate insult.

Bernard, who clearly knew even less about him than Peter and Gillian, asked what was in the book.

‘We don’t know.’

‘Well, what do I say about it?’ I whispered hysterically, aware that time was running out.

‘Stall,’ advised Peter.

That was a big help. I’d have to say something. ‘Stall?’ I said indignantly. ‘What do you mean by it, stall?’

‘Stall, meaning avoiding answering, Minister,’ interjected Bernard. Like headless chickens in a crisis, these civil servants.

I gritted my teeth. ‘I know what stall means, Bernard.’ I was trying, not altogether successfully, to keep my temper. ‘But what do you mean by sending me out into a typhoon without even giving me an umbrella?’

‘An umbrella wouldn’t be much use in a typhoon, Minister, because the wind would get underneath and…’

The Chairman called upon me at that moment, which was just as well or Bernard might never have lived to tell the tale.

‘Have you had sufficient consultation with your officials?’ asked the Chairman.

‘More than enough,’ I replied grimly.

The Chairman nodded to Betty Oldham, who smiled and said: ‘Let me read you some of the scandalous facts that Mr Rhodes reveals.’

She then read me the following passage: ‘At No. 4 regional supply depot in Herefordshire there are two former aircraft hangars used only for stores, but which are centrally heated to 70° Fahrenheit day and night.’ [Quoted verbatim from Rhodes’s book — Ed.] ‘What have you got to say about that?’ she asked.

Naturally I had absolutely nothing to say. I pointed out that I couldn’t possibly be expected to answer that sort of detailed question without prior notice.

She conceded the point, but claimed that she was asking about a principle. ‘What I’m asking is, what conceivable reason could there be for such appalling extravagance?’

The Chairman and the Committee seemed to think I should answer. So I made a stab at it. ‘Some materials deteriorate badly at low temperatures. It would depend on what was being stored.’

I’d played right into her hands. ‘Copper wire,’ she said promptly, and smiled.

‘Well…’ I made another guess at what conceivable reason there could be. ‘Er… copper can corrode in damp conditions, can’t it?’

‘It’s plastic-coated,’ she said, and waited.

‘Plastic-coated,’ I said. ‘Ah well. Yes.’ They still seemed to want something of me. ‘Well, I’ll have it looked into,’ I offered. What else could I say?

I’d hoped that would be the end of it. But no. It was only the beginning.

‘Mr Rhodes also says that your Department insists on ordering all pens, pencils, paper-clips and so on centrally, and then distributing them against departmental requisitions.’

‘That seems very sensible to me,’ I replied cautiously, scenting a trap. ‘There are big savings on bulk purchases.’

There was a trap. ‘He demonstrates,’ she continued, ‘that this procedure is four times more expensive than if local offices went out and bought what they wanted in the High Street.’

I thought of remarking that you can prove anything with figures, but decided against it. Clearly he, and she, wouldn’t make this claim without some evidence. And my experience of the DAA suggests that Rhodes was probably absolutely right anyway. So I told her that I found this information very interesting and that I’d be happy to change the system if it were shown to be necessary. ‘We’re not a rigid bureaucracy, you know,’ I added.

This remark proved to be a tactical error. ‘Oh no?’ she enquired acidly. ‘Mr Rhodes says that he gave these figures and proposed this change when he was in your Department, and it was turned down on the grounds that people were used to the existing procedure. How’s that for a rigid bureaucracy?’

I’d led with my chin there. I really had no defence immediately available to me. Again I offered to have the matter looked into.

‘Looked into?’ she smiled at me contemptuously.

‘Looked into, yes,’ I asserted defiantly, but I was losing my nerve.

‘You did say in Washington last week that your Department conducted a ruthless war on waste and could teach the world a lesson?’ I nodded. She went for the kill. ‘How would you reconcile that with spending seventy-five thousand pounds on a roof garden on top of the supplementary benefits office in Kettering?’

I was speechless.

She asked me, with heavy sarcasm, if I proposed to have it looked into. Now I was on the ropes. I started to explain that my responsibility is for policy rather than for detailed administration (which isn’t true) and was saved by the bell in the form of Alan Hughes, a more friendly committee member [i.e. a committee member hoping for office in the government, or some other special favour — Ed.].

Alan intervened and said: ‘Mr Chairman, I think that the Permanent Secretary to the DAA is due to appear before us next week. Would he not be the appropriate person to answer these questions?’

The Chairman agreed, asked that Sir Humphrey be notified in advance. The wretched galley proofs were taken from Mrs Oldham to be shown to him.

October 6th

The headlines weren’t good today.

Humphrey and I met to discuss the matter. To my astonishment he attacked me. ‘Minister,’ he said, ‘you have placed me in a very difficult position.’

I was outraged. ‘And what about the position you put me in? Here’s the Prime Minister asking for economies right, left and centre, and I look as if I’m wasting everything that everyone else has saved.’

Humphrey looked at me as if I were mad. ‘Minister, no one else has saved anything! You should know that by now.’

I knew that, and he knew that, and he knew I knew that, but the public doesn’t know that. ‘They all look as if they have,’ I reminded him.

‘Couldn’t you have stalled a bit more effectively?’ he complained.

‘What do you mean, stalled?’ I was deeply indignant.

‘Blurred things a bit. You’re normally so good at blurring the issue.’

If this was meant to be a compliment it certainly didn’t sound like one. But apparently that’s how it was intended.

‘You have a considerable talent for making things unintelligible, Minister.’ My mouth must have dropped open, for he continued, ‘I mean it as a compliment, I assure you. Blurring issues is one of the basic ministerial skills.’

‘Pray tell me the others,’ I replied coldly.

Without hesitation he gave me a list. ‘Delaying decisions, dodging questions, juggling figures, bending facts and concealing errors.’

He’s quite right, as a matter of fact. But I didn’t see what else he could have expected me to do yesterday.

‘Couldn’t you have made it look as though you were doing something, and then done nothing? Like you usually do?’

I ignored that remark and tried to get at the facts. ‘Humphrey,’ I began, ‘if these revelations are true…’

He interrupted rapidly. ‘If. Exactly! If! You could, for instance, have discussed the nature of truth.’

Now it was my turn to explain a thing or two. ‘The Select Committee couldn’t be less interested in the nature of truth — they’re all MPs.’

‘You should have said it was a security matter,’ said Humphrey, falling back on the usual first line of defence.

Completely idiotic! I asked him how HB pencils could be a security matter.

‘It depends what you write with them,’ he offered. Pathetic. He can’t really think I’d have got away with that.

‘And why on earth are we building roof gardens on offices?’ I asked.

‘We took over the office design from an American company that was going to occupy it. It just happened that nobody noticed the roof garden on the plans.’

I simply stared at him, incredulously.

‘A tiny mistake,’ he was defiant. ‘The sort anyone could make.’

‘Tiny?’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘Tiny? Seventy-five thousand pounds. Give me an example of a big mistake.’

‘Letting people find out about it.’

Then I asked him why we are heating sheds full of wire.

‘Do you want the truth?’ he asked.

I was taken aback. It’s the first time he’s ever asked me that. ‘If it’s not too much trouble,’ I replied with magnificent condescension.

‘All the staff,’ he said, ‘use these sheds for growing mushrooms.’

I didn’t even know where to begin. So I kept it simple. ‘Stop them,’ I ordered.

He shook his head sadly, and sighed a heartfelt sigh. ‘But they’ve been doing it since 1945. It’s almost the only perk of a very boring job.’

I understand this argument, but it’s clearly untenable in public. So next I asked about Rhodes’s proposal for saving money on stationery orders. Why hadn’t we accepted it?

‘Minister,’ said Humphrey vehemently, ‘that man was a troublemaker. A crank. He had an unhealthy obsession about efficiency and economy.’

‘But why didn’t we adopt his proposal? It would have saved millions of pounds.’

‘It would have meant a lot of work to implement it.’

‘So?’

‘Taking on a lot more staff.’

This argument was manifest nonsense. I told him so. He seemed unbothered.

‘Disprove it,’ he challenged me.

‘I can’t, obviously.’

‘Exactly,’ he replied smugly.

I stared at him. I had suddenly realised what was going on. ‘You’re making all this up aren’t you?’ I said.

He smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘Why?’

He stood up.

‘As an example,’ he said in his most superior manner, ‘of how to handle a Select Committee.’

[The following week the same Select Committee met Sir Humphrey. Mrs Oldham questioned him closely on the Rhodes disclosures and proposals. The evidence taken that day is printed below — Ed.]

Mrs Betty Oldham: This is all very well, Sir Humphrey, but let’s get down to details. This heated aircraft hangar for example.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Indeed, I fully understand the Committee’s concern. But it can be very cold in Herefordshire in winter, and even civil servants cannot work in subzero temperatures.

Mrs Betty Oldham: We aren’t talking about civil servants. We are talking about coils of wire, with plastic coats to keep them warm.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, but staff are in and out all the time.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Why?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Taking deliveries, making withdrawals, checking records, security patrols, fire inspection, stock-taking and auditing, and so forth.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, they can wear gloves can’t they?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: They could. It’s a question of staff welfare policy.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, I suggest this policy is costing the taxpayer millions of pounds. (silence) Nothing to say, Sir Humphrey?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

Mrs Betty Oldham: But you advise the Minister.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: I think the Chairman is aware that I cannot disclose how I advise my Minister. The Minister is responsible for policy.

Mrs Betty Oldham: All right. So we’ll ask the Minister. Now then, what about those stationery requisition savings?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: That would have involved putting very considerable government patronage in the hands of junior staff.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Considerable government patronage? Buying a packet of paper-clips?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is government policy to exercise strict control over the number of people allowed to spend its money. I’m sure you’ll agree that this is right and proper.

Mrs Betty Oldham: But it’s plain common sense to allow people to buy their own paper-clips.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Government policy has nothing to do with common sense.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, don’t you think it’s time that the policy was changed? (silence) Well, Sir Humphrey?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

Mrs Betty Oldham: But the Minister advises us to ask you.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: And I am advising you to ask the Minister.

Mr Alan Hughes: When does this end?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: As soon as you like.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Well, let’s come to the roof garden.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: With pleasure. It was part of a wide variety of roof insulation schemes which the government undertook to test, in the interest of fuel economy.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Seventy-five thousand pounds?

The actual report of Sir Humphrey Appleby’s evidence to the Select Committee, reproduced by kind permission of HMSO.

[We have reprinted it in more readable form — Ed.]

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It was thought that the sale of flowers and vegetable produce might offset the cost.

Mrs Betty Oldham: And did it?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: No.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Then why not abandon the garden?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Well, it’s there now. And it does insulate the roof. But we aren’t building any more.

Mrs Betty Oldham: But you’ve wasted seventy-five thousand pounds.

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It was the government’s policy to test all the proposals for fuel saving.

Mrs Betty Oldham: At this fantastic waste of taxpayers’ money? You agree the money was wasted?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

Mrs Betty Oldham: Look, Sir Humphrey. Whatever we ask the Minister, he says is an administrative question for you. And whatever we ask you, you say is a policy question for the Minister. How do you suggest we find out what’s going on?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: Yes, I do think there is a real dilemma here, in that while it has been government policy to regard policy as the responsibility of Ministers and administration as the responsibility of officials, questions of administrative policy can cause confusion between the administration of policy and the policy of administration, especially when responsibility for the administration of the policy of administration conflicts or overlaps with responsibility for the policy of the administration of policy.

Mrs Betty Oldham: That’s a load of meaningless drivel, isn’t it, Sir Humphrey?

Sir Humphrey Appleby: It is not for me to comment on government policy. You must ask the Minister.

SIR BERNARD WOOLLEY RECALLS:[37]

It was theoretically true, as Sir Humphrey claimed, that Ministers are — and were in the 1980s — responsible for policy. In practice, however, Ministers are responsible for relatively little policy because the useful life of a government is only about two years. The first year is spent learning that commitments made while in Opposition cannot be kept once they are in office: once a government gets in it has to get to grips with the real problems that actually exist, invariably connected with the prevailing economic situation which is always either appalling or catastrophic, and of which the full details of the horror were invariably kept secret from the nation and therefore from the Opposition.

As a new government struggles to sort out these problems it will be dependent on economists and on the Treasury. This is a trifle unfortunate — economists are always in a state of total intellectual disarray and confusion and are too busy arguing with each other to be able to advise politicians who are usually rather ignorant of economics. And the Treasury, on the other hand, has had rather a lot of bad luck with its economic forecasts over the last sixty years or so.

So, after a period of between a year and eighteen months, Ministers come to an understanding of the situation as it actually is. Then there follows about two years of potentially serious government — after which the run-up to the next general election begins. At this point achievement has to be subordinated to the winning of votes — or, rather, winning votes becomes the only measure of achievement. The last two years are rather like swotting for an exam. You don’t do anything new, you just try to pass.

Therefore, as he knew only too well, Sir Humphrey’s claim that Ministers make policy applies — at most — to two years out of every five. This Select Committee enquiry took place, of course, during the first year that Hacker was in office.

There is one further interesting question raised by this discussion. If the Minister makes policy for two years out of five, who makes policy in the other three years? Obviously, we in the Civil Service used to fill the vacuum. And this created serious problems during the Minister’s two years of ‘serious government’ — which were therefore frequently absorbed in a war between the Minister’s policies and the Ministry’s policies.

The only time that this eighteen-month vacuum did not occur at the start of a government was when a government was re-elected for a second full term with a working majority. In the early 1980s this had not occurred in Britain for a quarter of a century. This is why it was always absurd to categorise the Civil Service as either Conservative or Labour — we always believed in, and hoped for, regular alternation of governments. This gave us the maximum freedom from control by Ministers who, if they stayed too long in office, were likely to begin to think that they knew how to run the country.

October 13th

Today I read in the papers the reports of Humphrey’s appearance before the Select Committee. He’s been a big help!

And we’ve both been called back to make a joint appearance, to sort out the mess that he made.

I called him in and gave him a bollocking.

He said he’d done his best.

I told him: ‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps. But you’ve solved nothing. The day after tomorrow we’ll be sitting there, side by side, getting the third degree from the Committee. We must have proper answers — or, at the very least, the same answers.’

Humphrey said that we must begin by establishing what our position is.

‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘What are the facts?’

He got very impatient with me. ‘I’m discussing our position, Minister — the facts are neither here nor there.’

Fair enough. So I asked him to outline our position.

He suggested that we choose one of the Civil Service’s five standard excuses, to deal with each of their allegations. A different one for each if possible.

I had never before heard of the five standard excuses. Humphrey must be quite anxious about the situation if he’s prepared to reveal his techniques to me so openly.

I made notes. I have called each excuse by the name of a famous example of its use.

The Anthony Blunt excuse

There is a perfectly satisfactory explanation for everything, but security prevents its disclosure

The Comprehensive Schools excuse

It’s only gone wrong because of heavy cuts in staff and budget which have stretched supervisory resources beyond the limit

The Concorde excuse

It was a worthwhile experiment now abandoned, but not before it provided much valuable data and considerable employment

The Munich Agreement excuse

It occurred before important facts were known, and cannot happen again

(The important facts in question were that Hitler wanted to conquer Europe. This was actually known; but not to the Foreign Office, of course)

The Charge of the Light Brigade excuse

It was an unfortunate lapse by an individual which has now been dealt with under internal disciplinary procedures

According to Sir Humphrey, these excuses have covered everything so far. Even wars. Small wars, anyway.

I finished making notes, and contemplated the list. It seemed okay, if we could carry it off. But I knew I couldn’t manage it without Humphrey.

I smiled at him encouragingly. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘so it’s real teamwork from now on, eh, Humphrey?’

‘United we stand, divided we fall,’ he replied, with a distinctly optimistic air.

I was about to start going through the list to see which excuse we could apply to which allegation, when Bernard reminded me that I had to be at the House in ten minutes for a committee meeting. ‘And,’ he added nervously, ‘Number Ten’s been on the phone. Sir Mark Spencer [the Prime Minister’s special political adviser — Ed.] wonders if you could pop in for a drink sometime tomorrow. I suggested 5.30.’

I pointed out to Sir Humphrey that this was not a good sign. Clearly the PM wants me to account for our feeble explanations to the Select Committee.

‘Perhaps it is just for a drink,’ said Sir Humphrey, with more optimism than sense.

‘Don’t be silly,’ I told him. ‘You don’t get invited to drinks at Number Ten because you’re thirsty.’ I agreed to meet Humphrey tomorrow, and cook up a story.

‘Agree our position, Minister,’ he corrected me.

‘That’s what I said,’ I replied, ‘cook up a story.’

October 14th

I am very confused this evening.

At 5.30 I went to see Sir Mark Spencer at Number Ten.

Going to Number Ten is a very weird experience. From the outside it just looks like an ordinary terraced Georgian house — big, but not that big. But when you step inside the front door and walk along a big wide hall that seems a hundred yards long, you realise that you’re actually in a palace.

It’s so English, so extremely discreet on the outside. The secret of the house is that it’s three or four houses knocked together, and built onto at the back as well. As a result it’s pretty hard to find your own way round Number Ten. You go up and down funny little stairs, crossing from one house to another, and in no time you don’t even know which floor you’re on.

This, according to the drivers’ grapevine, is put to creative use by the civil servants, who know the plan of the building inside out and who therefore situate their own offices in the key rooms from which they can monitor and control all comings and goings within the building. Also these are usually the nicest rooms. In fact, there is a persistent rumour that the battle for rooms goes on through every administration, with political staff fighting for the rooms nearest to the PM’s office — and fighting also to get the civil servants further away. But it seems that as soon as the government changes, the civil servants move swiftly and smoothly to reoccupy all the lost ground before the new Prime Minister’s staff arrive.

I was escorted up to Sir Mark Spencer’s office. It was a small, poky, sparse little room, under-furnished, exactly the sort of office in which the permanent civil servants would put a temporary part-time adviser.

[Sir Mark Spencer was the Managing Director of a well-known and popular multiple chain-store, a byword for efficiency and productivity, who had been brought into Number Ten by the PM to advise personally on economies and increased administrative productivity. So far, it seems, he was still struggling with the problem of getting a decent office. Presumably, if it were not for the PM’s personal interest in his work, he would have been found an office in Walthamstow — Ed.]

I’d only met Sir Mark once before. He is a big fellow, highly intelligent and with a kindly soft-spoken manner. He welcomed me warmly.

‘Ah, come in, Jim. Scotch?’

I thanked him.

‘How are things going?’ he enquired gently, as he brought me my drink.

I told him things were fine. Absolutely fine. I told him that it was a bit of a shock, having Rhodes’s book thrown at us out of the blue, but that now the whole situation was under control. ‘Humphrey and I will be getting together this evening. We’ll be able to explain everything. Nothing for the PM to worry about.’

I hoped that I was being sufficiently reassuring to Sir Mark. As I heard myself speak, however, I rather sounded as though I were reassuring myself.

I paused. But Sir Mark said nothing. He just sat still, looking at me.

I found myself continuing, and making more excuses. ‘What beats me is how Malcolm Rhodes got all that information. Most of it happened outside his division. And I wouldn’t mind knowing who got those advance proofs to Betty Oldham. The PM must be livid. But it’s certainly no fault of mine.’

I paused again. In fact, I had really nothing left to say on the subject. Sir Mark obviously sensed this, because he finally spoke.

‘What makes you think the PM is livid?’ he asked, in a slightly puzzled tone.

I hadn’t expected this question. I thought it was obvious. Why else was I there at Number Ten? I stared at him.

‘Let’s try and look at this situation logically, shall we?’ suggested Sir Mark.

‘Of course,’ I agreed.

Then he asked me a series of questions. At first I simply couldn’t see what he was driving at.

‘What has the PM been trying to achieve, in public expenditure?’

‘Cuts, obviously.’

Sir Mark nodded. ‘And why has there been so little success?’

Again the answer was obvious. ‘Because of Civil Service obstruction.’

‘And are all the Cabinet committed to this policy of cutting public expenditure?’

I wasn’t sure if this was an attack on me. ‘I think so, yes. I certainly am.’

He stared at me. He seemed unconvinced. Then he said: ‘If that is so, why have virtually no Ministers achieved any real cuts?’

‘Rome wasn’t built in a day, you know.’

‘Wrong. It’s because the Ministers have gone native.’

‘Oh I don’t think…’ I paused again. I had been about to disagree. But what had I just said to Sir Mark? Rome wasn’t built in a day. The standard Civil Service answer when pressed for results. But surely I’ve not gone native?

‘The Civil Service has house-trained the lot of you,’ he said with a little sad smile.

‘Well, some of us, perhaps. But I certainly haven’t been…’

He interrupted me. ‘Look, if a Minister were really trying to cut expenditure, how would he react to a book exposing massive government waste?’

‘Well, he’d, he’d er… oh!’ I realised I had no immediate answer. ‘It would depend on… er…’ I was stuck. So I asked him precisely what he was trying to say.

He didn’t answer. That is to say, he answered obliquely. ‘Do you know what the Civil Service is saying about you?’

I shook my head nervously.

‘That you’re a pleasure to work with.’ A rush of mixed emotions overwhelmed me. First relief. Then pleasure and pride. Then, suddenly, a dreadful realisation of the awfulness of what he had just revealed!

‘That’s what Barbara Woodhouse says about her prize-winning spaniels,’ he added.

I just sat there, struggling to grasp all the implications. My head was in a whirl.

Sir Mark continued destroying me, in that kindly voice of his. ‘I’ve even heard Sir Humphrey Appleby say of you that you’re worth your weight in gold. What does that suggest to you?’

It was only too clear what it suggested. I felt deeply miserable. ‘You mean… I’ve failed utterly,’ I said.

Sir Mark stood up, picked up my empty glass, and observed that I looked as if I needed another Scotch.

He returned it to me, I sipped it. Then he waited for me to speak again.

‘And now,’ I mumbled, ‘I suppose the PM is not pleased with my performance at the Select Committee because I failed to cover up the failure?’

He sighed heavily and looked at the ceiling. He was becoming impatient. ‘On the contrary, the PM is not pleased because you’re covering up too well.’

This baffled me even more.

He explained. ‘You’re protecting the Civil Service. You’re protecting Humphrey Appleby. The PM and I are doing our level best to expose why cuts in public expenditure are not taking place — and you’re helping the Civil Service to defy the Government.’

‘Am I?’ My brain was reeling. How could I be doing that?

‘You were wondering where Betty Oldham got the advance proofs of that book. And where Malcolm Rhodes got the inside information.’ He smiled at me. And waited. I just stared at him, blankly. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he asked eventually, with pity in his voice.

Suddenly the light dawned. ‘You mean… the PM?’ I whispered.

Sir Mark looked shocked. ‘Of course not… not directly.’

‘You mean,’ I whispered again, ‘you?’

He sipped his drink and smiled.

So that was it. Whether wittingly or unwittingly, Malcom Rhodes and Betty Oldham had been put up to this by the PM’s special adviser. And therefore, in effect, by the PM.

Therefore… therefore what? What do I do at the Select Committee? What does Number Ten want?

‘There’s only one course open to you,’ Sir Mark added enigmatically. ‘Absolute loyalty.’

‘Ah,’ I said, and then realised that my worries were not fully answered. ‘But, er, who to?’

‘That’s your decision,’ he said.

I think I know what is expected of me. I think.

October 15th

Today we met the Select Committee and I really put the cat among the pigeons.

They started with the plastic-coated copper wire in the heated sheds. Humphrey gave the answer that he and I had agreed he would give when we met earlier today. He said that the error actually occurred before some important facts were known and that he was able to answer the Committee that no such oversight could possibly occur again.

He asked me to agree.

My answer surprised him.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Sir Humphrey’s reply is absolutely correct. The correct official reply.’ He glanced at me quickly. ‘But I’ve been thinking very deeply since our last meeting’ (which was true!) ‘and really there is no doubt that this Committee is on to something.’

Humphrey turned and stared at me in astonishment.

‘Of course there’s waste,’ I continued carefully, ‘whatever the excuses that we can always find for individual cases. You have convinced me that our whole attitude is wrong.’

It was clear from the expression on his face that they had not convinced Sir Humphrey.

Nevertheless, I took my courage in both hands, and continued. ‘Ministers and their civil servants cover up and defend where we should seek out and destroy.’ Sir Humphrey was now absolutely aghast. ‘I have spoken to Mr Malcom Rhodes, the author of this invaluable book, and he has agreed to give extensive evidence to an outside independent enquiry which I shall set up.’ I could see Sir Humphrey out of the corner of my eye, putting his head in his hands. ‘This will examine the whole of government administration, starting with my Department.’

The Chairman looked pleased. ‘How does Sir Humphrey react to this?’ he asked.

Sir Humphrey lifted his head from his hands and tried to speak. But no words came out.

I quickly answered for him. ‘He is in full agreement. We work as a team, don’t we Humphrey?’ He nodded weakly. ‘And I may say he’s a pleasure to work with.’

Meanwhile, Betty Oldham had been thrown into a state of confusion. She was still trying to attack me, but there was no longer any reason to do so.

‘But Minister,’ she complained shrilly, ‘this account of what’s been going on doesn’t square with what you were saying in your Washington speech about a ruthless war on waste.’

I was ready for that. In my most patronising manner I explained my position. ‘Well Betty,’ I said, ‘I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap. I believe in things like loyalty. Whatever you say to them privately, you defend your chaps in public. Eh, Humphrey?’

Humphrey was now eyeing me as if I were a rabid dog.

‘In that case,’ pressed Mrs Oldham, ‘aren’t you being rather disloyal to them now?’

‘No,’ I explained charmingly, ‘because in the end a Minister has a higher loyalty — a loyalty to Parliament, a loyalty to the nation. And that loyalty must take precedence, come what may, painful as it may be. My belief is that one is loyal to one’s department and one’s officials until the evidence is overwhelming. But I must now say in public what I have long been saying in private: that reforms can and will be carried out and I know that in Sir Humphrey I will find my staunchest ally. Isn’t that so, Humphrey?’

‘Yes Minister,’ replied my staunchest ally in a thin choking voice of pure hatred.

After the meeting was over Humphrey, Bernard and I strolled back across Whitehall to the DAA. It was a lovely sunny autumn day with a cool breeze from the river. I was feeling fairly positive about it all, though desperately hoping that I had not misunderstood Sir Mark’s intentions. It seemed to me that I had just been as loyal as could be to the PM, even though I’d upset Sir Humphrey more than somewhat.

Humphrey didn’t speak all the way back to the Department. He was too angry. Bernard didn’t either. He was too frightened.

In fact, nothing was said until we were back in my office. Humphrey had followed me into my room, so clearly he did have something to say to me.

I shut the door and looked at him expectantly.

‘That was a big help Minister,’ he began bitterly.

‘I did my best,’ I replied with a modest smile.

He stared at me, trying to understand why I had behaved as I had. He must have thought that I had gone out of my mind.

‘You did your best for yourself, perhaps,’ he said. ‘So this is your idea of teamwork, is it? Most amusing, if I may say so.’

I felt I should explain. So I started to say that I had to do it, that I’d had no choice. He wouldn’t listen.

‘You had to do what? Cravenly admitting everything to that Committee. Don’t you realise how utterly calamitous this has been for us?’

‘Not for me, I hope,’ I replied.

He shook his head, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘You hope in vain, Minister. The Department will be up in arms — they will have very little confidence in you in future. And as for Number Ten — well, I shudder to think how the PM may react to a public admission of failure.’

I said nothing. As I sat there, wondering for a moment if I’d made a ghastly mistake, Bernard knocked and came in. He was holding an envelope.

‘Excuse me, Minister, sorry to interrupt,’ he said nervously, ‘but here’s a personal letter from the Prime Minister.’

He handed it to me. Sir Humphrey shook his head. I ripped it open. As I read it I was aware of Humphrey’s voice.

‘I did warn you,’ it was saying. ‘Bernard, perhaps you should give some thought to drafting a face-saving letter of resignation for the Minister.’

I read the letter. [We reproduce it below — Ed.]

10 Downing Street

15th October

The Prime Minister

Dear Jim,

We haven’t seen enough of each other lately. Would you be free to lunch at Chequers on Sunday? We shall be just the family. Do please bring Annie and Lucy.

I look forward so much to seeing you and perhaps we could catch up on each other’s news.

Then I read it aloud.

Humphrey’s face was a picture of confusion. ‘I don’t think I quite…’ he said, and then the penny dropped. ‘A conspiracy!’ he hissed at me. ‘That drink with Mark Spencer!’

I just smiled. The gamble had paid off. I reread the letter. It was a triumph. ‘We haven’t seen enough of each other lately… lunch at Chequers… just the family…’ And it is handwritten.

‘Do you know what this letter is worth, Humphrey?’ I asked with quiet pride.

‘I believe the going rate is thirty pieces of silver,’ he replied nastily.

I shook my head. ‘No Humphrey,’ I said with supreme confidence. ‘Integrity and loyalty have been rewarded.’

‘Loyalty?’ he sneered contemptuously. ‘Loyalty?’

I just couldn’t resist rubbing his nose in it. ‘Yes Humphrey. I supported you just the way you have always supported me. Isn’t that so?’

He really didn’t know how to answer that. A sort of snorting noise emanated from behind his clenched teeth.

‘Did you say something, Humphrey?’ I asked politely.

‘I think,’ said Bernard, ‘that he said “Yes Minister.”’