The Complete Yes Minister

1 Open Government

October 22nd

Well, perhaps it’s the early hours of Friday, the 23rd now. I am most excited. I have just been returned to Parliament by Birmingham East. And after years in opposition, the party has finally won a general election and we’re back in office.

After the result was announced I went to the celebration do at Alderman Spotteswoode’s[1] and saw Robert McKenzie on the telly say: ‘And so Jim Hacker’s back, with an increased majority in his marginal constituency. After many years as a Shadow Minister he seems almost certain to get a Cabinet post in the new government.’

Robin Day seemed doubtful, though. I do hope Bob McKenzie’s right.

October 23rd

I’m still hoping but I wonder if Robin Day knows something that I don’t.

I’ve been sitting by the telephone ever since breakfast. No potential Cabinet Minister ever moves more than twenty feet from the telephone in the twenty-four hours following the appointment of a new Prime Minister. If you haven’t heard within twenty-four hours, you’re not going to be in the Cabinet.

Annie kept me supplied with constant cups of coffee all morning, and when I returned to the armchair next to the phone after lunch she asked me to help do the Brussels sprouts for dinner if I didn’t have anything else to do. I explained to her that I couldn’t because I was waiting for the call.

‘Who from?’ Sometimes Annie really is a bit dense.

The phone rang. I grabbed it. It was Frank Weisel, my special political adviser, saying that he was on his way over. I told Annie, who wasn’t pleased.

‘Why doesn’t he just move in?’ she asked bitterly.

Sometimes I just don’t understand her. I patiently explained to her that, as my political adviser, I depend on Frank more than anyone. ‘Then why don’t you marry him?’ she asked. ‘I now pronounce you man and political adviser. Whom politics has joined let no wife put asunder.’

It is awfully difficult for Annie, I know. Being an MP’s wife is a pretty thankless task. But now that I may be a Minister, she’ll at last reap the rewards!

The phone rang all day. Alderman Spotteswoode, the Gas Board, Frank, all sorts of useless people ringing up to congratulate me. ‘On what?’ I said to Annie: ‘Don’t they realise I’m waiting for the call?’

She said, ‘You sound as if you’re about to enter the ministry.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but which ministry, that’s the whole point.’

Suddenly Annie screamed. I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘It was a joke!’ she shouted, and started to pull her hair out. I decided that she must be a bit tense.

‘Are you a bit tense?’ I asked. She screamed again, and threw herself onto the floor. I thought of calling an ambulance, but was worried about the adverse publicity affecting my career at this crucial juncture — NEW MINISTER’S WIFE TAKEN AWAY IN STRAIT-JACKET.

‘Are you a bit tense?’ I asked again. Carefully.

‘No,’ she shouted — ‘No, no, no, I’m not tense. I’m just a politician’s wife. I’m not allowed to have feelings. I’m just a happy carefree politician’s wife.’

So I asked her why she was lying face downwards on the floor. ‘I’m looking for a cigarette. I can’t find any.’

‘Try the cigarette box,’ I advised, trying to keep calm.

‘It’s empty.’

‘Take a Valium.’

‘I can’t find the Valium, that’s why I’m looking for a cigarette. Jim, pop out and get me some.’

I explained to Annie that I simply didn’t dare leave the phone. Annie betrayed her usual total lack of understanding. ‘Look, if the PM wants you to be in the bloody Cabinet, the PM will phone back if you’re out. Or you can phone back.’

Annie will never understand the finer points of politics.

[Hacker was very insecure about his cabinet prospects because he had previously run Martin Walker’s campaign against the new PM for the leadership of the party. The question was whether the PM would be strong enough to ignore Jim Hacker or whether, in the interests of party unity, the PM would be obliged to give him a good job — Ed.]

By the end of today I’ve heard on the grapevine that Bill’s got Europe. Poor old Europe. Bill can’t speak French or German. He hardly even speaks English, as a matter of fact. Martin’s got the Foreign Office, as expected, Jack’s got Health and Fred’s got Energy.

I told Annie of these appointments, and she asked me if anyone had got Brains. I suppose she means Education.

October 24th

At last I’m a Cabinet Minister.

And today I had my first encounter with the Civil Service, and I must say I am very impressed.

I got the call from Number Ten at about 9 a.m., after a sleepless night, and immediately Frank Weisel and I caught the London train. I got a taxi to Number Ten, where I was asked by the PM to take over the Department of Administrative Affairs.

This is an important post. In the Cabinet ranking, about eighth or ninth I should think. On the other hand, Martin reminded me (when he phoned to congratulate me) that the DAA is a political graveyard, a bit like the Home Office, and the PM may have over-promoted me — a vengeful move. I am determined to get a grip on the DAA and prove to the PM that I’m not so easily taken care of.

I was expecting to be Minister of Agriculture, as I’ve shadowed Agriculture for seven years, and have many good ideas about it, but for some inexplicable reason the PM decided against this.

[We found a memo from Sir Andrew Donnelly, Permanent Secretary of Agriculture, to Sir Arnold Robinson, Secretary to the Cabinet, imploring Sir Arnold to make sure that Hacker did not get Agriculture as he was too ‘genned up’ on it. Cabinet Papers show that Sir Arnold managed to convey to the PM that it would be better for Hacker not to go to Agriculture because ‘he’s been thinking about it rather too long and is perhaps in a bit of a rut’ — Ed.]

An official car met me as I came out of Number Ten, and I was driven straight to the DAA. I was met on the front steps by Bernard Woolley, who is to be my Private Secretary, and his assistant. He seems a likeable enough chap.

To my surprise he instantly knew who Frank Weisel was, as we got out of the car, though he pronounced his name ‘Weasel’, which always infuriates Frank.

We walked down miles of corridors. When we got to my office Frank had disappeared with the Assistant Private Secretary. Bernard assured me that Frank was being taken care of. They really are awfully nice and helpful.

My office is large, with a big desk, a conference table with lots of chairs around it, and a few armchairs arranged around a coffee table to form a conversation area. Otherwise, rather characterless. Bernard immediately went to the drinks cupboard.

‘A drink, Minister?’

I nodded. ‘Jim,’ I said, as I want us to be on first-name terms.

‘Gin?’ he said, mishearing me.

‘No,’ I said, ‘Jim. Call me Jim.’

Bernard said: ‘If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather call you Minister, Minister.’

‘Minister, Minister?’ It reminded me of Major Major in Catch-22. Then I realised what he meant. I asked him, ‘Does that mean I have to call you Private Secretary, Private Secretary?’

Bernard said I was to call him Bernard. I’m sure that in the course of time I’ll persuade him to call me Jim.

A moment later Sir Humphrey Appleby arrived. He is the Permanent Secretary of the DAA, the Civil Service Head of the Department. He is in his early fifties I should think, but — somehow — ageless. He is charming and intelligent, a typical mandarin. He welcomed me to the Department.

‘I believe you’ve met before,’ Bernard remarked. I was struck for the second time how well-informed this young man is.

Sir Humphrey said, ‘Yes, we did cross swords when the Minister gave me a grilling over the Estimates in the Public Accounts Committee last year. He asked me all the questions I hoped nobody would ask.’

This is splendid. Sir Humphrey clearly admires me. I tried to brush it off. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Opposition’s about asking awkward questions.’

‘Yes,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘and government is about not answering them.’

I was surprised. ‘But you answered all my questions, didn’t you,’ I commented.

‘I’m glad you thought so, Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey. I didn’t quite know what he meant by that. I decided to ask him who else was in the Department.

‘Briefly, sir, I am the Permanent Under-Secretary of State, known as the Permanent Secretary. Woolley here is your Principal Private Secretary. I, too, have a Principal Private Secretary, and he is the Principal Private Secretary to the Permanent Secretary. Directly responsible to me are ten Deputy Secretaries, eighty-seven Under-Secretaries and two hundred and nineteen Assistant Secretaries. Directly responsible to the Principal Private Secretaries are plain Private Secretaries. The Prime Minister will be appointing two Parliamentary Under-Secretaries and you will be appointing your own Parliamentary Private Secretary.’

‘Can they all type?’ I joked.

‘None of us can type, Minister,’ replied Sir Humphrey smoothly. ‘Mrs McKay types — she is your secretary.’

I couldn’t tell whether or not he was joking. ‘What a pity,’ I said. ‘We could have opened an agency.’

Sir Humphrey and Bernard laughed. ‘Very droll, sir,’ said Sir Humphrey. ‘Most amusing, sir,’ said Bernard. Were they genuinely amused at my wit, or just being rather patronising? ‘I suppose they all say that, do they?’ I ventured.

Sir Humphrey reassured me on that. ‘Certainly not, Minister,’ he replied. ‘Not quite all.’

I decided to take charge at once. I sat behind my desk and to my dismay I found it had a swivel chair. I don’t like swivel chairs. But Bernard immediately assured me that everything in the office can be changed at my command — furniture, decor, paintings, office routine. I am unquestionably the boss!

Bernard then told me that they have two types of chair in stock, to go with two kinds of Minister — ‘One sort folds up instantly and the other sort goes round and round in circles.’ On second thoughts, perhaps that was another of Bernard’s little jokes.

I decided that the time had come to be blunt and to tell them what’s what. ‘Frankly,’ I said, ‘this Department has got to cut a great swathe through the whole of the stuffy Whitehall bureaucracy. We need a new broom. We are going to throw open the windows and let in a bit of fresh air. We are going to cut through the red tape and streamline this creaking old bureaucratic machine. We are going to have a clean sweep. There are far too many useless people just sitting behind desks.’

I became aware that I was actually sitting behind a desk, but I’m sure that they realised that I was not referring to myself.

I explained that we had to start by getting rid of people who just make work for each other. Sir Humphrey was very helpful, and suggested that I mean redeploy them — which, I suppose, is what I do mean. I certainly want to reduce overmanning, but I don’t actually want to be responsible for putting people out of work.

But, by the clean sweep and the new broom, I mean that we must have more Open Government. We made election pledges about this, and I intend to keep them. We must take the nation into our confidence. I said all this to Humphrey and Bernard who, to my surprise, were wholeheartedly in favour of these ideas.

Humphrey referred to my speeches on this subject in the House last year. And he referred to my Observer article, Daily Mail interview, and the manifesto.

I am most impressed that he knows so much about me.

Humphrey then produced draft proposals, to implement my policy in a White Paper. I was flabbergasted. The efficiency of the Civil Service is quite astounding. They even plan, Sir Humphrey tells me, to call the White Paper ‘Open Government’.

All of these draft proposals are available to me within thirty-six hours of the new government being elected and within minutes of my arrival at my office. And on a weekend! Remarkable chaps. I asked Humphrey who had done all this.

‘The creaking old bureaucratic machine,’ he replied with a smile. ‘No seriously, Minister, we are fully seized of the need for reform and we have taken it on board.’

I told him I was slightly surprised.

‘I thought I’d have to fight you all the way,’ I said.

Sir Humphrey remarked that people have funny ideas about the Civil Service.

‘We are just here to help you formulate and implement your policies,’ he explained.

He seems most sincere.

The draft proposals, which I have brought home tonight to my London flat in a red box, include ‘Proposals for Shortening Approval Procedures in Planning Appeals’. Excellent. Sir Humphrey was able to quote from Hansard the rather amusing question which I’d asked earlier this year in the House:

[Actually they cried ‘Bollocks’ — Ed.]

As it’s Saturday, we have arranged to start things properly on Monday morning. But they’ve given me six red boxes for the weekend, four to be completed by tonight and two more tomorrow. Bernard tells me that the previous Minister got a bit slack about the paperwork, especially during the election campaign.

I’m certainly not going to be slack! I shall be a good Minister. I shall read everything they give me to read.

October 26th

I read all my boxes over the weekend. It took about nine hours. I caught the 7.15 a.m. train to Euston, the official car met me, and I was in the office by 9.20.

All the draft proposals for Open Government are superficially pretty impressive, but I happen to know that the Civil Service is pretty good at delaying tactics. I mentioned this to Humphrey at a meeting today. I think he’s getting to know who’s boss around here.

But first things first. The day started with the diary. I found to my surprise that there were numerous appointments in it already. I asked how this was possible, since they didn’t even know who would win the election.

Bernard said: ‘We knew there’d be a Minister, Minister.’ I told him not to start that again.

Sir Humphrey explained, ‘Her Majesty likes the business of government to continue, even when there are no politicians around.’

‘Isn’t that very difficult?’ I asked.

‘Yes… and no,’ said Humphrey. I must say, I can’t see how it’s possible to govern without the politicians. I’m afraid that Humphrey might have delusions of grandeur…

My diary was pretty frightening. Cabinet at 10 on Thursday. Nine Cabinet committees this week. A speech to the Law Institute tomorrow night, a deputation from the British Computer Association at 10.30 tomorrow morning, University Vice-Chancellors lunch on Wednesday (another speech), opening the National Conference of Public Employers on Thursday morning (another speech), and so on.

I noticed that everything in the diary is in pencil, so presumably much of it can be and will be changed. I pointed out to Bernard that I have various other commitments.

Bernard looked puzzled. ‘Such as?’ he asked.

‘Well… I’m on four policy committees of the party, for a start.’

‘I’m sure you won’t be wanting to put party before country,’ said Sir Humphrey. I had never looked at it in that light. Of course, he’s absolutely right.

They were going to give me three more red boxes for tonight, by the way. When I jibbed at this a bit, Sir Humphrey explained that there are a lot of decisions to take and announcements to approve. He then tried something on, by saying: ‘But we could, in fact, minimise the work so that you need only take the major policy decisions.’

I saw through that ploy at once. I insisted that I would take all the decisions and read all the relevant documents.

They’ve given me five boxes for tonight.

October 27th

Today I found that we have a problem with Frank Weisel. It’s Tuesday today, and I realised that I hadn’t seen him since I arrived at the DAA last Saturday morning.

To be quite truthful, I didn’t actually realise it till he barged into my office, shouting and carrying on, demanding to be let in.

It appears that he’s been in the waiting room since Saturday. (I presume he went home on Sunday.) Bernard tried to tell him that he, Humphrey and I were in private conference, but I quickly sorted that out. I demanded that Frank, as my adviser, be given an office in the Department.

Sir Humphrey attempted to fudge the issue, saying that I had a whole Department to advise me now. Nonetheless I insisted.

‘Well,’ said Sir Humphrey, ‘I believe we have some spare office space in Walthamstow, don’t we Bernard?’

Frank was appalled. ‘Walthamstow?’

‘Yes, it’s surprising isn’t it?’ said Sir Humphrey agreeably. ‘The government owns property all over London.’

‘But I don’t want to be in Walthamstow,’ explained Frank at the top of his voice.

‘It’s in a very nice part of Walthamstow,’ put in Bernard.

‘And Walthamstow’s a very nice place. So I gather,’ added Sir Humphrey.

Frank and I looked at each other. If they were not so charming and, well, gentlemanly, you might have thought they were trying to squeeze Frank right out.

‘I need an office here, in this building,’ said Frank, firmly and extremely loudly.

I added my agreement. Sir Humphrey capitulated at once, and told Bernard to find a suitable office right away. I then said, to make assurance doubly sure, that I expected Frank to have copies of all the papers that are given to me.

Bernard seemed surprised. ‘All?’

‘All,’ I said.

Sir Humphrey agreed immediately. ‘It shall be done — all the appropriate papers.’

In my opinion, these civil servants are not nearly so hard to deal with as people say. They are mostly very co-operative, and, even if not initially, always jump to it when spoken to firmly. I think I’m getting somewhere at last.

October 28th

After the last hectic four days, I have a little time to reflect — for posterity — on my first days in office.

First, I am impressed by the thorough grasp the officials at the DAA have of every situation. Second, how they are willing to co-operate fully, albeit under pressure, with Frank Weisel.

Thirdly, I am most struck by my dependence on these civil servants. I, like virtually all our new administration, knew nothing of the workings of Whitehall except what I’d learned second-hand. Because we have been so long in opposition, only three members of the government, including the PM, have ever held office before. I had never seen the inside of a red box, never met a Permanent Secretary, and had no idea how things were really done. [This situation is similar to the one in which the Labour Government of 1964 found itself — Harold Wilson, the PM, was the only member of Cabinet who had previously been a Cabinet Minister — Ed.] This makes us more dependent on our officials than most new governments. Thank goodness they are behaving honourably.

[The following Monday, Sir Humphrey Appleby met Sir Arnold Robinson, Secretary to the Cabinet, at The Reform Club in Pall Mall. Sir Humphrey made a note about the meeting in his private diary.]

[It is interesting to observe that senior civil servants, perhaps because they have spent thirty years writing notes in the margin of a memo or minute, only write in the margin even if there is nothing else on the page — Ed.]

Arnold and I compared notes [on 2 November] about the new government. His new Cabinet is scarcely distinguishable from the last one. My new boy is learning the rules very quickly.

I sounded Arnold out about the American Ambassador — rumour has it he has been spending a lot of time with the PM.

Arnold confirmed this. But was unwilling to say whether it was about defence or trade. He is anxious about a leak — therefore it is imperative that the Cabinet doesn’t hear about it yet.

I concluded, correctly, that it is defence and trade, i.e. the new aerospace systems contract.

The aerospace contract would be a considerable coup for the PM, less than two weeks after the election. Of course, it’s been in the pipeline for months, but the new PM will obviously take the credit.

It will mean four and a half billion dollars, and many new jobs in the Midlands and North-West. All in marginal seats, too — what a coincidence!

This is valuable information. I gathered from Arnold that it would, therefore, be a grave embarrassment to the PM if a hypothetical Minister were to rock the Anglo-American boat. Man overboard. The end of a promising new Ministerial career, in fact.

Therefore, I have ensured that the Weasel[2] receives a copy of the invoice for the new American addressing machines. Naturally he has not received it, because it is sensitive. But I think that this is the right moment.

I instructed my secretary to ensure that the Weasel find the invoice near the bottom of a pile. Let the man feel he has achieved something.

[Bernard Woolley joined Sir Humphrey and Sir Arnold at the club, for an after-dinner coffee while they drank their after-dinner brandy — Ed.]

I asked young Bernard what he makes of our new Minister. Bernard is happy. So am I. Hacker swallowed the whole diary in one gulp and apparently did his boxes like a lamb last Saturday and Sunday. He’ll be house-trained in no time.

All we have to do is head him off this Open Government nonsense, I remarked to Bernard. Bernard said that he thought that we were in favour of Open Government. I hope I have not over-promoted young Bernard. He still has an awful lot to learn.

I explained that we are calling the White Paper Open Government because you always dispose of the difficult bit in the title. It does less harm there than on the statute books.

It is the law of Inverse Relevance: the less you intend to do about something, the more you have to keep talking about it.

Bernard asked us, ‘What’s wrong with Open Government?’ I could hardly believe my ears. Arnold thought he was joking. Sometimes I wonder if Bernard really is a flyer, or whether we shouldn’t just send him off to a career at the War Graves Commission.

Arnold pointed out, with great clarity, that Open Government is a contradiction in terms. You can be open — or you can have government.

Bernard claims that the citizens of a democracy have a right to know. We explained that, in fact, they have a right to be ignorant. Knowledge only means complicity and guilt. Ignorance has a certain dignity.

Bernard then said: ‘The Minister wants Open Government.’ Years of training seem to have had no effect on Bernard sometimes.

I remarked that one does not just give people what they want, if it’s not good for them. One does not, for instance, give whisky to an alcoholic.

Arnold rightly added that if people do not know what you’re doing, they don’t know what you’re doing wrong.

This is not just a defence mechanism for officials, of course. Bernard must understand that he would not be serving his Minister by helping him to make a fool of himself. Every Minister we have would have been a laughing-stock within his first three weeks in office if it had not been for the most rigid and impenetrable secrecy about what he was up to.

Bernard is a Private Secretary. I am a Permanent Under-Secretary of State. The very word Secretary means one who can keep a secret.

Bernard asked me what I proposed to do. Naturally I did not inform him of my plans for the Weasel to make a great discovery. This would be putting too great a strain on Bernard’s loyalty to Hacker.

I asked Bernard if he could keep a secret. He said he could. I replied that I could, too. [Appleby Papers 14/QLI/9a]

[Hacker was, of course, in complete ignorance of the meeting described above — Ed.]

November 5th

Guy Fawkes Day. Fireworks inside the office too. A fitting day on which to enforce the supremacy of parliament and HMG.

Frank Weisel came bursting into my office, waving a document, ‘Have you seen this?’ he enquired at four thousand decibels.

I was delighted that the civil servants were giving him all the papers now. I said so.

‘They’re not,’ he said derisively. ‘Not the real papers.’

‘Which real papers aren’t you getting?’ I wanted to know.

‘How do I know, if I’m not getting them?’

This is, of course, absolutely true. And I don’t know what he can do about it. [This, of course, is an example of what management consultants call the Light-in-the-Refrigerator Syndrome, i.e. is the light on when the door is shut? The only way to find out is to open the door — in which case the door is not shut any more — Ed.]

But Frank did not want to discuss his problems in getting necessary information out of the officials.

‘They think they’re sending me the rubbish. But look what I’ve found — oho, we’ve got them, we’ve got them by the short and curlies.’

I still didn’t know what he was talking about. Frank explained further.

‘We’ve got Sir Humphrey-Bloody-Appleby and Mr Toffee-Nose-Private-Secretary-Snooty-Woolley just where we want them.’

He brandished a sheaf of papers under my nose. I still didn’t know what he was talking about, but I do think he has a wonderful line in invective — perhaps I should let him write the draft of my conference speech next year.

I made Frank sit down, and explain calmly. He has found some ordinary office invoices that have tremendous political significance. The DAA has apparently bought one thousand computer video display terminals, at ten thousand pounds each. Ten million pounds of the taxpayers’ money. And they are made in Pittsburgh!

This is shocking. Humphrey’s been keeping very quiet about this. And I’m not surprised. We make computer peripherals in my constituency, Birmingham East. And we have rising unemployment. It is a scandal that the Civil Service is not buying British.

I sent for Humphrey. He was in meetings all day, but Frank and I will confront him with this tomorrow. I am deeply grateful to Frank. Sir Humphrey is going to be very surprised indeed that we have found out about this so fast.

November 6th

The meeting with Humphrey was a total success.

I showed him the invoices for the computer display terminals. He admitted that the DAA has purchased this brand for the whole of Whitehall.

‘But they’re not British,’ I pointed out.

‘That is unfortunately true,’ he agreed, somewhat shamefaced.

‘We make these machines in Birmingham East.’

‘Not of the same quality,’ he said.

This is very probably true, but naturally I can’t admit it even if it is.

‘They are better quality,’ I said firmly. ‘They come from my constituency.’ I told Humphrey to cancel the contract.

He responded that it was beyond his power to do so, and that it could only be cancelled by the Treasury. He said it would be a major change of policy for the Civil Service to cancel contracts freely entered into. Especially with overseas suppliers.

He suggested (a trifle impertinently, I thought) that I should take it up in Cabinet. ‘Perhaps they would postpone the discussion on the Middle East, or nuclear disarmament, to talk about office equipment.’

I could see that this was out of the question. I was faced with a dilemma. If it couldn’t be cancelled, how was I to face my constituency party?

‘Why need they know?’ asked Sir Humphrey. ‘Why need anybody know? We can see that it never gets out.’

I was staggered. Couldn’t Humphrey see that to keep it quiet was directly contrary to our new policy of Open Government, to which he was as firmly committed as I?

Frank spelled out the only alternative. ‘If the order can’t be cancelled, it must be published.’

Humphrey asked why. For a moment I couldn’t quite think of the answer. But Frank saw it at once. ‘Two reasons,’ he explained. ‘First, it’s a manifesto commitment. Second, it’ll make the last Minister look like a traitor.’

Two unanswerable reasons. I really am very grateful to Frank. And he is running rings around Sir Humphrey. Perhaps Sir Humphrey is not as clever as I first thought.

Humphrey seemed very anxious about the idea of publication. ‘But surely,’ he said to Frank, ‘you’re not suggesting that the Minister should make a positive reference to this confidential transaction in a speech?’

‘A speech!’ said Frank. ‘Of course! That’s the answer.’

This is a superb idea of Frank’s. My speech to the Union of Office Employees will deal with this scandalous contract. And we will release it to the press in advance.

I said as much to Humphrey. Frank said, ‘There. Who’s running the country now?’ I felt his glee was a little juvenile, but quite understandable.

Sir Humphrey seemed even more worried. I asked him for his advice, which was totally predictable. ‘I think it might be regrettable if we upset the Americans.’

Predictable, and laughable. I pointed out to Humphrey, in no uncertain terms, that it is high time that someone jolted the Americans out of their commercial complacency. We should be thinking about the British poor, not the American rich!

Humphrey said, ‘Minister, if that is your express wish the Department will back you. Up to the hilt.’ This was very loyal. One must give credit where it’s due.

I said that indeed it was my express wish. Bernard then said he would circulate the speech, as soon as it was written, for clearance.

This is new to me. I’ve never heard of ‘clearance’. More bureaucracy and pointless paperwork. This matter has nothing to do with any other department. And if another department disagrees, they can say so publicly. That’s what Open Government is all about.

Humphrey pleaded with me to circulate the speech, if only for information. At first I opposed this, but he argued — quite convincingly, I thought — that Open Government demands that we should inform our colleagues in government as well as our friends in Fleet Street.

My final word to Humphrey, as the meeting concluded, was to see that the speech went straight to the press.

‘Minister,’ he said, ‘we shall obviously serve your best interests.’

A notable victory by Frank and me, in the cause of Open Government.

[A typescript of Hacker’s speech has been found in the files of the DAA. It is annotated with suggestions by Frank Weisel and Bernard Woolley, with comments from Hacker — Ed.]

November 9th

Today was disastrous. There have been some quite astounding turns of events.

My speech was completed. I was sitting in the office reading the press release when Bernard burst in with a minute from the PM’s private office.

I have learned, by the way, that minutes, memos and submissions are all the same thing. Except that ministers send minutes to civil servants and to each other, whereas civil servants send memos and minutes to each other but submissions to ministers.

[This is because a minute takes or orders action whereas a memo presents the background arguments, the pros and cons. Therefore, civil servants may send either to each other, as may politicians — but as a civil servant may not tell a Minister what to do he sends a submission, the very word designed to express an attitude of humility and respect. Minutes may, of course, also be notes about official meetings, and this meaning gives rise to the well-known Civil Service axiom that meetings are where civil servants take minutes but politicians take hours — Ed.]

Anyway, the minute made it clear that we were all to be very nice to the Yanks for the next few weeks. I realised that my speech, which had gone out to the press, could not have been timed worse.

I was appalled. Not only by my bad luck. But I find it incredible that I, as a member of the Cabinet, should have no knowledge of forthcoming defence agreements with the Americans. Whatever has happened to the doctrine of collective responsibility that I learned about at the LSE?

Sir Humphrey then hurried in to my office, looking slightly panicky.

‘Sorry to burst in, Minister, but all hell’s broken loose at Number Ten — apparently they’ve just seen your speech. They are asking why we didn’t obtain clearance.’

‘What did you say?’ I asked.

‘I said that we believe in Open Government. But it seemed to make things worse. The PM wants to see you in the House, right away.’

I realised that this could be the end for me. I asked Humphrey what was likely to happen. Sir Humphrey shrugged.

‘The Prime Minister giveth — and the Prime Minister taketh away.’

I left the room feeling sick. As I started down the corridor I thought I heard Sir Humphrey add: ‘Blessed be the name of the Prime Minister.’ But I think I must have imagined that.

Humphrey, Frank and I hurried down Whitehall past the Cenotaph (how very appropriate that seemed!). There was an icy wind blowing. We went straight to the House. I was to meet the PM behind the Speaker’s chair.

[This does not mean, literally, behind the chair. It is the area of the House where the PM and the Leader of the Opposition, the two Chief Whips, the Leader of the House and others, meet on neutral ground to arrange the business of the House. The PM’s office is to be found there too — Ed.]

We were kept waiting for some minutes outside the PM’s room. Then Vic Gould, our Chief Whip, emerged. He came straight over to me.

‘You’re a real pain in the arse, aren’t you?’ Vic really does pride himself on his dreadful manners. ‘The PM’s going up the wall. Hitting the roof. You can’t go around making speeches like that.’

‘It’s Open Government,’ said Frank.

‘Shut up, Weasel, who asked you?’ retorted Vic. Rude bugger. Typical Chief Whip.

‘Weisel,’ said Frank with dignity.

I sprang to Frank’s defence. ‘He’s right, Vic. It’s Open Government. It’s in our manifesto. One of our main planks. The PM believes in Open Government too.’

‘Open, yes,’ said Vic. ‘But not gaping.’ Very witty, I don’t think! ‘In politics,’ Vic went on relentlessly, ‘you’ve got to learn to say things with tact and finesse — you berk!’

I suppose he’s got a point. I felt very sheepish, but partly because I didn’t exactly enjoy being ignominiously ticked off in front of Humphrey and Frank.

‘How long have you been a Minister?’ Vic asked me. Bloody silly question. He knows perfectly well. He was just asking for effect.

‘A week and a half,’ I told him.

‘Then I think you may have earned yourself a place in the Guinness Book of Records,’ he replied. ‘I can see the headlines already — CABINET SPLIT ON U.S. TRADE. HACKER LEADS REVOLT AGAINST PRIME MINISTER! That’s what you wanted, is it?’

And he walked away.

Then Sir Arnold Robinson, the Cabinet Secretary, came out of the PM’s office. Sir Humphrey asked him what news there was.

Sir Arnold said the same things, only in Whitehall language. ‘That speech is causing the Prime Minister some distress. Has it definitely been released to the press?’

I explained that I gave express instructions for it to go out at twelve noon. Sir Arnold seemed angry with Sir Humphrey. ‘I’m appalled at you,’ he said. I’ve never heard one civil servant express himself so strongly to another. ‘How could you allow your Minister to put himself in this position without going through the proper channels?’

Humphrey turned to me for help. ‘The Minister and I,’ he began, ‘believe in Open Government. We want to throw open the windows and let in a bit of fresh air. Isn’t that right, Minister?’

I nodded, but couldn’t speak. For the first time, Sir Arnold addressed me directly.

‘Well, Minister, it’s good party stuff but it places the PM in a very difficult position, personally.’ That, in Sir Arnold’s language, is about the most threatening thing that has ever been said to me.

‘But… what about our commitment to Open Government?’ I finally managed to ask.

‘This,’ replied Sir Arnold drily, ‘seems to be the closed season for Open Government.’

Then Sir Humphrey voiced my worst fears by murmuring quietly: ‘Do you want to give thought to a draft letter of resignation? Just in case, of course.’

I know that Humphrey was just trying to be helpful, but he really doesn’t give much moral support in a crisis.

I could see that there was only one possibility left. ‘Can’t we hush it up?’ I said suddenly.

Humphrey, to his credit, was completely baffled by this suggestion. He didn’t even seem to understand what I meant. These civil servants really are rather naïve.

‘Hush it up?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Hush it up.’

‘You mean,’ Humphrey was apparently getting the idea at last, ‘suppress it?’

I didn’t exactly care for the word ‘suppress’, but I had to agree that that was exactly what I did mean.

Humphrey then said something like: ‘I see. What you’re suggesting is that, within the framework of the guidelines about Open Government which you have laid down, we should adopt a more flexible posture.’ Civil servants have an extraordinary genius for wrapping up a simple idea to make it sound extremely complicated.

On second thoughts, this is a real talent which I should learn to cultivate. His phrasing might help me look as though I am not changing my posture at all.

However, we were saved by the bell as the US Cavalry galloped over the horizon in the shape of Bernard Woolley hurrying into the ante-room.

‘About the press release,’ he began breathlessly. ‘There appears to have been a development which could precipitate a reappraisal of our position.’

At first I didn’t quite grasp what that meant. But he then went on to say that the Department had failed to rescind the interdepartmental clearance procedure, which meant that the supplementary stop-order came into effect, which meant that it was all all right!

In other words, my speech didn’t go out to the press after all. By an amazing stroke of good luck, it had only been sent to the Prime Minister’s Private Office. The Duty Office at the DDA had never received instructions to send it out before it was cleared with the PM and the FCO. Because of the American reference.

This wonderfully fortunate oversight seems to have saved my bacon. Of course, I didn’t let Humphrey see my great sense of relief. In fact, he apologised.

‘The fault is entirely mine, Minister,’ he said. ‘This procedure for holding up press releases dates back to before the era of Open Government. I unaccountably omitted to rescind it. I do hope you will forgive this lapse.’

In the circumstances, I felt that the less said the better. I decided to be magnanimous. ‘That’s quite all right Humphrey,’ I said, ‘after all, we all make mistakes.’

‘Yes Minister,’ said Sir Humphrey.